Book IV—The Combat
HAVING in the foregoing book examined the subjects which may be regarded as the efficient elements of war, we shall now turn our attention to the combat as the real activity in warfare, which, by its physical and moral effects, embraces sometimes more simply, sometimes in a more complex manner, the object of the whole war. In this activity and in its effects these elements must, therefore, re-appear.
The formation of the combat is tactical in its nature; we only glance at it here in a general way in order to get acquainted with it in its aspect as a whole. In practice the minor or more immediate objects give every combat a characteristic form; these minor objects we shall not learn until hereafter. But these peculiarities are in comparison to the general characteristics of a combat mostly only insignificant, so that most combats are very like one another, and, therefore, in order to avoid repeating that which is general at every stage, we are compelled to look into it before taking up the subject of more special application.
In the first place, therefore, we shall give in the next chapter, in a few words, the characteristics of the modern battle in its tactical course, because that lies at the foundation of our conceptions of battle.
Character of the Modern Battle
ACCORDING to the notion we have formed of tactics and strategy, it follows, as a matter of course, that if the nature of the former is changed, that change must have an influence on the latter. If tactical facts in one case are entirely different from those in another, then the strategic must be so also, if they are to continue consistent and reasonable. It is therefore important to characterise a general action in its modern form before we advance with the study of its employment in strategy.
What do we do now usually in a great battle? We place ourselves quietly in great masses arranged contiguous to and behind one another. We deploy relatively only a small portion of the whole, and let it wring itself out in a fire-combat which lasts for several hours, only interrupted now and again, and removed hither and thither by separate small shocks from charges with the bayonet and cavalry attacks. When this line has gradually exhausted part of its warlike fire in this manner, and there remains nothing more than the cinders, it is withdrawn and replaced by another.
In this manner the battle on a modified principle burns slowly away like wet powder, and if the veil of night commands it to stop, because neither party can any longer see, and neither chooses to run the risk of blind chance, then an account is taken by each side respectively of the masses remaining, which can be called still effective, that is, which have not yet quite collapsed like extinct volcanoes; account is taken of the ground gained or lost, and of how stands the security of the rear; these results with the special impressions as to bravery and cowardice, ability and stupidity, which are thought to have been observed in ourselves and in the enemy are collected into one single total impression, out of which there springs the resolution to quit the field or to renew the combat on the morrow.
This description, which is not intended as a finished picture of a modern battle, but only to give its tone, suits for the offensive and defensive, and the special traits which are given by the object proposed, the country, etc., etc., may be introduced into it without materially altering this tone.
But modern battles are not so by accident; they are so because the parties find themselves nearly on a level as regards military organisation and the knowledge of the art of war, and because the warlike element inflamed by great national interests has broken through artificial limits and now flows in its natural channel. Under these two conditions, battles will always preserve this character.
This general idea of the modern battle will be useful to us in the sequel in more places than one, if we want to estimate the value of the particular coefficients of strength, country, etc., etc. It is only for general, great, and decisive combats, and such as come near to them that this description stands good; inferior ones have changed their character also in the same direction but less than great ones. The proof of this belongs to tactics; we shall, however, have an opportunity hereafter of making this subject plainer by a few particulars.
The Combat in General
THE Combat is the real warlike activity, everything else is only its auxiliary; let us therefore take an attentive look at its nature.
Combat is fight, and in this the destruction or conquest of the enemy is the object, and the enemy in the particular combat is the armed force which stands opposed to us.
This is the simple idea; we shall return to it, but before we can do that we must insert a series of others.
If we suppose the state and its military force as a unit, then the most natural idea is to imagine the war also as one great combat, and in the simple relations of savage nations it is also not much otherwise. But our wars are made up of a number of great and small simultaneous or consecutive combats, and this severance of the activity into so many separate actions is owing to the great multiplicity of the relations out of which War arises with us.
In point of fact, the ultimate object of our wars, the political one, is not always quite a simple one; and even were it so, still the action is bound up with such a number of conditions and considerations to be taken into account, that the object can no longer be attained by one single great act, but only through a number of greater or smaller acts which are bound up into a whole; each of these separate acts is therefore a part of a whole, has consequently a special object by which it is bound to this whole.
We have already said that every strategic act can be referred to the idea of a combat, because it is an employment of the military force, and at the root of that always lies the idea of combat. We may therefore reduce every military activity in the province of strategy to the unit of single combats, and only occupy ourselves with the object of this last; we shall only get acquainted with these special objects by degrees as we come to speak of the causes which produce them; here we content ourselves with saying that every combat, great or small, has its own peculiar object in subordination to the main object. If this is the case then, the destruction and conquest of the enemy is only to be regarded as the means of gaining this object; so it is unquestionably.
But this result is true only in its form, and important only on account of the connection which the ideas have between themselves, and we have only sought it out to get rid of it at once.
What is overcoming the enemy? Always simply the destruction of his military force, whether it be by death, or wounds, or any means; whether it be completely or only to such a degree that he can no longer continue the contest; therefore as long as we set aside all special objects of combats, we may look upon the complete or partial destruction of the enemy as the only object of all combats.
Now we maintain that in the majority of cases, and especially in great battles, the special object by which the battle is individualised and bound up with the great whole is only a weak modification of that general object, or an ancillary object bound up with it, important enough to individualise the battle, but always only insignificant in comparison with that general object; so that if that ancillary object alone should be obtained, only an unimportant part of the purpose of the combat is fulfilled. If this assertion is correct, then we see that the notion, according to which the destruction of the enemy’s force is only the means, and something else always the object, can only be true in form, but that it would lead to false conclusions if we did not recollect that just this destruction of the enemy’s force is comprised in that object, and that this object is only a weak modification of it.
Forgetfulness of this led to completely false views before the wars of the last period, and created tendencies as well as fragments of systems, in which theory thought it raised itself so much the more above handicraft, the less it supposed itself to stand in need of the use of the real instrument, that is the destruction of the enemy’s force.
Certainly such a system could not have arisen unless supported by other false suppositions, and unless in place of the destruction of the enemy, other things had been substituted to which an efficacy was ascribed which did not belong to them. We shall attack these falsehoods whenever occasion requires, but we could not treat of the combat without claiming for it the real importance and value which belong to it, and giving warning against the errors to which merely formal truth might lead.
But now how shall we manage to show that in most cases, and in those of most importance, the destruction of the enemy’s army is the chief thing? How shall we manage to combat that extremely subtle idea, which supposes it possible, through the use of a special artificial form, to effect by a small direct destruction of the enemy’s forces a much greater destruction indirectly, or by means of small but extremely well directed blows to produce such paralysation of the enemy’s forces, such a command over the enemy’s will, that this mode of proceeding is to be viewed as a great shortening of the road? Undoubtedly a battle at one point is of more value than at another. Undoubtedly there is a scientific arrangement of battles amongst themselves, even in strategy, which is in fact nothing but that art; to deny that is not our intention, but we assert that the direct destruction of the enemy’s forces is everywhere predominating; we contend here for the overruling importance of this destructive principle and nothing else.
We must, however, call to mind that we are now engaged with strategy, not with tactics, therefore we do not speak of the means which the former may have of destroying at a small expense a large body of the enemy’s forces, but that under direct destruction we understand the tactical results, and that, therefore, our assertion is that only great tactical results can lead to great strategical ones, or, as we have already once before more distinctly expressed it, the tactical successes are of paramount importance in the conduct of war.
The proof of this assertion seems to us simple enough, it lies in the time which every complicated (artificial) combination requires. The question whether a simple attack, or one more carefully prepared, more artificial, will producegreater effects, may undoubtedly be decided in favour of the latter as long as the enemy is assumed to be an object quite passive. But every carefully combined attack requires more time, and this time must be allowed without a counterstroke on one of the parts upsetting the whole in the preparations for its execution. Now, if the enemy should decide upon some simpler attack, which can be executed in a shorter time, then he gains the initiative, and destroys the effect of the great plan. Therefore, along with the expediency of a complicated attack we must consider all the dangers which we run during its preparation, and we should only adopt it if there is no reason to fear that the enemy will disconcert our scheme by a shorter one. Whenever this is the case we must ourselves choose the shorter, and lower our views in this sense as far as the character, the relations of the enemy, and other circumstances may render necessary. If we quit the weak impressions of abstract ideas and descend to the region of practical life, then it is evident that a bold, courageous, resolute enemy will not let us have time for wide-reaching skilful combinations, and it is just against such a one we should require skill the most. By this it appears to us that the advantage of simple and direct results over those that are complicated is conclusively shown.
Our opinion is not on that account that the simple blow is the best, but that we must not lift the arm too far for the room given to strike, and that this condition will always lead more to direct conflict the more warlike our opponent is. Therefore, far from making it our aim to gain upon the enemy by complicated plans, we must rather seek always to be beforehand with him just in the opposite direction.
If we seek for the lowest foundation stones of these converse propositions we find that it is in the one, ability, in the other, courage. Now, there is something very attractive in the notion that a moderate degree of courage joined to great ability will produce greater effects than moderate ability with great courage. But unless we suppose these elements in a disproportionate relation, not logical, we have no right to assign to ability this advantage over courage in a field which is called danger, and which must be regarded as the true domain of courage.
After this abstract view we shall only add that experience, very far from leading to a different conclusion, is rather the sole cause which has impelled us in this direction, and given rise to such reflections.
Whoever reads history with a mind free from prejudice cannot fail to arrive at a conviction that of all military virtues energy in the conduct of operations has always contributed the most to glory and success of arms.
How we make good our principle of regarding the destruction of the enemy’s force as the principal object, not only in the war as a whole but also in each separate combat, and how that principle suits all the forms and conditions necessarily demanded by the relations out of which war springs, the sequel will show. For the present all that we desired was to uphold its general importance, and with this result we return again to the combat.
The Combat in General—Continuation
IN the last chapter we stopped short at the destruction of the enemy being the object of the combat, and we have sought to show by a special consideration of the point that this is true in the majority of cases, and in respect to the most important battles, because the destruction of the enemy’s army is always the preponderating object in war. The other objects which may be mixed up with this destruction of the enemy’s force, and may have more or less influence, we shall describe generally in the next chapter, and become better acquainted with by degrees afterwards; here we divest the combat of them entirely, and look upon the destruction of the enemy as the complete and sufficient object of any combat.
What are we now to understand by destruction of the enemy’s army? A diminution of it relatively greater than that on our own side. If we have a great superiority in numbers over the enemy, then naturally the same absolute amount of loss on both sides is for us a smaller one than for him, and consequently may be regarded in itself as an advantage. As we are here considering the combat as divested of all (other) objects, therefore we must also exclude from our consideration that one where the combat is used only indirectly for a greater destruction of the enemy’s force; consequently also only that direct gain which has been made in the mutual process of destruction is to be regarded as the object, for this is an absolute gain, which runs through the whole campaign, and at the end of it will always appear as pure gain. But every other kind of victory over our opponent will either have its motive in other objects, which we have completely excluded here, or it will only yield a temporary relative advantage. An example will make this plain.
If by a skilful disposition we have reduced our opponent to such dilemma, that he cannot continue the combat without danger, and after some resistance he retires, then we may say, that we have conquered him at that point; but if in this victory we have expended just as many forces as the enemy, then in closing the account of the campaign, there is no gain remaining from this victory, if such a result can be called a victory. Therefore the overcoming the enemy, that is, placing him in such a position that he must give up the fight, counts for nothing in itself, and for that reason cannot come under the definition of object, and so there remains then, as we have said, nothing over except the direct gain which we have made in the process of destruction; but to this belong not only the losses which have taken place in the course of the combat, but also those which, after the withdrawal of the conquered part, take place as direct consequences of the same.
Now it is known by experience, that the losses in physical forces in the course of a battle seldom present a great difference between victor and vanquished respectively, often none at all, sometimes even one bearing an inverse relation, and that the most decisive losses on the side of the vanquished only commence with the retreat, that is, those which the conqueror does not share with him. The weak remains of battalions already in disorder are cut down by cavalry, exhausted men strew the ground, disabled guns and broken caissons are abandoned, others in the bad state of the roads cannot be removed quick enough, and are captured by the enemy’s troops during the night, numbers lose their way, and fall defenceless into the enemy’s hands, and thus the victory mostly gains bodily substance after it is already decided. Here would be a paradox, if it did not solve itself in the following manner.
The loss in physical force is not the only one which the two sides suffer in the course of the combat; the moral forces also are shaken, broken, and go to ruin. It is not only the loss in men, horses and guns, but in order, courage, confidence, cohesion and plan, which come into consideration when it is a question whether the fight can be still continued or not. It is principally the moral forces which decide here, and it was these alone in all cases in which the conqueror has lost just as much as the conquered.
