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    On War
    On War
    On War
    Ebook1,209 pages22 hours

    On War

    By Carl von Clausewitz

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    The most authoritative and feature-rich edition of On War in English

    Carl von Clausewitz’s On War is the most significant attempt in Western history to understand war, both in its internal dynamics and as an instrument of policy. Since the work's first appearance in 1832, it has been read throughout the world, and has stimulated generations of soldiers, political leaders, and intellectuals. First published in 1976 and revised in 1984, Michael Howard and Peter Paret’s Princeton edition of Clausewitz’s classic work has itself achieved classic status and is widely regarded as the best translation and standard edition of On War in English. This feature-rich edition includes an essay by Paret on the genesis of Clausewitz’s book, an essay by Howard on Clausewitz’s influence, and an essay by Bernard Brodie on the continuing relevance of On War. In addition, Brodie provides a lengthy and detailed commentary on and guide to reading On War, and the edition also includes a comprehensive index.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPrinceton University Press
    Release dateSep 2, 2008
    ISBN9781400837403
    Author

    Carl von Clausewitz

    Carl von Clausewitz (1780-1831) was a Prussian military officer and military theorist. Born to a family of nobles from Upper Silesia, Clausewitz followed his father’s footsteps by entering military service as a lance-corporal at a young age. He served in several major conflicts throughout his life, including the Rhine Campaigns and the Napoleonic Wars, and eventually reached the rank of general. In 1801, he went to Berlin to enter the Kriegsakademie, where he studied philosophy and the history and tactics of warfare, research which would lead to his work On War (1832), a treatise on the moral, political, and social aspects of warfare. In 1810, he married the aristocrat and socialite Countess Marie von Brühl, a highly educated and driven woman who would oversee the posthumous publication of his most important work, On War, editing Clausewitz’s manuscript and writing the introduction. Clausewitz was a decorated and ambitious soldier and leader, serving both the Prussian and Imperial Russian Armies in campaigns throughout Europe, as well as spearheading efforts to contain the cholera outbreak that would eventually take his life. His theory of war is still studied by scholars and military officials today, and is noted for its philosophical outlook and definition of war as an extension of political policy.

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    • 5/5
      My first full reading of Clausewitz (accepting that the Penguin volume does not include several books on early nineteenth-century military operations) impressed upon me the essence of philosophy and theory as it applies to the social sciences. This Penguin volume is interesting in that it includes an introduction from the editor of the 1908 version used by the US military (Colonel F.N. Maude) and a later introduction from the time of the Cold War (1966 and the early stages of the Vietnam War) by Professor Anatol Rapoport. I have long viewed On War much the same as one might Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations: the quote “war is the continuation of policy by other means” proving to be as similarly unhelpful “as if by an invisible hand” in comprehending the extent of the philosophical grounding in store for the avid reader of classic literature. Reading Clausewitz is like reading John Stuart Mill: almost every lesson is so ingrained in the education of political scientists (or in this case, from my training as an army officer) that it seems like nothing new. From morale being one third of combat power (p. 424) to the implied role of the infantry (which I memorised years ago and can still recite), to the essence of war and the changes heralded by the Napoleonic period to the future of absolute or total war that would arrive in 1914, these things I mostly knew. But the references to philosophy (the Stoic’s negative visualisation gets a run), to how to develop a theory, to the social scientific view of the world that is largely inductive (and unfalsifiable if one is a fan of Karl Popper) astounded me. That I could learn so much unexpectedly was a blessing. Some ideas are worth noting. First, in the introduction, Rapoport writes of Clausewitz (p. 72):Those without specialized mathematical knowledge (e.g. political scientists, administrators, military men) tend to conceive of their expertise as that of the artist rather than of a scientist. Rapoport explains (p. 431):In the exact sciences, theory is used precisely in the sense rejected by Clausewitz, namely, in the sense of a collection of theorems deduced rigorously from postulates formulated in ‘if so… then so” terms, i.e. as formulas. Clausewitz here uses ‘theory’ in the sense often used in the social sciences, namely, as a synthesis of concepts which illuminate the subject matter without necessarily enabling us to make specific predictions or to control specific situations.This was illuminating, given that only today I was rummaging through the inductive nature of my own theories developed from research and then reading of Popper’s critique of historicism (another discussion that is new to me). An interesting reference from the notes is one of what was probably the most outdated books of the twentieth century even before it was published: Cavalry in Future Wars written in 1908. Rapoport argues that by then, cavalry in its traditional form had no future (Henry Chauvel aside). Finally, Clausewitz subordinates the military to the political without diminishing what he considered to be its noble qualities:In one word, the Art of War in its highest point of view is policy, but, no doubt, a policy which fights battles instead of writing notes.Clausewitz frequently argues that the Art of War can only be learnt through practice. While policy-makers might best be suited to determining the aim of war (as policy) from book-learning, military commanders could never attain the artistic qualities necessary for successful military campaigning without direct experience of the fog of war. As I have recently moved into research that involves practitioners, Clausewitz gives me some hope for my theoretical aspirations and the use of induction in my work. This was a wonderful surprise, a circumstance that often repeats itself when I embark on a cover to cover reading of books that I thought I knew. I must admit that this is the second volume of this work I have purchased. When the first arrived and I discovered it was an abridged version, I donated it to my local library. When this book arrived (Penguin classics are ‘unabridged’ – this version is unabridged from the 1908 abridged version), I was disappointed but pushed on out of frustration. I must say it was worth it and I will be recommending this as a reading project for others in my field who, like me, might also think they know Clausewitz.
    • 5/5
      A classic.
    • 5/5
      Perfect in its detail...I also have a hard copy.
    • 4/5
      Brilliant strategist. Was ahead of his time, yet, subsequent strategies at war colleges would not develop for fear of orthodoxy.
    • 5/5
      POINTS OF INTEREST
      The study of military history is the only means of supplying the place of actual experience, by giving a clear idea of that which we have termed the friction of the whole machine. To this end we must not confine ourselves to the leading events, much less keep to the reasoning of historians, but study details as much as is possible. For historians rarely make perfect fidelity of representation their object: in general, they desire to embellish the deeds of their Army, or to prove a consonance between actual events and some imaginary rules. They invent history, instead of writing it. If we cast a glance at military history in general, we find so much the opposite of an incessant advance toward the aim, that standing still and doing nothing is quite plainly the normal condition of an Army in the midst of War, acting, the exception.

