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.