The comparative relation of the physical losses is difficult to estimate in a battle, but not so the relation of the moral. Two things principally make it known. The one is the loss of the ground on which the fight has taken place, the other the superiority of the enemy’s reserve. The more our reserves have diminished as compared with those of the enemy, the more force we have used to maintain the equilibrium; in this at once an evident proof of the moral superiority of the enemy is given which seldom fails to stir up in the soul of the commander a certain bitterness of feeling, and a sort of contempt for his own troops. But the principal thing is, that men who have been engaged for a long continuance of time are more or less like dead cinders; their ammunition is consumed; they have melted away to a certain extent; physical and moral energies are exhausted, perhaps their courage broken as well. Such a force, irrespective of the diminution in its number, if viewed as an organic whole, is very different from what it was before the combat; and thus it is that the loss of moral force may be measured by the reserves that have been used as if it were on a foot rule.
Lost ground and want of fresh reserves, are, therefore, usually the principal causes which determine a retreat; but at the same time we by no means exclude or desire to throw in the shade other reasons, which may lie in the interdependence of parts of the army, in the general plan, etc.
Every combat is therefore the bloody and destructive measuring of the strength of forces, physical and moral; whoever at the close has the greatest amount of both left is the conqueror.
In the combat the loss of moral force has been the chief cause of the decision; after that was given, this loss continued to increase until it reached its culminating point at the close of the whole act; it is therefore also the means of making that gain in the destruction of the enemy’s force which was the real object of the combat. The loss of order and unity often makes the resistance of individual parts very injurious; the spirit of the whole is broken; the original excitement about losing or winning, through which danger was forgotten, is spent, and to the majority danger now appears no longer an appeal to their courage, but rather the endurance of a cruel punishment. Thus the instrument in the first moment of the enemy’s victory is weakened and blunted, and therefore no longer fit to repay danger by danger.
This period the conqueror must use in order to make the real gain in the destruction of physical forces; only so much of these as he attains remains secure to him; the moral forces of the enemy will recover themselves by degrees, order will be restored, courage will revive, and in the majority of cases there remains only a small part of the superiority obtained, often none at all, and in some cases, although rarely, the spirit of revenge and intensified hostility may bring about an opposite result. On the other hand, whatever is gained in killed, wounded, and prisoners, and guns captured, can never disappear from the account.
The losses in a battle consist more in killed and wounded; those after the battle, more in artillery taken and prisoners. The first the conqueror shares with the conquered, more or less, but the second not; and for that reason they usually only take place on one side of the conflict, at least, they are considerably in excess on one side.
Artillery and prisoners are therefore at all times regarded as the true trophies of victory, as well as its measure, because through these things its extent is declared beyond a doubt. Even the degree of moral superiority may be better judged of by them than by any other relation, especially if the number of killed and wounded is compared therewith; and here arises a new power increasing the moral effects.
We have said that the moral forces, beaten to the ground in the battle and in the immediately succeeding movements, recover themselves gradually, and often bear no traces of injury; this is the case with small divisions of the whole, less frequently with large divisions; it may, however, also be the case with the main army, but seldom or never in the state or government to which the army belongs. These estimate the situation more impartially and from a more elevated point of view, and recognize in the number of trophies taken by the enemy, and their relation to the number of killed and wounded, only too easily and well the measure of their own weakness and inefficiency.
In point of fact, the lost balance of moral power must not be treated lightly because it has no absolute value, and because it does not of necessity appear in all cases in the amount of the results at the final close; it may become of such excessive weight as to bring down everything with an irresistible force. On that account it may often become a great aim of the operations of which we shall speak elsewhere. Here we have still to examine some of its fundamental relations.
The moral effect of a victory increases, not merely in proportion to the extent of the forces engaged, but in a progressive ratio—that is to say, not only in extent, but also in its intensity. In a beaten division order is easily restored. As a single frozen limb is easily revived by the rest of the body, so the courage of a defeated division is easily raised again by the courage of the rest of the army as soon as it rejoins it. If, therefore, the effects of a small victory are not completely done away with, still they are partly lost to the enemy. This is not the case if the army itself sustains a great defeat; then one with the other fall together. A great fire attains quite a different heat from several small ones.
Another relation which determines the moral value of a victory is the numerical relation of the forces which have been in conflict with each other. To beat many with a few is not only a double success, but shows also a greater, especially a more general superiority, which the conquered must always be fearful of encountering again. At the same time this influence is in reality hardly observable in such a case. In the moment of real action, the notions of the actual strength of the enemy are generally so uncertain, the estimate of our own commonly so incorrect, that the party superior in numbers either does not admit the disproportion, or is very far from admitting the full truth, owing to which, he evades almost entirely the moral disadvantages which would spring from it. It is only hereafter in history that the truth, long suppressed through ignorance, vanity, or a wise discretion, makes its appearance, and then it certainly casts a lustre on the army and its leader, but it can then do nothing more by its moral influence for events long past.
If prisoners and captured guns are those things by which the victory principally gains substance, its true crystallisations, then the plan of the battle should have those things specially in view; the destruction of the enemy by death and wounds appears here as a pure means.
How far this may influence the dispositions in the battle is not an affair of strategy, but the appointment itself of the battle is already in connection with it, namely, by the measures for security of our own rear, and threatening the enemy’s. On this point, the number of prisoners and captured guns depends very much, and it is a point which, in many cases, tactics alone cannot satisfy, particularly if the strategic relations are too much in opposition to it.
The danger of having to fight on two sides, and the still more dangerous position of having no line of retreat left open, paralyse the movements and the power of resistance, and influence the alternative of victory or defeat; further, in case of defeat, they increase the loss, often raising it to its extreme point, that is, to destruction. Therefore, the rear being endangered makes defeat more probable, and, at the same time, more decisive.
From this arises, in the whole conduct of the war, and especially in great and small combats, a perfect instinct, which is the security of our own line of retreat and the seizure of the enemy’s; this follows from the conception of victory, which, as we have seen, is something beyond mere slaughter.
In this effort we see, therefore, the first immediate purpose in the combat, and one which is quite universal. No combat is imaginable in which this effort, either in its double or single form, is not to go hand in hand with the plain and simple stroke of force. Even the smallest troop will not throw itself upon its enemy without thinking of its line of retreat, and, in most cases, it will have an eye upon that of the enemy.
We should have to digress to show how often this instinct is prevented from going the direct road, how often it must yield in the difficulties arising from more important considerations: we shall, therefore, rest contented with affirming it to be a general natural law of the combat.
It is, therefore, active; presses everywhere with its natural weight, and so becomes the pivot on which almost all tactical and strategic manœuvres turn.
If we now take a look at the conception of victory as a whole, we find in it three elements:—
1. The greater loss of the enemy in physical power.
2. In moral power.
3. His open avowal of this by the relinquishment of his intentions.
The returns made up on each side of losses in killed and wounded, are never exact, seldom truthful, and in most cases, full of intentional misrepresentations. Even the statement of the number of trophies is seldom to be quite depended on; consequently, when it is not considerable it may also cast a doubt even on the reality of the victory. Of the loss in moral forces there is no reliable measure, except in the trophies: therefore, in many cases, the giving up the contest is the only real evidence of the victory. It is, therefore, to be regarded as a confession of inferiority—as the lowering of the flag, by which, in this particular instance, right and superiority are conceded to the enemy, and this degree of humiliation and disgrace, which, however, must be distinguished from all the other moral consequences of the loss of equilibrium, is an essential part of the victory. It is this part alone which acts upon the public opinion outside the army, upon the people and the government in both belligerent states, and upon all others in any way concerned.
But now the giving up the general object is not quite identical with the quitting the field of battle, even when the battle has been very obstinate and long kept up; no one says of advanced posts, when they retire after an obstinate combat, that they have given up their object; even in combats aimed at the destruction of the enemy’s army, the retreat from the battle-field is not always to be regarded as a relinquishment of this aim, as for instance, in retreats planned beforehand, in which the ground is disputed foot by foot; all this belongs to that part of our subject where we shall speak of the separate object of the combat; here we only wish to draw attention to the fact that in most cases the giving up the object is very difficult to distinguish from the retirement from the battle-field, and that the impression produced by the latter, both in and out of the army, is not to be treated lightly.
For generals and armies whose reputation is not made, this is in itself one of the difficulties in many operations, justified by circumstances when a succession of combats, each ending in retreat, may appear as a succession of defeats, without being so really, and when that appearance may exercise a very depressing influence. It is impossible for the retreating general by making known his real intentions to prevent the moral effect everywhere, for to do that with effect he must disclose his plans completely, which of course would run counter to his principal interests to too great a degree.
In order to draw attention to the special importance of this conception of victory, we shall only refer to the battle of Soor, the trophies from which were not important (a few thousand prisoners and twenty guns), and where Frederick proclaimed his victory by remaining for five days after on the field of battle, although his retreat into Silesia had been previously determined on, and was a measure natural to his whole situation. According to his own account, he thought he would hasten a peace by the moral effect of his victory. Now although a couple of other successes were likewise required, namely the battle at Katholisch Hennersdorf, in Lusatia, and the battle of Kesseldorf, before this peace took place, still we cannot say that the moral effect of the battle of Soor was nil.
If it is chiefly the moral force which is shaken by the victory, and if the number of trophies by that means mounts up to an unusual height, then the lost combat becomes a rout, which therefore is not the exact opposite of every victory. As the moral force of the conquered is shaken to a much greater degree in such a defeat, there often ensues a complete incapability of further resistance, and the whole action consists of giving way, that is of flight.
Jena and Belle Alliance were routs, but not so Borodino.
Although without pedantry we can here give no single line of separation, because the difference between the things is one of degrees, yet still the retention of the conception is essential as a central point to give clearness to our theoretical ideas, and it is a want in our terminology that for a victory over the enemy tantamount to a rout, and a conquest of the enemy only tantamount to a simple victory, there is only one and the same word to use.
On the Signification of the Combat
HAVING in the preceding chapter examined the combat in its absolute form, as the miniature picture of the whole war, as it were, we now turn to the relations which as a part of a great whole it bears to the other parts. First we enquire what is more precisely the signification of a combat.
As war is nothing else but a mutual process of destruction, then the most natural answer in conception, and perhaps also in reality, appears to be that all the powers of each party unite in one great volume, and all results in one great shock of these masses. There is certainly much truth in this idea, and it seems upon the whole to be very advisable that we should adhere to it, Zand that we should on that account look upon small combats at first only as necessary loss, like the shavings from a carpenter’s plane. Still however, the thing is never to be settled so easily.
That a multiplication of combats should arise from a fractioning of forces is a matter of course, and the more immediate objects of separate combats will therefore come before us in the subject of a fractioning of forces; but these objects, and together with them, the whole mass of combats may in a general way be brought under certain classes, and the knowledge of these classes will contribute to make our observations more intelligible.
Destruction of the enemy’s military forces is in reality the object of all combats; but other objects maybe joined to that, and these other objects may be at the same time predominant; we must therefore draw a distinction between those in which the destruction of the enemy’s forces is the principal object, and those in which it is more the means. Besides the destruction of the enemy’s force, the possession of a place or the possession of some object may be the general motive for a combat, and it may be either one of these alone or several together, in which case still usually one is the principal motive. Now the two principal forms of War, the offensive and defensive, of which we shall shortly speak, do not modify the first of these motives, but they certainly do modify the other two, and therefore if we arrange them in a scheme they would appear thus:—
1. Destruction of enemy’s force. 1. Destruction of enemy’s force.
2. Conquest of a place. 2. Defence of a place.
3. Conquest of some object. 3. Defence of some object.
These motives, however, do not seem to embrace completely the whole of the subject, if we recollect that there are reconnaissances and demonstrations, in which plainly none of these three points is the object of the combat. In reality we must, therefore, on this account be allowed a fourth class. Strictly speaking, in reconnaissances in which we wish the enemy to show himself, in alarms by which we wish to wear him out, in demonstrations by which we wish to prevent his leaving some point or to draw him off to another, the objects are all such as can only be attained indirectly and under the pretext of one of the three objects specified in the table, usually of the second; for the enemy whose aim is to reconnoitre must draw up his force as if he really intended to attack and defeat us, or drive us off, etc., etc. But this pretended object is not the real one, and our present question is only as to the latter; therefore, we must to the above three objects of the offensive further add a fourth, which is to lead the enemy to make a false move, or, in other words, engage him in a sham fight. That offensive means only are conceivable in connection with this object, lies in the nature of the thing.
On the other hand we must observe that the defence of a place may be of two kinds, either absolute, if as a general question the point is not to be given up, or relative if it is only required for a certain time. The latter happens perpetually in the combats of advanced posts and rear guards.