      Some great sentiment must stimulate great abilities in the General. Open your heart to a feeling of this kind. Be bold and astute in your designs, firm and preserving in executing them, determined to find a glorious end, and destiny will press on your youthful brow a radiant crown – fit emblem of a Prince, the rays of which will carry your image into the bosom of your latest descendants. No battle in the world has more thoroughly convinced me that in War we should not despair of success up to the last moment, and that the effects of good principles, which can never manifest themselves in such a regular manner as we suppose, will unexpectedly make their appearance, even in the most desperate case, when we believe any such influences are completely lost.

      Theory can give no formulas with which to solve problems; it cannot confine the mind’s course to the narrow line of necessity by Principle set up on both sides. It lets the mind take a look at the mass of objects and their relations, and then allows it to go free to the higher regions of action, there to act according to the measure of its natural forces, with the energy of the whole of those forces combined, and to grasp the True and the Right, as one single clear idea, which, shooting forth from under the united pressure of all these forces, would seems to be rather a product of feeling than of reflection.

      In strategy there is no victory. On the one hand, the strategic success is the successful preparation of the tactical victory; the greater his strategic success, the more probable becomes the victory in battle. On the other hand, strategic success lies in the making use of the victory gained. In tactics, a surprise seldom rises to the level of a great victory, while in Strategy it often finishes the war at one stroke. But at the same time we must observe that the advantageous use of this means supposes some great and uncommon, as well as decisive error committed by the adversary, therefore it does not alter the balance much in favour of the offensive.

      One of the parties must of necessity be assumed politically to be the aggressor, because no War could take place from defensive intentions on both sides. A War in which victories are merely used to ward off blows, and where there is no attempt to return the blow, would be just as absurd as a battle in which the most absolute defence (passivity) should everywhere prevail in all measures. What is the object of defence? To preserve. To preserve is easier than to acquire; from which follows at once that the means of both sides being supposed equal, the defensive is easier than the offensive.
    • 4/5
      Overall, it was really great, but I'm uncomfortable with the way he slights logistics, and I think his ideas could have been communicated a lot more concisely (although that's probably a fault due to the work being an unfinished draft, he never had the chance to go over it and pare out the redundancies).

      I read it without any preparation and feel like I didn't miss too much. Historical references are used mostly in the form of, after discussing a point thoroughly, being dropped to say "and here are examples of what I was talking about". So you don't need to be able to parse them to follow the theory. You would need a pretty detailed grounding in the Silesian and Napoleonic wars to follow them if you wanted to, though, since for Clausewitz these campaigns were very recent history so he assumes any student of military theory would be so familiar with them that a mere place name ("Borodino") would be sufficient to conjure to mind the context, details, aftermath and implications of a battle.
    • 4/5
      Hard to read! But smart. Reallll smart.

    Book preview

    On War - Carl von Clausewitz

    PREPARED UNDER THE AUSPICES OF

    THE CENTER OF INTERNATIONAL STUDIES

    PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

    A LIST OF OTHER CENTER PUBLICATIONS

    APPEARS AT THE BACK OF THE BOOK

    CARL VON CLAUSEWITZ

    ON WAR

    Edited and Translated by

    MICHAEL HOWARD and PETER PARET

    Introductory Essays by PETER PARET,

    MICHAEL HOWARD, and BERNARD BRODIE;

    with a Commentary by BERNARD BRODIE

    Index by ROSALIE WEST

    PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

    PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY

    Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street,

    Princeton, New Jersey 08540

    In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, Chichester, West Sussex

    Copyright © 1976 by Princeton University Press

    Index copyright © 1984 by Princeton University Press

    All Rights Reserved

    Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

    Clausewitz, Carl von, 1780–1831.

    On war.

    Translation of: Vom Kriege.

    Includes bibliographical references and index.

