On War

by Carl von Clausewitz

Theory is content to refer to experience in general to indicate the origin of the method, but not to prove it.

An event that is lightly touched upon, instead of being carefully detailed, is like an object seen at a great distance: it is impossible to distinguish any detail, and it looks the same from every angle. Such examples have actually been used to support the most conflicting views.

Another disadvantage of merely touching on historical events lies in the fact that some readers do not know enough about them, or do not remember them well enough to grasp what the author has in mind. Such readers have no choice but to be impressed by the argument, or to remain untouched by it altogether.

The further back one goes, the less useful military history becomes, growing poorer and barer at the same time. The history of antiquity is without doubt the most useless and the barest of all.

Code Napoleón, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Strategic theory must therefore study the engagement in terms of its possible results and of the moral and psychological forces that largely determine its course.

Strategy is the use of the engagement for the purpose of the war.

Strategic theory, therefore, deals with planning; or rather, it attempts to shed light on the components of war and their interrelationships, stressing those few principles or rules that can be demonstrated.

But the effects of genius show not so much in novel forms of action as in the ultimate success of the whole. What we should admire is the accurate fulfillment of the unspoken assumptions, the smooth harmony of the whole activity, which only become evident in final success.

In fact, the means and forms that the strategist employs are so very simple, so familiar from constant repetition, that it seems ridiculous in the light of common sense when critics discuss them, as they do so often, with ponderous solemnity. Thus, such a commonplace maneuver as turning an opponent's flank may be hailed by critics as a stroke of genius, of deepest insight, or even of all-inclusive knowledge. Can one imagine anything more absurd?

Everything in strategy is very simple, but that does not mean that everything is very easy. Once it has been determined, from the political conditions, what a war is meant to achieve and what it can achieve, it is easy to chart the course.

Take any number of outstanding men, some noted for intellect, others for their acumen, still others for boldness or tenacity of will: not one may possess the combination of qualities needed to make him a greater than average commander.

In a tactical situation one is able to see at least half the problem with the naked eye, whereas in strategy everything has to be guessed at and presumed. Conviction is therefore weaker. Consequently most generals, when they ought to act, are paralyzed by unnecessary doubts.

Are we to be beside ourselves with admiration at the fact that the King wanted first to turn Daun's right flank, then his left, then his right again, and so forth? Are we to consider this profound wisdom? Certainly not,

What is really admirable is the King's wisdom: pursuing a major objective with limited resources, he did not try to undertake anything beyond his strength, but always just enough to get him what he wanted.

rising to remarkable heights in moments of crisis, but immediately afterward reverting to a state of calm oscillation, always ready to adjust to the smallest shift in the political situation. Neither vanity, ambition, nor vindictiveness could move him from this course; and it was this course alone that brought him success.

The other aspect to be admired concerns the difficulties of execution. Maneuvers designed to turn a flank are easily planned. It is equally easy to conceive a plan for keeping a small force concentrated so that it can meet a scattered enemy on equal terms at any point, and to multiply its strength by rapid movement. There is nothing admirable about the ideas themselves. Faced with such simple concepts, we have to admit that they are simple.

But it required the King's boldness, resolution, and strength of will to see things in this way, and not to be confused and intimidated by the danger that was still being talked and written about thirty years later. Few generals in such a situation would have believed such simple means of strategy to be feasible.

it is these miracles of execution that we have to admire. But to appreciate all this in full measure one has to have had a taste of it through actual experience. Those who know war only from books or the parade-ground cannot recognize the existence of these impediments to action, and so we must ask them to accept on faith what they lack in experience.

In itself, the deployment of forces at a certain point merely makes an engagement possible; it does not necessarily take place. Should one treat this possibility as a reality, as an actual occurrence? Certainly. It becomes real because of its consequences, and consequences of some kind will always follow.

In both cases results have been produced by the mere possibility of an engagement; the possibility has acquired reality.

This shows that the destruction of the enemy's forces and the overthrow of the enemy's power can be accomplished only as the result of an engagement, no matter whether it really took place or was merely offered but not accepted.

The possession of provinces, cities, fortresses, roads, bridges, munitions dumps, etc., may be the immediate object of an engagement, but can never be the final one.

Such acquisitions should always be regarded merely as means of gaining greater superiority, so that in the end we are able to offer an engagement to the enemy when he is in no position to accept it.

If we do not learn to regard a war, and the separate campaigns of which it is composed, as a chain of linked engagements each leading to the next, but instead succumb to the idea that the capture of certain geographical points or the seizure of undefended provinces are of value in themselves, we are liable to regard them as windfall profits.

It would however be disastrous to try to develop our understanding of strategy by analyzing these factors in isolation, since they are usually interconnected in each military action in manifold and intricate ways.

If the theory of war did no more than remind us of these elements, demonstrating the need to reckon with and give full value to moral qualities, it would expand its horizon, and simply by establishing this point of view would condemn in advance anyone who sought to base an analysis on material factors alone.

One might say that the physical seem little more than the wooden hilt, while the moral factors are the precious metal, the real weapon, the finely-honed blade.

the seeds of wisdom that are to bear fruit in the intellect are sown less by critical studies and learned monographs than by insights, broad impressions, and flashes of intuition.

Professional pride is the bond between the various natural forces that activate the military virtues; in the context of this professional pride they crystallize more readily.

Generally speaking, the need for military virtues becomes greater the more the theater of operations and other factors tend to complicate the war and disperse the forces.

There are only two sources for this spirit, and they must interact in order to create it. The first is a series of victorious wars; the second, frequent exertions of the army to the utmost limits of its strength.

A soldier is just as proud of the hardships he has overcome as of the dangers he has faced.

Grim severity and iron discipline may be able to preserve the military virtues of a unit, but it cannot create them.

Discipline, skill, goodwill, a certain pride, and high morale, are the attributes of an army trained in times of peace. They command respect, but they have no strength of their own. They stand or fall together.

We should take care never to confuse the real spirit of an army with its mood.

Timidity is the root of prudence in the majority of men.

The quality that in most soldiers is disciplined by service regulations that have become second nature to them, must in the commanding officer be disciplined by reflection.

Given the same amount of intelligence, timidity will do a thousand times more damage in war than audacity.

The power of the various emotions is sharply reduced by the intervention of lucid thought and, more, by self control. Consequently, boldness grows less common in the higher ranks. Even if the growth of an officer's perception and intelligence does not keep pace with his rise in rank, the realities of war will impose their conditions and concerns on him.

Nearly every general known to us from history as mediocre, even vacillating, was noted for dash and determination as a junior officer.

The greater the distance between necessity and action, the more numerous the possibilities that have to be identified and analyzed before action is taken, the less is the factor of boldness reduced.

This kind of boldness does not consist in defying the natural order of things and in crudely offending the laws of probability; it is rather a matter of energetically supporting that higher form of analysis by which genius arrives at a decision: rapid, only partly conscious weighing of the possibilities.

In war more than anywhere else things do not turn out as we expect. Nearby they do not appear as they did from a distance.

Once the tactical encounter has taken place and the result—be it victory or defeat—is assured, strategy will use it to serve the object of the war.

possession of strength at the really vital point.

Consequently, the forces available must be employed with such skill that even in the absence of absolute superiority, relative superiority is attained at the decisive point.

Surprise therefore becomes the means to gain superiority, but because of its psychological effect it should also be considered as an independent element.

The two factors that produce surprise are secrecy and speed.

The principle is highly attractive in theory, but in practice it is often held up by the friction of the whole machine.