That the nature of these different intentions of a combat must have an essential influence on the dispositions which are its preliminaries, is a thing clear in itself. We act differently if our object is merely to drive an enemy’s post out of its place from what we should if our object was to beat him completely; differently, if we mean to defend a place to the last extremity from what we should do if our design is only to detain the enemy for a certain time. In the first case we trouble ourselves little about the line of retreat, in the latter it is the principal point, &c.
But these reflections belong properly to tactics, and are only introduced here by way of example for the sake of greater clearness. What strategy has to say on the different objects of the combat will appear in the chapters which touch upon these objects. Here we have only a few general observations to make, first, that the importance of the object decreases nearly in the order as they stand above, therefore then, that the first of these objects must always predominate in the great battle; lastly, that the two last in a defensive battle are in reality such as yield no fruit, they are, that is to say, purely negative, and can, therefore, only be serviceable, indirectly, by facilitating something else which is positive. It is, therefore, a bad sign of the strategic situation if battles of this kind become too frequent.
Duration of the Combat
IF we consider the combat no longer in itself but in relation to the other forces of war, then its duration acquires a special importance.
This duration is to be regarded to a certain extent as a second subordinate success. For the conqueror the combat can never be finished too quickly, for the vanquished, it can never last too long. A speedy victory is a higher power of victory, a tardy decision is, on the side of the defeated, some compensation for the loss.
This is in general true, but it acquires a practical importance in its application to those combats, the object of which is a relative defence.
Here the whole success often lies in the mere duration. This is the reason why we have included it amongst the strategic elements.
The duration of a combat is necessarily bound up with its essential relations. These relations are absolute magnitude of force, relation of force and (of the different) arms mutually, and nature of the country. 20,000 men do not wear themselves out upon one another as quickly as 2,000; we cannot resist an enemy double or three times our strength as long as one of the same strength; a cavalry combat is decided sooner than an infantry combat; and a combat between infantry only, quicker than if there is artillery as well; in hills and forests we cannot advance as quickly as on a level country; all this is clear enough.
From this follows, therefore, that strength, relation of the three arms, and position, must be considered if the combat is to fulfil an object by its duration; but to set up this rule was of less importance to us in our present considerations than to connect with it at once the chief results which experience gives us on the subject.
Even the resistance of an ordinary division of 8,000 to 10,000 men of all arms even opposed to an enemy considerably superior in numbers, will last several hours, if the advantages of country are not too preponderating, and if the enemy is only a little, or not at all, superior in numbers, the combat will last half a day. A corps of three or four divisions will prolong it to double the time; an army of 80,000 or 100,000 to three or four times. Therefore the masses may be left to themselves for that length of time, and no separate combat takes place if within that time other forces can be brought up, whose co-operation mingles then at once into one stream with the results of the combat which has taken place.
These calculations are the result of experience; but it is important to us at the same time to characterise more particularly the moment of the decision, and consequently the termination.
Decision of the Combat
NO battle is decided in a single moment, although in every battle there are moments of great importance, which chiefly bring about the result. The loss of a battle is, therefore, a gradual falling of the scale. But there is in every combat a point of time when it may be regarded as decided, in such a way that the renewal of the fight would be a new battle, not a continuation of the old one. To have a clear notion on this point of time is very important, in order to be able to decide whether, with the prompt assistance of reinforcements, the combat can again be resumed with advantage.
Often in combats which are beyond restoration new forces are sacrificed in vain; often through neglect the decision has not been turned when it might easily have been done. Here are two examples, which could not be more to the point:
When the Prince of Hohenlohe, in 1806, at Jena, with 35,000 men opposed to from 60,000 to 70,000, under Buonaparte, had accepted battle, and lost it—but lost it in such a way that the 35,000 might be regarded as dissolved—General Ruchel undertook to renew the fight with about 12,000; the consequence was that in a moment his force was scattered in like manner.
On the other hand, on the same day at Auerstadt, the Prussians maintained a combat with 25,000, against Davoust, who had 28,000, until mid-day, without success, it is true, but still without the force being reduced to a state of dissolution without even greater loss than the enemy, who was very deficient in cavalry;—and they neglected to use the reserve of 18,000, under General Kalkreuth, to restore the battle which, under these circumstances, it would have been impossible to lose.—
Each combat is a whole in which the partial combats combine themselves into one total result. In this total result lies the decision of the combat. This success need not be exactly a victory such as we have denoted in the sixth chapter, for often the preparations for that have not been made, often there is no opportunity if the enemy gives way too soon, and in most cases the decision, even when the resistance has been obstinate, takes place before such a success as essentially comes up to the idea of a victory.
We therefore ask, Which is commonly the moment of the decision, that is to say, that moment when a fresh, effective, of course not disproportionate force, can no longer turn a disadvantageous battle?
If we pass over false attacks, which in accordance with their nature are properly without decision, then
1. If the possession of a moveable object was the object of the combat, the loss of the same is always the decision.
2. If the possession of ground was the object of the combat, then the decision generally lies likewise in the loss of that; still not always, that is only if this ground is of peculiar strength, ground which is easy to pass over, however important it may be in other respects, can be re-taken without much danger.
3. But in all other cases, when these two circumstances have not already decided the combat, therefore, particularly in case the destruction of the enemy’s force is the principal object, the decision lies in the moment when the conqueror ceases to feel himself in a state of disintegration, that is, of unserviceableness to a certain extent, therefore when there is no further advantage in using the successive efforts spoken of in the twelfth chapter of the third book. On this ground we have given the strategic unity of the battle its place here.
A battle, therefore, in which the assailant has not lost his condition of order and perfect efficiency at all, or, at least, only in a small part of his force, whilst our forces are, more or less, disorganised throughout, is also not to be retrieved; and just as little if the enemy has recovered his efficiency.
The smaller, therefore, that part of a force is which has really been engaged, the greater that portion is which as reserve has contributed to the result only by its presence, so much the less will any new force of the enemy wrest again the victory from our hands, and that commander who carries out to the furthest with his army the principle of conducting the combat with the greatest economy of forces, and making the most of the moral effect of strong reserves, goes the surest way to victory. We must allow that the French, in modern times, especially when led by Buonaparte, have shown a thorough mastery in this.
Further, the moment when the crisis-stage of the combat ceases with the conqueror, and his original state of order is restored, takes place sooner the smaller the whole is. A picket of cavalry pursuing an enemy at full gallop will in a few minutes resume its proper order, and the crisis also ceases: a whole regiment of cavalry requires for this a longer time; it lasts still longer with infantry, if extended in single lines of skirmishers, and longer again with divisions of all arms, when it happens by chance that one part has taken one direction and another part another direction, and the combat has therefore caused a loss of the order of formation, which usually becomes still worse from no part knowing exactly where the other is. Thus, therefore, the point of time when the conqueror has collected the instruments he has been using, and which are mixed up and partly out of order, the moment when he has in some measure rearranged them and put them in their proper places, and thus brought the battle-workshop into a little order, this moment, we say, is always later, the greater the total force.
Again, this moment comes later if night overtakes the conqueror in the crisis, and, lastly, it comes later if the country is broken and thickly wooded. But with regard to these two points, we must observe that night is also a great means of protection, and it is only seldom that circumstances favour the expectation of a successful result from a night attack, as on the 10th March, 1814, at Laon, where York against Marmont gives us an example completely in place here. In the same way a wooded and broken country will afford protection against a reaction to those who are engaged in the long crisis of victory. Both, therefore, the night as well as the wooded and broken country are obstacles which make the renewal of the same battle more difficult instead of facilitating it.
Hitherto, we have considered assistance arriving for the losing side as a mere increase of force, therefore, as a reinforcement coming up directly from the rear, which is the most usual case. But the case is quite different if these fresh forces come upon the enemy in flank or rear.
On the effect of flank or rear attacks, so far as they belong to strategy, we shall speak in another place: such an one as we have here in view, intended for the restoration of the combat, belongs chiefly to tactics, and is only mentioned because we are here speaking of tactical results, our ideas, therefore, must trench upon the province of tactics.
By directing a force against the enemy’s flank and rear its efficacy may be much intensified; but this is so far from being a necessary result always that the efficacy may on the other hand be just as much weakened. The circumstances under which the combat has taken place decide upon this part of the plan as well as upon every other, without our being able to enter thereupon here. But, at the same time, there are in it two things of importance for our subject: first, flank and rear attacks have, as a rule, a more favourable effect on the consequences of the decision than upon the decision itself. Now as concerns the retrieving a battle, the first thing to be arrived at above all is a favourable decision and not magnitude of success. In this view one would therefore think that a force which comes to re-establish our combat is of less assistance if it falls upon the enemy in flank and rear, therefore separated from us, than if it joins itself to us directly; certainly, cases are not wanting where it is so, but we must say that the majority are on the other side, and they are so on account of the second point which is here important to us.
This second point is the moral effect of the surprise, which, as a rule, a reinforcement coming up to re-establish a combat has generally in its favour. Now the effect of a surprise is always heightened if it takes place in the flank or rear, and an enemy completely engaged in the crisis of victory in his extended and scattered order, is less in a state to counteract it. Who does not feel that an attack in flank or rear, which at the commencement of the battle, when the forces are concentrated and prepared for such an event, would be of little importance, gains quite another weight in the last moment of the combat.
We must, therefore, at once admit that in most cases a reinforcement coming up on the flank or rear of the enemy will be more efficacious, will be like the same weight at the end of a longer lever, and therefore that under these circumstances, we may undertake to restore the battle with the same force which in a direct way would be quite insufficient. Here results almost defy calculation, because the moral forces gain completely the ascendancy. Here is, then, the right field for boldness and daring.
The eye must, therefore, be directed on all these objects, all these moments of co-operating forces must be taken into consideration if we have to decide in doubtful cases whether or not it is still possible to restore a combat which has taken an unfavourable turn.
If the combat is to be regarded as not yet ended, then the new contest which is opened by the arrival of assistance becomes one with the former; therefore they flow together into one common result, and the first disadvantage vanishes then completely out of the calculation. But this is not the case if the combat was already decided; then there are two results separate from each other. Now if the assistance which arrives is only of a relative strength, that is, if it is not in itself alone a match for the enemy, then a favourable result is hardly to be expected from this second combat: but if it is so strong that it can undertake the second combat without regard to the first, then it may be able by a favourable issue to compensate or even overbalance the first combat, but never to make it disappear altogether from the account.
At the battle of Kunersdorf, Frederick the Great at the first onset carried the left of the Russian position, and took 70 pieces of artillery; at the end of the battle both were lost again, and the whole result of the first combat was wiped out of the account. Had it been possible to stop at the first success, and to put off the second part of the battle to the coming day, then, even if the king had lost it, the advantages of the first would always have been a set off to the second.
But when a battle proceeding disadvantageously is arrested and turned before its conclusion, its minus result on our side not only disappears from the account, but also becomes the foundation of a greater victory. If, for instance, we picture to ourselves exactly the tactical course of the battle, we may easily see that until it is finally concluded all successes in partial combats are only decisions in suspense, which by the capital decision may not only be destroyed, but changed into the opposite. The more our forces have suffered, the more will the enemy have expended on his side; the greater, therefore, also will be the crisis for the enemy, and the more considerable will be the superiority of our fresh troops. If now the total result turns in our favour, if we wrest from the enemy the field of battle and recover all the trophies again, then will all the forces which he has sacrificed in obtaining them become sheer gain for us, and our former defeat becomes a stepping stone to a greater triumph. The most brilliant feats which with victory the enemy would have so highly prized that the loss of forces which they cost would have been disregarded, leave nothing now behind but regret at the sacrifice of those forces. Such is the alteration which the magic of victory and the curse of defeat produces in the specific weight of the same elements.
Therefore, even if we are decidedly superior in strength, and are able to repay the enemy his victory by a greater still, it is always better to forestall the conclusion of a disadvantageous combat, if it is of proportionate importance, so as to turn its course rather than to deliver a second battle.
Field-marshal Daun attempted in the year 1760 to come to the assistance of General Laudon at Leignitz, whilst the battle lasted; but when he failed in that he did not attack the king next day, although he did not want for force to do so.
For these reasons serious combats of advanced guards which precede a battle are to be looked upon only as necessary evils, and when not necessary they are to be avoided.
We have still another conclusion to examine.
If a regular pitched battle is a settled thing it does not constitute a motive for determining on a new one. The determination for this new one must proceed from the other relations. This conclusion, however, is opposed by a moral force, which we must take into account: it is the feeling of rage and revenge. From the oldest field-marshal to the youngest drummer-boy this feeling is general, and, therefore, troops are never in better spirits for fighting than when they have to wipe out a stain. This is, however, only on the supposition that the beaten portion is not too great in proportion to the whole, because otherwise the above feeling is lost in that of powerlessness.
There is therefore a very natural tendency to use this moral force to repair the disaster on the spot, and on that account chiefly to seek another battle if other circumstances permit. It then lies in the nature of the case that this second battle must be an offensive one.
In the catalogue of battles of second-rate importance there are many examples to be found of such retaliatory battles; but great battles have generally too many other determining causes to be brought on by this weaker motive.
Such a feeling must undoubtedly have led the noble Blucher with his third corps to the field of battle on the 14th February, 1814, when the other two had been beaten three days before at Montmirail. Had he known that he would have come upon Buonaparte in person, then, naturally, preponderating reasons would have determined him to put off his revenge to another day: but he hoped to revenge himself on Marmont, and instead of gaining the reward of his desire of honourable satisfaction, he suffered the penalty of his erroneous calculation.
On the duration of the combat and the moment of its decision depend the distances from each other at which those masses should be placed which are intended to fight in conjunction with each other. This disposition would be a tactical arrangement in so far as it relates to one and the same battle; it can, however, only be regarded as such, provided the position of the troops is so compact that two separate combats cannot be imagined, and consequently that the space which the whole occupies can be regarded strategically as a mere point. But in war, cases frequently occur where even those forces intended to fight in unison must be so far separated from each other that while their union for one common combat certainly remains the principal object, still the occurrence of separate combats remains possible. Such a disposition is therefore strategic.
Dispositions of this kind are: marches in separate masses and columns, advanced guards, and side-corps reserves, which are intended to serve as supports for more than one strategic point; the concentration of several corps from widely extended cantonments, etc., etc. We can see that they may constantly happen, and constitute something like the small change in the strategic economy, whilst the capital battles, and all that rank with them are the gold and silver pieces.
Mutual Understanding as to a Battle
NO battle can take place unless by mutual consent; and in this idea, which constitutes the whole basis of a duel, is the root of a certain phraseology used by historical writers, which leads to many indefinite and false conceptions.
According to the view of the writers to whom we refer, it has frequently happened that one commander has offered battle to the other, and the latter has not accepted it.
But the battle is a very modified duel, and its foundation is not merely in the mutual wish to fight, that is consent, but in the objects which are bound up with the battle: these belong always to a greater whole, and that so much the more so, as even the whole war considered as a “combat-unit” has political objects and conditions which belong to a greater whole. So therefore the mere desire to conquer each other, falls into quite a subordinate relation, or rather it ceases completely to be anything of itself, and is only to be regarded as the nerve which lends motion to the higher will.
Amongst the ancients, and then again during the early period of standing armies, the expression that we had offered battle to the enemy in vain, had more sense in it than it has now. By the ancients everything was constituted with a view to measuring each others’ strength in the open field free from anything in the nature of a hindrance, and the whole art of war consisted in the organisation, and formation of the army, that is in the order of battle.
Now as their armies regularly entrenched themselves in their camps, therefore the position in a camp was regarded as something unassailable, and a battle did not become possible until the enemy left his camp, and placed himself in a practicable country, as it were entered the lists.
If therefore we hear about Hannibal having offered battle to Fabius in vain, that tells us nothing more as regards the latter than that a battle was not part of his plan, and in itself neither proves the physical nor moral superiority of Hannibal; but with respect to him the expression is still correct enough in the sense that Hannibal really wished a battle.
In the early period of modern armies, the relations were similar in great combats and battles. That is great masses were brought into action, and managed throughout it by means of an order of battle, which like a great helpless whole more or less required a level plain, and was neither suited to attack, nor yet to defence in a very broken, close or even mountainous country. The defender therefore had here also to some extent the means of avoiding battle. These relations although gradually becoming modified, continued until the first Silesian War, and it was not until the Seven Years’ War that attacks on an enemy posted in a difficult country gradually became feasible, and of ordinary occurrence: ground did not certainly now cease to be a principle of strength to those making use of its aid, but it was no longer a charmed circle, which shut out the natural forces of war.
During the past thirty years war has perfected itself much more still in this respect, and there is no longer anything which stands in the way of a general who is in earnest about a decision by means of battle; he can seek out his enemy, and attack him: if he does not do so he cannot take credit for having wished to fight, and the expression he offered a battle which his opponent did not accept, therefore now means nothing more than that he did not find circumstances advantageous enough for a battle, an admission which the above expression does not suit, but which it only strives to throw a veil over.
It is true the defensive side can no longer refuse a battle, yet he may still avoid it by giving up his position, and the rôle with which that position was connected: this is however half a victory for the offensive side, and an acknowledgment of his superiority for the present.
This idea in connection with the cartel of defiance can therefore no longer be made use of in order by such rhodomontade to qualify the inaction of him whose part it is to advance, that is, the offensive. The defender who as long as he does not give way, must have the credit of willing the battle, may certainly say, he has offered it if he is not attacked, if that is not understood of itself.
But on the other hand, he who now wishes to, and can retreat cannot easily be forced to give battle. Now as the advantages to the aggressor from this retreat are often not sufficient, and a substantial victory is a matter of urgent necessity for him, in that way the few means which there are to compel such an opponent also to give battle are often sought for and applied with particular skill.
The principal means for this are—first surrounding the enemy so as to make his retreat impossible, or at least so difficult that it is better for him to accept battle; and, secondly, the surprising him. This last way, for which there was a motive formerly in the extreme difficulty of all movements, has become in modern times very inefficacious. From the pliability and manœuvring capabilities of troops in the present day, one does not hesitate to commence a retreat even in sight of the enemy, and only some special obstacles in the nature of the country can cause serious difficulties in the operation.
One example of this kind might be the battle of Neresheim, fought by the Archduke Charles with Moreau in the Rauhe Alp, 11th August, 1796, merely with a view to facilitate his retreat, although we freely confess we have never been able quite to understand the argument of the renowned general and author himself in this case.
The battle of Rosbach is another example, if we suppose the commander of the allied army had not really the intention of attacking Frederick the Great.
Of the battle of Soor, the king himself says that it was only fought because a retreat in the presence of the enemy appeared to him a critical operation; at the same time the king has also given other reasons for the battle.
On the whole, regular night surprises excepted, such cases will always be of rare occurrence, and those in which an enemy is compelled to fight by being surrounded, will happen mostly to single corps only, like Finks’ at Maxen.
WHAT is a general action? A conflict of the main body, but not an unimportant one about a secondary object, not a mere attempt which is given up when we see betimes that our object is hardly within our reach: it is a conflict with all our might for a real victory.
Minor objects may also be mixed up with the principal object in a general action, and it will take many different tones of colour from the circumstances out of which it originates, for a general action belongs also to a greater whole of which it is only a part; but because the essence of war is conflict, and the general action is the conflict of the main body, it is always to be regarded as the real centre of gravity of the war, and it is therefore, its distinguishing character in general, that it happens more than any other battle on its own account.
This has an influence on the manner of its decision, on the effect of the victory contained in it, and determines the value which theory is to assign to it as a means to an end. On that account we make it the subject of our special consideration, and at this stage before we enter upon the special ends which may be bound up with it, but which do not essentially alter its character if it really deserves to be termed a general action.
If a general action takes place principally on its own account, the elements of its decision must be contained in itself; in other words, victory must be sought for in it as long as a possibility of that remains, and it must not, therefore, be given up on account of secondary circumstances, but only and alone in the event of the forces appearing completely insufficient.
Now how is that precise moment to be described?
If a certain artificial formation and cohesion of an army is the principal condition under which the bravery of the troops can gain a victory, as was the case during great part of the period of the modern art of war, then the breaking up of this formation is the decision. A beaten wing which is put out of joint decides the fate of all that was connected with it. If as was the case at another time the essence of the defence consists in an intimate alliance of the army with the ground on which it fights and its obstacles, so that army and position are only one, then the conquest of an essential point in this position is the decision. It is said the key of the position is lost, it cannot therefore be defended any further; the battle cannot be continued. In both cases the beaten armies are very much like the broken strings of an instrument which cannot do their work.
That geometrical as well as this geographical principle which had a tendency to place an army in a state of crystallising tension which did not allow of the available powers being made use of up to the last man, have at least so far lost their influence that they no longer predominate. Armies are still led into battle in a certain order, but that order is no longer of decisive importance; obstacles of ground are also still turned to account to strengthen a position, but they are no longer the only support.
We attempted in the second chapter of this book to take a general view of the nature of the modern battle. According to our conception of it, the order of battle is only a disposition of the forces suitable to the convenient use of them, and its course a mutual slow wearing away of these forces upon one another, to see which will have soonest exhausted his adversary.
The resolution therefore to give up the fight arises, in a general action more than in any other combat, from the relation of the fresh reserves remaining available; for only these still retain all their moral vigour, and the cinders of the battered, knocked-about battallions, already burnt out in the destroying element, must not be placed on a level with them; also lost ground as we have elsewhere said, is a standard of lost moral force; it therefore comes also into account, but more as a sign of loss suffered than for the loss itself, and the number of fresh reserves is always the chief point to be looked at by both commanders.
In general, an action inclines in one direction from the very commencement, but in a manner little observable. This direction is also frequently given in a very decided manner by the arrangements which have been made previously, and then it is a want of discernment in that general who commences battle under these unfavourable circumstances without being aware of them. Even when this does not occur it lies in the nature of things that the course of a battle resembles rather a slow disturbance of equilibrium which commences soon, but as we have said almost imperceptibly at first, and then with each moment of time becomes stronger and more visible, than an oscillating to and fro, as those who are misled by mendacious descriptions usually suppose.
But whether it happens that the balance is for a long time little disturbed, or that even after it has been lost on one side it rights itself again, and is then lost on the other side, it is certain at all events that in most instances the defeated general foresees his fate long before he retreats, and that cases in which some critical event acts with unexpected force upon the course of the whole have their existence mostly in the colouring with which every one depicts his lost battle.
We can only here appeal to the decision of unprejudiced men of experience, who will, we are sure, assent to what we have said, and answer for us to such of our readers as do not know war from their own experience. To develop the necessity of this course from the nature of the thing would lead us too far into the province of tactics, to which this subject belongs; we are here only concerned with its results.
If we say that the defeated general foresees the unfavourable result usually some time before he makes up his mind to give up the battle, we admit that there are also instances to the contrary, because otherwise we should maintain a proposition contradictory in itself. If at the moment of each decisive tendency of a battle it should be considered as lost, then also no further forces should be used to give it a turn, and consequently this decisive tendency could not precede the retreat by any length of time. Certainly there are instances of battles which after having taken a decided turn to one side have still ended in favour of the other; but they are rare, not usual; these exceptional cases, however, are reckoned upon by every general against whom fortune declares itself, and he must reckon upon them as long as there remains a possibility of a turn of fortune. He hopes by stronger efforts, by raising the remaining moral forces, by surpassing himself, or also by some fortunate chance that the next moment will bring a change, and pursues this as far as his courage and his judgment can agree. We shall have something more to say on this subject, but before that we must show what are the signs of the scales turning.
The result of the whole combat consists in the sum total of the results of all partial combats; but these results of separate combats are settled by different things.
First by the pure moral power in the mind of the leading officers. If a general of division has seen his battalions forced to succumb, it will have an influence on his demeanour and his reports, and these again will have an influence on the measures of the commander-in-chief; therefore even those unsuccessful partial combats which to all appearance are retrieved, are not lost in their results, and the impressions from them sum themselves up in the mind of the commander without much trouble, and even against his will.
Secondly, by the quicker melting away of our troops, which in the slow little tumultuary course of our battles can be easily estimated.
Thirdly, by lost ground.
All these things serve for the eye of the general as a compass to tell the course of the battle in which he is embarked. If whole batteries have been lost and none of the enemy’s taken; if battalions have been overthrown by the enemy’s cavalry, whilst those of the enemy everywhere present impenetrable masses; if the line of fire from his order of battle wavers involuntarily from one point to another; if fruitless efforts have been made to gain certain points, and the assaulting battalions each time been scattered by well-directed volleys of grape and canister;—if our artillery begins to reply feebly to that of the enemy;—if the battalions under fire diminish unusually fast, because with the wounded crowds of unwounded men go to the rear;—if single divisions have been cut off and made prisoners through the disruption of the plan of the battle;—if the line of retreat begins to be endangered: then by all these things the commander may tell very well in which direction he is going with his battle. The longer this direction continues, the more decided it becomes, so much the more difficult will be the turning, so much the nearer the moment when he must give up the battle. We shall now make some observations on this moment.
We have already said more than once that the final decision is ruled mostly by the relative number of the fresh reserves remaining at the last; that commander who sees his adversary is decidedly superior to him in this respect makes up his mind to retreat. It is just the characteristic of modern battles that all mischances and losses which take place in the course of the same can be retrieved by fresh forces, because the arrangement of the modern order of battle, and the way in which troops are brought into action, allow of their use almost generally, and in each position. So long, therefore, as that commander against whom the issue seems to declare itself still retains a superiority in reserve force, he will not give up the day. But from the moment that his reserves begin to become weaker than his enemy’s, the decision may be regarded as settled, and what he now does depends partly on special circumstances, partly on the degree of courage and perseverance which he personally possesses, and which may degenerate into foolish obstinacy. How a commander can attain to the power of estimating correctly the still remaining reserves on both sides is an affair of skilful practical ability, which does not in any way belong to this place; we keep ourselves to the result as it forms itself in his mind. But this conclusion is still not the moment of decision properly, for a motive which only rises gradually does not answer to that, but is only a general motive towards resolution, and the resolution itself requires still some special immediate causes. Of these there are two chief ones which constantly recur, that is, the danger of retreat, and the arrival of night.
If the retreat with every new step which the battle takes in its course becomes constantly in greater danger, and if the reserves are so much diminished that they are no longer adequate to get breathing room, then there is nothing left but to submit to fate, and by a well-conducted retreat to save what, by a longer delay ending in flight and disaster, would be lost.
But night as a rule puts an end to all battles, because a night combat holds out no hope of advantage, except under particular circumstances; and as night is better suited for a retreat than the day, so, therefore, the commander who must look at the retreat as a thing inevitable, or as most probable, will prefer to make use of the night for his purpose.
That there are, besides the above two usual and chief causes, yet many others also, which are less or more individual and not to be overlooked, is a matter of course; for the more a battle tends towards a complete upset of equilibrium the more sensible is the influence of each partial result in hastening the turn. Thus the loss of a battery, a successful charge of a couple of regiments of cavalry, may call into life the resolution to retreat already ripening.
As a conclusion to this subject, we must dwell for a moment on the point at which the courage of the commander engages in a sort of conflict with his reason.
If, on the one hand, the overbearing pride of a victorious conqueror, if the inflexible will of a naturally obstinate spirit, if the strenuous resistance of noble feelings will not yield the battle-field, where they must leave their honour, yet on the other hand, reason counsels not to give up everything, not to risk the last upon the game, but to retain as much over as is necessary for an orderly retreat. However highly we must esteem courage and firmness in war, and however little prospect there is of victory to him who cannot resolve to seek it by the exertion of all his power, still there is a point beyond which perseverance can only be termed desperate folly, and therefore can meet with no approbation from any critic. In the most celebrated of all battles, that of Belle-Alliance, Buonaparte used his last reserve in an effort to retrieve a battle which was past being retrieved. He spent his last farthing, and fled then as a beggar from the battle-field and the empire.
Effects of Victory
JUST according to the point from which our view is taken, we may feel as much astonished at the extraordinary results of some great battles as at the want of results in others. We shall dwell for a moment on the nature of the effect of a great victory.
Three things may easily be distinguished here: the effect upon the instrument itself, that is, generals and their armies; the effect upon the states interested in the war; and the particular result of these effects as manifested in the subsequent course of the war.
If we only think of the trifling difference which there usually is between victor and vanquished in killed, wounded, prisoners, and artillery lost on the field of battle itself, the consequences which are developed out of this insignificant point seem often quite incomprehensible, and yet, usually, everything only happens quite naturally.
We have already said in the seventh chapter that the magnitude of a victory increases not merely in the same measure as the vanquished forces increase in number, but in a higher ratio. The moral effects resulting from the issue of a great battle are greater on the side of the conquered than on that of the conqueror: they lead to greater losses in physical force, which then in turn re-act on the moral, and so they go on mutually supporting and intensifying each other. On this moral effect we must therefore lay special weight. It takes an opposite direction on the one side from that on the other; as it undermines the energies of the conquered so it elevates the powers and energy of the conqueror. But its chief effect is upon the vanquished, because here it is the direct cause of fresh losses, and besides it is homogeneous in nature with danger, with the fatigues, the hardships, and generally with all those embarrassing circumstances by which war is surrounded, therefore enters into league with them and increases by their help, whilst with the conqueror all these things are like weights which give a higher swing to his courage. It is therefore found, that the vanquished sinks much more below the original line of equilibrium than the conqueror raises himself above it; on this account, if we speak of the effects of victory we allude more particularly to those which manifest themselves in the vanquished army. If this effect is more powerful in an important combat than in a smaller one, so again it is much more powerful in a great general action than in a second-rate battle. The great battle takes place for the sake of itself, for the sake of the victory which it is to give, and which is sought for in it with the utmost effort. Here on this spot, in this very hour, to conquer the enemy is the purpose in which the plan of the war with all its threads converges, in which all distant hopes, all dim glimmerings of the future meet; fate steps in before us to given answer to the bold question.—This is the state of mental tension not only of the commander but of his whole army down to the lowest wagon-driver, no doubt in decreasing strength but also in decreasing importance.
According to the nature of the thing, a great battle has never at any time been an unprepared, unexpected, blind routine service, but a grand act, which, partly of itself and partly from the aim of the commander, stands out from amongst the mass of ordinary works, sufficiently to raise the tension of all minds to a higher degree. But the higher this tension with respect to the issue, the more powerful must be the effect of that issue.
Again, the moral effect of victory in our battles is greater than it was in the earlier ones of modern military history. If the former are as we have depicted them, a real struggle of forces to the utmost, then the sum total of all these force, of the physical as well as the moral, must decide more than certain special dispositions or mere chance.
A single fault committed may be repaired next time; from good fortune and chance we can hope for more favour another time; but the sum total of moral and physical powers cannot be so quickly altered, and, therefore, what the award of a victory has decided over it appears of much greater importance for all futurity. Very probably, of all concerned in battles, whether in or out of the army, very few have given a thought to this difference, but the course of the battle itself impresses on the minds of all present in it such a result, and the relation of this course in public documents, however much it may be coloured by twisting particular circumstances, shows also, more or less, to the world at large that the causes were more of a general than of a particular nature.
He who has not been present at the loss of a great battle will have difficulty in forming for himself a living or quite true idea of it, and the abstract notions of this or that small untoward affair will never come up to the perfect conception of a lost battle. Let us stop a moment at the picture
The first thing which in an unsuccessful battle overpowers the imagination—and we may indeed say, also the understanding—is the diminution of the masses; then the loss of ground, which takes place always, more or less, and, therefore, on the side of the assailant also, if he is not fortunate; then the rupture of the original formation, the jumbling together of divisions, the risks of retreat, which, with few exceptions, may always be seen sometimes in a less sometimes in a greater degree; next the retreat, the most part of which commences at night, or, at least, goes on throughout the night. On this first march we must at once leave behind a number of men completely worn out and scattered about, often just the bravest, who have been foremost in the fight, who held out the longest: the feeling of being conquered, which only seized the superior officers on the battle field, now spreads through all ranks, even down to the common soldiers, aggravated by the horrible idea of being obliged to leave in the enemy’s hands so many brave comrades, who but a moment since were of such value to us in the battle, and aggravated by a rising distrust of the chief commander, to whom, more or less, every subordinate attributes as a fault the fruitless efforts he has made; and this feeling of being conquered is no ideal picture over which one might become master; it is an evident truth that the enemy is superior to us; a truth of which the causes might have been so latent before that they were not to be discovered, but which, in the issue, comes out clear and palpable, or which was also, perhaps, before suspected, but which in the want of any certainty, we had to oppose by the hope of chance, reliance on good fortune, Providence or bold attitude. Now, all this has proved insufficient, and the earnest truth meets us harsh and imperious.
All these feelings are widely different from a panic, which in an army fortified by military virtue never, and in any other only exceptionally, follows the loss of a battle. They must arise even in the best of armies, and although long habituation to war and victory and great confidence in a commander may modify them a little here and there, they are never entirely wanting in the first moment. Also, they are not the pure consequences of lost trophies; these are usually lost at a later period, and the loss of them does not become generally known so quickly; they will therefore not fail to appear even when the scale turns in the slowest and most gradual manner, and they constitute that effect of a victory upon which we can always count in every case.
We have already said that the number of trophies intensifies this effect.
How much now an army in this condition, looked at as an instrument, is weakened! How can we expect that when weakened to such a degree that, as we said before, it finds new enemies in all the ordinary difficulties of making war, it will be able to recover by fresh efforts what has been lost! Before the battle there was a real or assumed equilibrium between the two sides; this is lost, and, therefore, some external assistance is requisite to restore it; every new effort without such external support can only lead to fresh losses.
Thus, therefore, the most moderate victory of the chief army must tend to cause a constant sinking of the scale, until new external circumstances bring about a change. If these are not near, if the conqueror is an eager opponent, who, thirsting for glory, pursues great aims, then a first-rate commander, and in the army a true military spirit, hardened by many campaigns, are required, in order to stop the swollen stream of prosperity from bursting completely through, and to moderate its course by small but reiterated acts of resistance, until the force of victory has spent itself at the goal of its career.
And now as to the effect of the victory, out of the army, upon the nation and government! It is the sudden collapse of hopes stretched to the utmost, the downfall of all self-reliance. In place of these extinct forces, fear, with its destructive properties of expansion, rushes into the vacuum left, and completes the prostration. It is a real shock upon the nerves, which one of the two athletes receives by the electric spark of victory. And that effect, however different in its degrees here and there, is never completely wanting. Instead of every one hastening with a spirit of determination to aid in repairing the disaster, every one fears that his efforts will only be in vain, and stops, hesitating with himself, when he should rush forward; or in despondency he lets his arm drop, leaving everything to fate.
The consequences which this effect of victory brings forth in the course of the war itself depend in part on the character and talent of the victorious general, but more on the circumstances from which the victory proceeds, and to which it leads. Without boldness and an enterprising spirit on the part of the general, the most brilliant victory will lead to no great success, and its force exhausts itself all the sooner on circumstances, if these offer a strong and stubborn opposition to it. How very differently from Daun, Frederick the Great would have used the victory at Collin; and what different consequences France, in place of Prussia, might have given a battle of Leuthen!
The conditions which allow us to expect great results from a great victory we shall learn when we come to the subjects with which they are connected; then it will be possible to explain the disproportion which appears at first sight between the magnitude of a victory and its results, and which is only too readily attributed to a want of energy on the part of the conqueror. Here, where we have to do with the great battle in itself, we shall merely say that the effects now depicted never fail to attend a victory, that they mount up with the intensive strength of the victory—mount up more the more the battle is a general action, that is the more the whole strength of the army has been concentrated in it, the more the whole military power of the nation is contained in that army, and the state in that military power.
But then the question may be asked, Can theory accept this effect of victory as absolutely necessary?—must it not rather endeavour to find out counter-acting means capable of neutralising these effects? It seems quite natural to answer this question in the affirmative; but heaven defend us from taking that wrong course of most theories, out of which is begotten a mutually devouring Pro et Contra.
Certainly that effect is perfectly necessary, for it has its foundation in the nature of things, and it exists, even if we find means to struggle against it; just as the motion of a cannon ball is always in the direction of the terrestrial, although when fired from east to west part of the general velocity is destroyed by this opposite motion.
All war supposes human weakness, and against that it is directed.
Therefore, if hereafter in another place we examine what is to be done after the loss of a great battle, if we bring under review the resources which still remain, even in the most desperate cases, if we should express a belief in the possibility of retrieving all, even in such a case; it must not be supposed we mean thereby that the effects of such a defeat can by degrees be completely wiped out, for the forces and means used to repair the disaster might have been applied to the realisation of some positive object; and this applies both to the moral and physical forces.
Another question is, whether, through the loss of a great battle, forces are not perhaps roused into existence, which otherwise would never have come to life. This case is certainly conceivable, and it is what has actually occurred with many nations. But to produce this intensified reaction is beyond the province of military art, which can only take account of it where it might be assumed as a possibility.
If there are cases in which the fruits of a victory appear rather of a destructive nature in consequence of the reaction of the forces which it had the effect of rousing into activity—cases which certainly are very exceptional—then it must the more surely be granted, that there is a difference in the effects which one and the same victory may produce according to the character of the people or state, which has been conquered.
The Use of the Battle
WHATEVER shape the conduct of war may take in particular cases, and whatever we may also have to admit in the sequel as necessary respecting it: we have only to refer to the conception of war to be convinced of what follows:
1. The destruction of the enemy’s military force, is the leading principle of war, and for the whole chapter of positive action the direct way to the aim.
2. This destruction of the enemy’s force, must be principally effected by means of battle.
3. Only great and general actions can produce great results.
4. The results will be greatest when combats unite themselves in one great battle.
5. It is only in a great general action that the general-in-chief commands in person, and it is in the nature of things, that he should place most confidence in himself.
From these truths a double law follows, the parts of which mutually support each other; namely, that the destruction of the enemy’s military force is to be sought for principally by great battles, and their results; and that the chief object of great battles must be the destruction of the enemy’s military force.
No doubt the annihilation-principle is to be found more or less in other means—granted there are instances in which through favourable circumstances in a minor combat, the destruction of the enemy’s forces has been disproportionately great (Maxen), and on the other hand in a general action, the taking or holding a single post may be predominant in importance as an object—but as a general rule it remains a paramount truth, that general actions are only fought with a view to the destruction of the enemy’s army, and that this destruction can only be effected by a great battle.
The general action may therefore be regarded as war concentrated, as the centre of gravity of the whole war or campaign. As the sun’s rays unite in the focus of the concave mirror in a perfect image, and in the fulness of their heat; so the forces and circumstances of war, unite in a focus in the great battle for one concentrated utmost effort.
The very assemblage of forces in one great whole, which takes place more or less in all wars, indicates an intention to strike a decisive blow with this whole, either voluntarily as assailant, or constrained by the opposite party as defender. When this great blow does not follow, then some modifying, and retarding motives have attached themselves to the original motive of hostility, and have weakened, altered or completely checked the movement. But also, even in this condition of mutual inaction which has been the key-note in so many wars, the idea of a possible general action serves always for both parties as a point of direction, a distant focus in the construction of their plans. The more war is war in earnest, the more it is a venting of animosity and hostility, a mutual struggle to overpower, so much the more will all activities join in deadly contest, and also the more prominent in importance becomes a general action.
In general, when the object aimed at is of a great and positive nature, one therefore in which the interests of the enemy are deeply concerned, the general action offers itself as the most natural means; it is, therefore, also the best, as we shall show more plainly hereafter: and, as a rule, when it is evaded from aversion to the great decision, punishment follows.
The positive object belongs to the offensive, and therefore the general action is also more particularly his means. But without examining the conception of offensive and defensive more minutely here, we must still observe that, even for the defender in most cases, there is no other effectual means with which to meet the exigencies of his situation, to solve the problem presented to him.
The general action is the bloodiest way of solution. True, it is not merely reciprocal slaughter, and its effect is more a killing of the enemy’s courage than of the enemy’s soldiers, as we shall see more plainly in the next chapter,—but still blood is always its price, and slaughter its character as well as name; from this the man in the general recoils with horror.
But the soul of the man trembles still more at the thought of the decision to be given with one single blow. In one point of space and time all action is here pressed together, and at such a moment there is stirred up within us a dim feeling as if in this narrow space all our forces could not develop themselves and come into activity, as if we had already gained much by mere time, although this time owes us nothing at all. This is all mere illusion, but even as illusion it is something, and the same weakness which seizes upon the man in every other momentous decision may well be felt more powerfully by the general, when he must stake interests of such enormous weight upon one venture.
Thus, then, statesmen and generals have at all times endeavoured to avoid the decisive battle, seeking either to attain their aim without it, or dropping that aim unperceived. Writers on history and theory have then busied themselves to discover in some other feature in these campaigns and wars not only an equivalent for the decision by battle which has been avoided, but even a higher art. In this way, in the present age, it came very near to this, that a general action in the economy of war was looked upon as an evil, rendered necessary through some error committed, as a morbid paroxysm to which a regular prudent system of war would never lead: only those generals were to deserve laurels who knew how to carry on war without spilling blood, and the theory of war—a real business for Brahmins—was to be specially directed to teaching this.
Contemporary history has destroyed this illusion, but no one can guarantee that it will not sooner or later reproduce itself, and lead those at the head of affairs to perversities which please man’s weakness, and therefore have the greater affinity for his nature. Perhaps, by-and-bye, Buonaparte’s campaigns and battles will be looked upon as mere acts of barbarism and stupidity, and we shall once more turn with satisfaction and confidence to the dress-sword of obsolete and musty institutions and forms. If theory gives a caution against this, then it renders a real service to those who listen to its warning voice. May we succeed in lending a hand to those who in our dear native land are called upon to speak with authority on these matters, that we may be their guide into this field of inquiry, and excite them to make a candid examination of the subject.
Not only the conception of war but experience also leads us to look for a great decision only in a great battle. From time immemorial, only great victories have led to great successes on the offensive side in the absolute form, on the defensive side in a manner more or less so. Even Buonaparte would not have seen the day of Ulm, unique in its kind, if he had shrunk from shedding blood; it is rather to be regarded as only a second crop from the victorious events in his preceding campaigns. It is not only bold, rash, and presumptuous generals who have sought to complete their work by the great venture of a decisive battle, but also fortunate ones as well; and we may rest satisfied with the answer which they have thus given to this vast question.
Let us not hear of generals who conquer without bloodshed. If a bloody slaughter is a horrible sight, then that is a ground for paying more respect to war, but not for making the sword we wear blunter and blunter by degrees from feelings of humanity, until some one steps in with one that is sharp and lops off the arm from our body.
We look upon a great battle as a principal decision, but certainly not as the only one necessary for a war or a campaign. Instances of a great battle deciding a whole campaign, have only been frequent in modern times, those which have decided a whole war, belong to the class of rare exceptions.
A decision which is brought about by a great battle depends naturally not on the battle itself, that is on the mass of combatants engaged in it, and on the intensity of the victory, but also on a number of other relations between the military forces opposed to each other, and between the states to which these forces belong. But at the same time that the principal mass of the force available is brought to the great duel, a great decision is also brought on, the extent of which may perhaps be foreseen in many respects, though not in all, and which although not the only one, still is the first decision, and as such, has an influence on those which succeed. Therefore a deliberately planned great battle, according to its relations, is more or less, but always in some degree, to be regarded as the leading means and central point of the whole system. The more a general takes the field in the true spirit of war as well as of every contest, with the feeling and the idea that is the conviction that he must and will conquer, the more he will strive to throw every weight into the scale in the first battle, hope and strive to win everything by it. Buonaparte hardly ever entered upon a war without thinking of conquering his enemy at once in the first battle; and Frederick the Great, although in a more limited sphere, and with interests of less magnitude at stake, thought the same when, at the head of a small army, he sought to disengage his rear from the Russians or the Federal Imperial Army.
The decision which is given by the great battle, depends, we have said partly on the battle itself, that is on the number of troops engaged, and partly on the magnitude of the success.
How the general may increase its importance in respect to the first point is evident in itself, and we shall merely observe that according to the importance of the great battle, the number of cases which are decided along with it increases, and that therefore generals who, confident in themselves have been lovers of great decisions, have always managed to make use of the greater part of their troops in it without neglecting on that account essential points elsewhere.
As regards the consequences, or speaking more correctly, the effectiveness of a victory, that depends chiefly on four points:
1.—On the tactical form adopted as the order of battle.
2.—On the nature of the country.
3.—On the relative proportions of the three arms.
4.—On the relative strength of the two armies.
A battle with parallel fronts and without any action against a flank will seldom yield as great success as one in which the defeated army has been turned, or compelled to change front more or less. In a broken or hilly country the successes are likewise smaller, because the power of the blow is everywhere less.
If the cavalry of the vanquished is equal or superior to that of the victor, then the effects of the pursuit are diminished, and by that great part of the results of victory are lost.
Finally it is easy to understand that if superior numbers are on the side of the conqueror, and he uses his advantage in that respect to turn the flank of his adversary, or compel him to change front, greater results will follow than if the conqueror had been weaker in numbers than the vanquished. The battle of Leuthen may certainly be quoted as a practical refutation of this principle, but we beg permission for once to say what we otherwise do not like, no rule without an exception.
In all these ways, therefore, the commander has the means of giving his battle a decisive character; certainly he thus exposes himself to an increased amount of danger, but his whole line of action is subject to that dynamic law of the moral world.
There is then nothing in war which can be put in comparison with the great battle in point of importance, and the acme of strategic ability is displayed in the provision of means for this great event in the skilful determination of place and time, and direction of troops, and in the good use of success.
But it does not follow from the importance of these things that they must be of a very complicated and recondite nature; all is here rather simple, the art of combination by no means great; but there is great need of quickness in judging of circumstances, need of energy, steady resolution, a youthful spirit of enterprise—heroic qualities, to which we shall yet have often to refer. There is, therefore, but little wanted here of that which can be taught by books, and there is much that, if it can be taught at all, must come to the general through some other medium than printer’s type.
The impulse towards a great battle, the voluntary, sure progress to it, must proceed from a feeling of innate power and a clear sense of the necessity; in other words, it must proceed from inborn courage and from perceptions sharpened by contact with the higher interests of life.
Great examples are the best teachers, but it is certainly a misfortune if a cloud of theoretical prejudices comes between, for even the sunbeam is refracted and tinted by the clouds. To destroy such prejudices, which many a time rise and spread themselves like a miasma, is an imperative duty of theory, for the misbegotten offspring of human reason can also be in turn destroyed by pure reason.
Strategic Means of Utilising Victory
THE more difficult part, that of perfectly preparing the victory, is a silent service of which the merit belongs to strategy, and yet for which it is hardly commended. Brilliant and full of renown it appears by turning to good account a victory gained.
What may be the special object of a battle, how it is connected with the whole system of a war, whither the career of victory may lead according to the nature of circumstances, where its culminating point lies—all these are things which we shall not enter upon until hereafter. But under any conceivable circumstances the fact holds good, that without a pursuit no victory can have a great effect, and that, however short the career of victory may be, it must always lead beyond the first steps in pursuit; and in order to avoid the frequent repetition of this, we shall now dwell for a moment on this necessary supplement of victory in general.
The pursuit of a beaten army commences at the moment that army, giving up the combat, leaves its position; all previous movements in one direction and another belong not to that but to the progress of the battle itself. Usually victory at the moment here described, even if it is certain, is still as yet small and weak in its proportions, and would not rank as an event of any great positive advantage if not completed by a pursuit on the first day. Then it is mostly, as we have before said that the trophies which give substance to the victory begin to be gathered up. Of this pursuit we shall speak in the next place.
Usually both sides come into action with their physical powers considerably deteriorated, for the movements immediately preceding have generally the character of very urgent circumstances. The efforts which the wringing out a great combat costs, complete the exhaustion; from this it comes that the victorious party is very little less disorganised and out of his original formation than the vanquished, and therefore requires to re-form, to collect stragglers, and issue fresh ammunition to those who are without. All these things place the conqueror himself in the state of crisis of which we have already spoken. If now the defeated force is only a detached portion of the enemy’s army, or if it has otherwise to expect a considerable reinforcement, then the conqueror may easily run into the obvious danger of having to pay dear for his victory, and this consideration, in such a case, very soon puts an end to pursuit, or at least restricts it very much. But even when a strong accession of force by the enemy is not to be feared, the conqueror finds in the above circumstances a powerful check to the vivacity of his pursuit. There is no reason to fear that the victory will be snatched away, but adverse combats are still possible, and may diminish the advantages which up to the present have been gained. Moreover, at this moment the whole weight of all that is sensuous in an army, its wants and weaknesses, are dependent on the will of the commander. All the thousands under his command require rest and refreshment, and long to see a stop put to toil and danger for the present; only a few, forming an exception, can see and feel beyond the present moment; it is only amongst this little number that there is sufficient mental vigour to think, after what is absolutely necessary at the moment has been done, upon those results which at such a moment only appear to the rest as mere embellishments of victory—as a luxury of triumph. But all these thousands have a voice in the council of the general, for through the various steps of the military hierarchy these interests of the sensuous creature have their sure conductor into the heart of the commander. He himself, through mental and bodily fatigue, is more or less weakened in his natural activity, and thus it happens then that, mostly from these causes, purely incidental to human nature, less is done than might have been done, and that generally what is done is to be ascribed entirely to the thirst for glory, the energy, indeed also thehardheartedness of the general-in-chief. It is only thus we can explain the hesitating manner in which many generals follow up a victory which superior numbers have given them. The first pursuit of the enemy we limit in general to the extent of the first day, including the night following the victory. At the end of that period the necessity of rest ourselves prescribes a halt in any case.
This first pursuit has different natural degrees.
The first is, if cavalry alone are employed; in that case it amounts usually more to alarming and watching than to pressing the enemy in reality, because the smallest obstacle of ground is generally sufficient to check the pursuit. Useful as cavalry may be against single bodies of broken demoralised troops, still opposed to the whole it becomes again only the auxiliary arm, because the troops in retreat can employ fresh reserves to cover the movement, and, therefore, at the next trifling obstacle of ground, by combining all arms they can make a stand with success. The only exception to this is in the case of an army in actual flight in a complete state of dissolution.
The second degree is, if the pursuit is made by a strong advanced guard composed of all arms, the greater part consisting naturally of cavalry. Such a pursuit generally drives the enemy as far as the nearest strong position for his rearguard, or the next position affording space for his army. For either an opportunity is not usually found at once, and, therefore, the pursuit can be carried further; generally, however, it does not extend beyond the distance of one or at most a couple of leagues, because otherwise the advanced guard would not feel itself sufficiently supported.
The third and most vigorous degree is when the victorious army itself continues its advance as far as the physical powers can endure. In this case the beaten army will generally quit such ordinary positions as a country usually offers on the mere show of an attack, or of an intention to turn his flank; and the rearguard will be still less likely to engage in an obstinate resistance.
In all three cases the night, if it sets in before the conclusion of the whole act, usually puts an end to it, and the few instances in which this does not take place, and the pursuit is continued throughout the night, must be regarded as pursuits in an exceptionally vigorous form.
If we reflect that in fighting by night everything must be, more or less, abandoned to chance, and that at the conclusion of a battle the regular cohesion and order of things in an army must inevitably be disturbed, we may easily conceive the reluctance of both generals to carrying on their business in the obscurity of night. If a complete dissolution of the vanquished army, or a rare superiority of the victorious army in military virtue does not ensure success, everything would in a manner be given up to fate, which can never be for the interest of any one, even of the most foolhardy general. As a rule, therefore, night puts an end to pursuit, even also when the battle has only been decided shortly before its commencement. This allows the conquered either time for rest and to rally immediately, or, if he retreats during the night it gives him a march in advance. After this break the conquered is decidedly in a better condition; much of that which had been thrown into confusion has been brought again into order, ammunition has been renewed, the whole has been put into a fresh formation. Whatever further encounter now takes place with the enemy is a new battle, not a continuation of the old, and although it may be far from promising absolute success, still it is a fresh combat, and not merely a gathering up of the debris by the victor.
When, therefore, the conqueror can continue the pursuit itself throughout the night, if only with a strong advanced guard composed of all arms of the service, the effect of the victory is immensely increased, of which the battles of Leuthen and Belle Alliance1 are examples.
The whole action of this pursuit is mainly tactical, and we only dwell upon it here in order to make plain the difference which through it may be produced in the effect of a victory.
This first pursuit, as far as the nearest stopping-point, belongs as a right to every conqueror, and is hardly in any way connected with his further plans and combinations. These may considerably diminish the positive results of a victory gained with the main body of the army, but they cannot make this first use of it impossible; at least cases of that kind, if conceivable at all, must be so uncommon that they should have no appreciable influence on theory. And here certainly we must say that the example afforded by modern wars opens up quite a new field for energy. In preceding wars, resting on a narrower basis, and altogether more circumscribed in their scope, there were many unnecessary conventional restrictions in various ways, but particularly in this point. The conception, Honour of Victory seemed to generals so much by far the chief thing, that they thought the less of the complete destruction of the enemy’s military force, as in point of fact that destruction of force appeared to them only as one of the many means in war, not by any means as the principal, much less as the only means; so that they the more readily put the sword in its sheath the moment the enemy had lowered his. Nothing seemed more natural to them than to stop the combat as soon as the decision was obtained, and to regard all further carnage as unnecessary cruelty. Even if this false philosophy did not determine their resolutions entirely, still it was a point of view by
which representations of the exhaustion of all powers, and physical impossibility of continuing the struggle, obtained readier entrance and greater weight. Certainly the sparing one’s own instrument of victory is a vital question if we only possess this one, and foresee that soon the time may arrive when it will not be sufficient for all that remains to be done, for every continuation of the offensive as a rule leads ultimately to that. But this calculation was still so far false, as the further loss of forces by a continuance of the pursuit could bear no proportion to that which the enemy must suffer. That view, therefore, again could only exist because the military forces were not considered the main thing. And so we find that in former wars real heroes only—such as Charles XII., Marlborough, Eugene, Frederick the Great—added a vigorous pursuit to their victories when they were decisive enough, and that other generals usually contented themselves with the possession of the field of battle. In modern times the greater energy infused into the conduct of wars through the greater importance of the circumstances from which they have proceeded has thrown down these conventional barriers; the pursuit has become an all-important business for the conqueror; trophies have on that account multiplied in extent, and if there are cases also in modern warfare in which this has not been so, still they belong to the list of exceptions, and are to be accounted for by peculiar circumstances.
At Gorschen and Bautzen nothing but the superiority of the allied cavalry prevented a complete rout, at Gross Beeren and Dennewitz the ill-will of the Crown Prince of Sweden, at Laon the enfeebled personal condition of old Blucher.
But Borodino is also an illustration to the point here, and we cannot resist saying a few more words about it, partly because we do not consider the circumstances are explained simply by attaching blame to Buonaparte, partly because it might appear as if this, and with it a great number of similar cases, belonged to that class which we have designated as so extremely rare, cases in which the general relations seize and fetter the general at the very beginning of the battle. French authors in particular, and great admirers of Buonaparte (Vaudancourt, Chambray, Ségur), have blamed him decidedly because he did not drive the Russian army completely off the field, and use his last reserves to scatter it, because then what was only a lost battle would have been a complete rout. We should be obliged to diverge too far to describe circumstantially the mutual situation of the two armies; but this much is evident, that when Buonaparte passed the Niemen with his army the same corps which afterwards fought at Borodino numbered 300,000 men, of whom now only 120,000 remained, he might therefore well be apprehensive that he would not have enough left to march upon Moscow, the point on which everything seemed to depend. The victory which he had just gained gave him nearly a certainty of taking that capital, for that the Russians would be in a condition to fight a second battle within eight days seemed in the highest degree improbable; and in Moscow he hoped to find peace. No doubt the complete dispersion of the Russian army would have made this peace much more certain; but still the first consideration was to get to Moscow, that is, to get there with a force with which he should appear dictator over the capital, and through that over the empire and the government. The force which he brought with him to Moscow was no longer sufficient for that, as shown in the sequel, but it would have been still less so if, in scattering the Russian army, he had scattered his own at the same time. Buonaparte was thoroughly alive to all this, and in our eyes he stands completely justified. But on that account this case is still not to be reckoned amongst those in which, through the general relations, the general is interdicted the first following up of his victory, for there never was in his case any question of mere pursuit. The victory was decided at four o’clock in the afternoon, but the Russians still occupied the greater part of the field of battle; they were not yet disposed to give up the ground, and if the attack had been renewed, they would still have offered a most determined resistance, which would have undoubtedly ended in their complete defeat, but would have cost the conqueror much further bloodshed. We must therefore reckon the Battle of Borodino as amongst battles, like Bautzen, left unfinished. At Bautzen the vanquished preferred to quit the field sooner; at Borodino the conqueror preferred to content himself with a half victory, not because the decision appeared doubtful, but because he was not rich enough to pay for the whole.
Returning now to our subject, the deduction from our reflections in relation to the first stage of pursuit is, that the energy thrown into it chiefly determines the value of the victory; that this pursuit is a second act of the victory, in many cases more important also than the first, and that strategy, whilst here approaching tactics to receive from it the completed work, exercises the first act of her authority by demanding this completion of the victory.
But further, the effects of victory are very seldom found to stop with this first pursuit; now first begins the real career to which victory lent velocity. This course is conditioned as we have already said, by other relations of which it is not yet time to speak. But we must here mention, what there is of a general character in the pursuit, in order to avoid repetition when the subject occurs again.
In the further stages of pursuit, again, we can distinguish three degrees: the simple pursuit, a hard pursuit, and a parallel march to intercept
The simple following or pursuing causes the enemy to continue his retreat, until he thinks he can risk another battle. It will therefore in its effect suffice to exhaust the advantages gained, and besides that, all that the enemy cannot carry with him, sick, wounded, and disabled from fatigue, quantities of baggage, and carriages of all kinds, will fall into our hands, but this mere following does not tend to heighten the disorder in the enemy’s army, an effect which is produced by the two following degrees.
If for instance, instead of contenting ourselves with taking up every day the camp the enemy has just vacated, occupying just as much of the country as he chooses to abandon, we make our arrangements so as every day to encroach further, and accordingly with our advanced guard organised for the purpose, attack his rearguard every time it attempts to halt, then such a course will hasten his retreat, and consequently tend to increase his disorganisation.—This it will principally effect by the character of continuous flight, which his retreat will thus assume. Nothing has such a depressing influence on the soldier, as the sound of the enemy’s cannon afresh at the moment when, after a forced march he seeks some rest; if this excitement is continued from day to day for some time, it may lead to a complete panic. There lies in it a constant admission of being obliged to obey the law of the enemy, and of being unfit for any resistance, and the consciousness of this cannot do otherwise than weaken the morale of an army in a high degree. The effect of pressing the enemy in this way attains a maximum when it drives the enemy to make night marches. If the conqueror scares away the discomfited opponent at sunset from a camp which has just been taken up either for the main body of the army, or for the rearguard, the conquered must either make a night march, or alter his position in the night, retiring further away, which is much the same thing; the victorious party can on the other hand pass the night in quiet.
The arrangement of marches, and the choice of positions depend in this case also upon so many other things especially on the supplying of the army, on strong natural obstacles in the country, on large towns, etc., etc., that it would beridiculous pedantry to attempt to show by a geometrical analysis how the pursuer, being able to impose his laws on the retreating enemy, can compel him to march at night while he takes his rest. But nevertheless it is true and practicable that marches in pursuit may be so planned as to have this tendency, and that the efficacy of the pursuit is very much enhanced thereby. If this is seldom attended to in the execution, it is because such a procedure is more difficult for the pursuing army, than a regular adherence to ordinary marches in the day time. To start in good time in the morning, to encamp at midday, to occupy the rest of the day in providing for the ordinary wants of the army, and to use the night for repose, is a much more convenient method than to regulate one’s movements exactly according to those of the enemy, therefore to determine nothing till the last moment, to start on the march, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening, to be always for several hours in the presence of the enemy, and exchanging cannon shots with him, and keeping up skirmishing fire, to plan manœuvres to turn him, in short, to make the whole outlay of tactical means which such a course renders necessary. All that naturally bears with a heavy weight on the pursuing army, and in war, where there are so many burdens to be borne, men are always inclined to strip off those which do not seem absolutely necessary. These observations are true, whether applied to a whole army or as in the more usual case, to a strong advanced-guard. For the reasons just mentioned, this second method of pursuit, this continued pressing of the enemy pursued is rather a rare occurrence; even Buonaparte in his Russian campaign, 1812, practised it but little, for the reasons here apparent, that the difficulties and hardships of this campaign, without that, threatened his army with destruction before it could reach its object; on the other hand the French in their other campaigns have distinguished themselves by their energy in this point also.
Lastly, the third and most effectual form of pursuit is, the parallel march to the immediate aim of the retreat.
Every defeated army will naturally have behind it, at a greater or less distance, some point, the attainment of which is the first object in view, whether it be that failing in this its further retreat might be compromised, as in the case of a defile, or that it is important for the point itself to reach it before the enemy, as in the case of a great city, magazines, etc., or, lastly, that the army at this point will gain new powers of defence, such as a strong position, or junction with other corps.
Now if the conqueror directs his march on this point by a lateral road, it is evident how that may quicken the retreat of the beaten army in a destructive manner, convert it into hurry, perhaps into a flight. The conquered has only three ways to counteract this: the first is to throw himself in front of the enemy, in order by an unexpected attack to gain that probability of success which is lost to him in general from his position; this plainly supposes an enterprising bold general, and an excellent army, beaten but not utterly defeated; therefore, it can only be employed by a beaten army in very few cases.
The second way is hastening the retreat; but this is just what the conqueror wants, and it easily leads to immoderate efforts on the part of the troops, by which enormous losses are sustained, in stragglers, broken guns, and carriages of all kinds.
The third way is to make a detour, and get round the nearest point of interception, to march with more ease at a greater distance from the enemy, and thus to render the haste required less damaging. This last way is the worst of all, it generally turns out like a new debt contracted by an insolvent debtor, and leads to greater embarrassment. There are cases in which this course is advisable; others where there is nothing else left; also instances in which it has been successful; but upon the whole it is certainly true that its adoption is usually influenced less by a clear persuasion of its being the surest way of attaining the aim than by another inadmissible motive—this motive is the dread of encountering the enemy. Woe to the commander who gives in to this! However much the morale of his army may have deteriorated, and however well founded may be his apprehensions of being at a disadvantage in any conflict with the enemy, the evil will only be made worse by too anxiously avoiding every possible risk of collision. Buonaparte in 1813 would never have brought over the Rhine with him the 30,000 or 40,000 men who remained after the battle of Hanau, if he had avoided that battle and tried to pass the Rhine at Mannheim or Coblenz. It is just by means of small combats carefully prepared and executed, and in which the defeated army being on the defensive, has always the assistance of the ground—it is just by these that the moral strength of the army can first be resuscitated.
The beneficial effect of the smallest successes is incredible; but with most generals the adoption of this plan implies great self-command. The other way, that of evading all encounter, appears at first so much easier, that there is a natural preference for its adoption. It is therefore usually just this system of evasion which best promotes the view of the pursuer, and often ends with the complete downfall of the pursued; we must, however, recollect here that we are speaking of a whole army, not of a single division, which, having been cut off, is seeking to join the main army by making a detour; in such a case circumstances are different, and success is not uncommon. But there is one condition requisite to the success of this race of two corps for an object, which is that a division of the pursuing army should follow by the same road which the pursued has taken, in order to pick up stragglers, and keep up the impression which the presence of the enemy never fails to make. Blücher neglected this in his, in other respects unexceptionable, pursuit after Belle Alliance.
Such marches tell upon the pursuer as well as the pursued, and they are not advisable if the enemy’s army rallies itself upon another considerable one; if it has a distinguished general at its head, and if its destruction is not already well prepared. But when this means can be adopted, it acts also like a great mechanical power. The losses of the beaten army from sickness and fatigue are on such a disproportionate scale, the spirit of the army is so weakened and lowered by the constant solicitude about impending ruin, that at last any thing like a well-organised stand is out of the question; every day thousands of prisoners fall into the enemy’s hands without striking a blow. In such a season of complete good fortune, the conqueror need not hesitate about dividing his forces in order to draw into the vortex of destruction everything within reach of his army, to cut off detachments, to take fortresses unprepared for defence, to occupy large towns, etc., etc. He may do anything until a new state of things arises, and the more he ventures in this way the longer will it be before that change will take place.
There is no want of examples of brilliant results from grand decisive victories, and of great and vigorous pursuits in the wars of Buonaparte. We need only quote Jena, Ratisbonne, Leipsic, and Belle-Alliance.
Retreat after a Lost Battle
IN a lost battle the power of an army is broken, the moral to a greater degree than the physical. A second battle, unless fresh favourable circumstances come into play, would lead to a complete defeat, perhaps, to destruction. This is a military axiom. According to the usual course the retreat is continued up to that point where the equilibrium of forces is restored, either by reinforcements, or by the protection of strong fortresses, or by great divisions of the country, or by a separation of the enemy’s force. The magnitude of the losses sustained, the extent of the defeat, but still more the character of the enemy, will bring nearer or put off the instant of this equilibrium. How many instances may be found of a beaten army rallied again at a short distance, without its circumstances having altered in any way since the battle. The cause of this may be traced to the moral deficiency of the adversary, or to the preponderance gained in the battle not having been sufficient to make a lasting impression.
To profit by this weakness or mistake of the enemy, not to yield one inch breadth more than the pressure of circumstances demands, but above all things, in order to keep up the moral forces to as advantageous a point as possible, a slow retreat, offering incessant resistance, and bold courageous counterstrokes, whenever the enemy seeks to gain any excessive advantages, are absolutely necessary. Retreats of great generals and of armies inured to war have always resembled the retreat of a wounded lion, and such is, undoubtedly, also the best theory.
It is true that at the moment of quitting a dangerous position we have often seen trifling formalities observed which caused a waste of time, and were, therefore, attended with danger, whilst in such cases everything depends on getting out of the place speedily. Practised generals reckon this maxim a very important one. But such cases must not be confounded with a general retreat after a lost battle. Whoever then thinks by a few rapid marches to gain a start, and more easily to recover a firm standing, commits a great error. The first movements should be as small as possible, and it is a maxim in general not to suffer ourselves to be dictated to by the enemy. This maxim cannot be followed without bloody combats with the enemy at our heels, but the maxim is worth the sacrifice; without it we get into an accelerated pace which soon turns into a headlong rush, and costs merely in stragglers more men than rear-guard combats would have cost, and besides that extinguishes the last remnants of courageous spirit.
A strong rear guard composed of picked troops, commanded by the bravest general, and supported by the whole army at critical moments, a careful utilisation of ground, strong ambuscades wherever the boldness of the enemy’s advanced guard, and the ground, afford opportunity; in short, the preparation and the system of regular small battles,—these are the means of following this principle.
The difficulties of a retreat are naturally greater or less according as the battle has been fought under more or less favourable circumstances, and according as it has been more or less obstinately contested. The battle of Jena and Belle Alliance show how impossible anything like a regular retreat may become, if the last man is used up against a powerful enemy.
Now and again it has been suggested (Lloyd Bulow) to divide for the purpose of retreating, therefore to retreat in separate divisions or even eccentrically. Such a separation as is made merely for convenience, and along with which concentrated action continues possible and is kept in view, is not what we now refer to: any other kind is extremely dangerous, contrary to the nature of the thing, and therefore a great error. Every lost battle is a principle of weakness and disorganisation; and the first and immediate desideratum is to concentrate, and in concentration to recover order, courage, and confidence. The idea of harassing the enemy by separate corps on both flanks at the moment when he is following up his victory, is a perfect anomaly; a faint-hearted pedant might be overawed by his enemy in that manner, and for such a case it may answer; but where we are not sure of this failing in our opponent it is better let alone. If the strategic relations after a battle require that we should cover ourselves right and left by detached corps, so much must be done, as from circumstances is unavoidable, but this fractioning must always be regarded as an evil, and we are seldom in a state to commence it the day after the battle itself.
If Frederick the Great after the battle of Collin, and the raising of the siege of Prague retreated in three columns, that was done not out of choice, but because the position of his forces, and the necessity of covering Saxony, left him no alternative. Buonaparte after the battle of Brienne, sent Marmont back to the Aube, whilst he himself passed the Seine, and turned towards Troyes; but that this did not end in disaster, was solely owing to the circumstance that the Allies, instead of pursuing, divided their forces in like manner, turned with the one part (Blucher) towards the Marne, while with the other (Schwartzenberg), from fear of being too weak, they advanced quite slowly.
THE manner of conducting a combat at night, and what concerns the details of its course, is a tactical subject; we only examine it here so far as in its totality it appears as a special strategic means.
Fundamentally every night attack is only a more vehement form of surprise. Now at the first look of the thing such an attack appears quite pre-eminently advantageous, for we suppose the enemy to be taken by surprise, the assailant naturally to be prepared for every thing which can happen. What an inequality! Imagination paints to itself a picture of the most complete confusion on the one side, and on the other side the assailant only occupied in reaping the fruits of this state of things. Hence the constant creation of schemes for night attacks by those who have not to lead them, and have no responsibility, whilst these attacks seldom take place in reality.
These ideal schemes are all based on the hypothesis that the assailant knows the arrangements of the defender because they have been made and announced be-forehand; and could not escape notice in his reconnaissances, and enquiries; that on the other hand the measures of the assailant, being only taken at the moment of execution, cannot be known to the enemy. But the last of these is not always quite the case, and still less is the first. If we are not so near the enemy as to have him completely under our eye, as the Austrians had Frederick the Great before the battle of Hochkirch, then all that we know of his position must always be imperfect, as it is obtained by reconnaissances, patrols, information from prisoners, and spies, sources on which no firm reliance can be placed because intelligence thus obtained is always more or less of an old date, and the position of the enemy may have been altered in the mean time. Moreover, with the tactics and mode of encampment of former times it was much easier than it is now to examine the position of the enemy. A line of tents is much easier to distinguish than a line of huts or a bivouac; and an encampment on a line of front, fully and regularly drawn out, also easier than one of divisions formed in columns, the mode often used at present. We may have the ground on which a division bivouacs in that manner completely under our eye, and yet not be able to arrive at any accurate idea.
But the position again is not all that we want to know; the measures which the defender may take in the course of the combat are just as important, and do not by any means consist in mere random shots. These measures also make night attacks more difficult in modern wars than formerly, because they have in these wars an advantage over those already taken. In our combats the position of the defender is more temporary than definitive, and on that account the defender in our wars is better able to surprise his adversary with unexpected blows, than he could formerly.
Therefore what the assailant knows of the defensive previous to a night attack, is seldom or never sufficient to supply the want of direct observation.
But the defender has on his side another small advantage as well, which is that he is more at home than the assailant, on the ground which forms his position, and therefore, like the inhabitant of a room, will find his way about it in the dark with more ease than a stranger. He knows better where to find each part of his force, and therefore can more readily get at it than is the case with the assailant.
From this it follows, that the assailant in a combat at night wants his eyes just as much as the defender, and that therefore, only particular reasons can make a night attack advisable.
Now these reasons arise mostly in connection with subordinate parts of an army, rarely with the army itself; hence it follows that a night attack also as a rule can only take place with secondary combats, and seldom with great battles.
We may attack a portion of the enemy’s army with a very superior force, consequently enveloping it with a view either to take the whole, or to inflict very severe loss on it by an unequal combat, provided that other circumstances are in our favour. But such a scheme can never succeed except by a great surprise, because no fractional part of the enemy’s army would engage in such an unequal combat, but would retire instead. But a surprise on an important scale except in rare instances in a very close country, can only be effected at night. If therefore we wish to gain such an advantage as this from the faulty disposition of a portion of the enemy’s army, then we must make use of the night, at all events, to finish the preliminary part even if the combat itself should not open till towards daybreak. This is therefore what takes place in all the little enterprises by night against outposts, and other small bodies, the main point being invariably through superior numbers, and getting round his position, to entangle him unexpectedly in such a disadvantageous combat, that he cannot disengage himself without great loss.
The larger the corps attacked, the more difficult the undertaking, because a strong corps has greater resources within itself to maintain the fight long enough for help to arrive.
On that account the whole of the enemy’s army can never in ordinary cases be the object of such an attack, for although it has no assistance to expect from any quarter outside itself, still, it contains within itself sufficient means of repelling attacks from several sides particularly in our day, when every one from the commencement is prepared for this very usual form of attack. Whether the enemy can attack us on several sides with success, depends generally on conditions quite different from that of its being done unexpectedly; without entering here into the nature of these conditions, we confine ourselves to observing, that with turning an enemy, great results, but also great dangers are connected; that therefore, if we set aside special circumstances, nothing justifies it but a great superiority, just such as we should use against a fractional part of the enemy’s army,
But the turning and surrounding a small corps of the enemy, and particularly in the darkness of night, is also more practicable for this reason, that whatever we stake upon it, and however superior the force used may be, still probably it constitutes only a limited portion of our army, and we can sooner stake that than the whole on the risk of a great venture. Besides, the greater part or perhaps the whole serves as a support and rallying point for the portion risked, which again very much diminishes the danger of the enterprise.
Not only the risk, but the difficulty of execution as well confines night enterprises to small bodies. As surprise is the real sense of them so also stealing through is the chief condition of execution: but this is more easily done with small bodies than with large, and for the columns of a whole army is seldom practicable. For this reason such enterprises are in general only directed against single outposts, and can only be feasible against greater corps if they are without sufficient outposts, like Frederick the Great at Hochkirch. This will happen seldomer in future to armies themselves than to minor divisions.
In recent times, when war has been carried on with so much more rapidity and vigour, it has in consequence often happened certainly that armies have encamped very close to each other, without having a very strong system of outposts, because those circumstances have generally occurred just at the crisis which precedes a great decision. But then at such times the readiness for battle on both sides is also more perfect: on the other hand, in former wars it was a frequent practice for armies to take up camps in sight of each other, when they had no other object but that of mutually holding each other in check, consequently for a longer period. How often Frederick the Great stood for weeks so near to the Austrians, that the two might have exchanged cannon shots with each other.
But these practices, certainly more favourable to night attacks, have been discontinued in later wars; and armies being now no longer in regard to subsistence and requirements for encampment, such independent bodies complete in themselves, find it necessary to keep usually a day’s march between themselves and enemy. If we now keep in view specially the night attack of an army, it follows that sufficient motives for it can seldom occur, and that they fall under one or other of the following classes.
1. An unusual degree of carelessness or audacity which very rarely occurs, and when it does is compensated for by a great superiority in moral force.
2. A panic in the enemy’s army, or generally such a degree of superiority in moral force on our side, that this is sufficient to supply the place of guidance in action.
3. Cutting through an enemy’s army of superior force, which keeps us enveloped, because in this all depends on surprise, and the object of merely making a passage by force, allows a much greater concentration of forces.
4. Finally, in desperate cases, when our forces have such a disproportion to the enemy’s, that we see no possibility of success, except through extraordinary daring.
But in all these cases there is still the condition that the enemy’s army is under our eyes, and protected by no advanced guard.
As for the rest, most night combats are so conducted as to end with day light, so that only the approach, and the first attack are made under cover of darkness, because the assailant in that manner can better profit by the consequences of the state of confusion into which he throws his adversary; and combats of this description which do not commence until daybreak, in which the night therefore is only made use of to approach, are not to be counted as night combats.