    1. Military art and science. 2. War. I. Howard, Michael Eliot, 1922-

    II. Paret, Peter. III. Title.

    U102.C65 1984 355 84-3401

    ISBN 0-691-05657-9

    ISBN 0-691-01854-5 (pbk.)

    First Princeton Paperback printing, 1989

    Princeton University Press books are printed on acid-free paper

    and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of

    the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book

    Longevity of the Council on Library Resources

    http://pup.princeton.edu

    Printed in the United States of America

    15  14  13  12  11  10

    15  14  13                                                               pbk.

    ISBN-13: 978-0-691-01854-6 (pbk.)

    ISBN-10: 0-691-01854-5 (pbk.)

    CONTENTS

    Editors' Note

    Note for the 1984 Edition

    Introductory Essays

    The Genesis of On War

    PETER PARET

    The Influence of Clausewitz

    MICHAEL HOWARD

    The Continuing Relevance of On War

    BERNARD BRODIE

    On War

    Author's Preface

    Author's Comment

    Preface

    MARIE VON CLAUSEWITZ

    Two Notes by the Author

    BOOK ONE

    On the Nature of War

    1 What is War?

    2 Purpose and Means in War

    3 On Military Genius

    4 On Danger in War

    5 On Physical Effort in War

    6 Intelligence in War

    7 Friction in War

    8 Concluding Observations on Book One

    BOOK TWO

    On the Theory of War

    1 Classifications of the Art of War

    2 On the Theory of War

    3 Art of War or Science of War

    4 Method and Routine

    5 Critical Analysis

    6 On Historical Examples

    BOOK THREE

    On Strategy in General

    1 Strategy

    2 Elements of Strategy

    3 Moral Factors

    4 The Principal Moral Elements

    5 Military Virtues of the Army

    6 Boldness

    7 Perseverance

    8 Superiority of Numbers

    9 Surprise

    10 Cunning

    11 Concentration of Forces in Space

    12 Unification of Forces in Time

    13 The Strategic Reserve

    14 Economy of Force

    15 The Geometrical Factor

    16 The Suspension of Action in War

    17 The Character of Contemporary Warfare

    18 Tension and Rest

    BOOK FOUR

    The Engagement

    1 Introduction

    2 The Nature of Battle Today

    3 The Engagement in General

    4 The Engagement in General–Continued

    5 The Significance of the Engagement

    6 Duration of the Engagement

    7 Decision of the Engagement

    8 Mutual Agreement to Fight

    9 The Battle: Its Decision

    10 The Battle–Continued: The Effects of Victory

    11 The Battle–Continued: The Use of Battle

    12 Strategic Means of Exploiting Victory

    13 Retreat after a Lost Battle

    14 Night Operations

    BOOK FIVE

    Military Forces

    1 General Survey

    2 The Army, the Theater of Operations, the Campaign

    3 Relative Strength

    4 Relationship between the Branches of the Service

    5 The Army's Order of Battle

    6 General Disposition of the Army

    7 Advance Guard and Outposts

    8 Operational Use of Advanced Corps

    9 Camps

    10 Marches

    11 Marches–Continued

    12 Marches–Concluded

    13 Billets

    14 Maintenance and Supply

    15 Base of Operations

    16 Lines of Communication

    17 Terrain

    18 The Command of Heights

    BOOK SIX

    Defense

    1 Attack and Defense

    2 The Relationship between Attack and Defense in Tactics

    3 The Relationship between Attack and Defense in Strategy

    4 Convergence of Attack and Divergence of Defense

    5 The Character of Strategic Defense

    6 Scope of the Means of Defense

    7 Interaction between Attack and Defense

    8 Types of Resistance

    9 The Defensive Battle

    10 Fortresses

    11 Fortresses–Continued

    12 Defensive Positions

    13 Fortified Positions and Entrenched Camps

    14 Flank Positions

    15 Defensive Mountain Warfare

    16 Defensive Mountain Warfare–Continued

    17 Defensive Mountain Warfare–Concluded

    18 Defense of Rivers and Streams

    19 Defense of Rivers and Streams–Continued

    20 A. Defense of Swamps

    B. Inundations

    21 Defense of Forests

    22 The Cordon

    23 The Key to the Country

    24 Operations on a Flank

    25 Retreat to the Interior of the Country

    26 The People in Arms

    27 Defense of a Theater of Operations

    28 Defense of a Theater of Operations–Continued

    29 Defense of a Theater of Operations–Continued:

    Phased Resistance

    30 Defense of a Theater of Operations–Concluded:

    Where a Decision Is Not the Objective

    BOOK SEVEN

    The Attack

    1 Attack in Relation to Defense

    2 The Nature of Strategic Attack

    3 The Object of the Strategic Attack

    4 The Diminishing Force of the Attack

    5 The Culminating Point of the Attack

    6 Destruction of the Enemy's Forces

    7 The Offensive Battle

    8 River Crossings

    9 Attack on Defensive Positions

    10 Attack on Entrenched Camps

    11 Attack on a Mountainous Area

    12 Attack on Cordons

    13 Maneuver

    14 Attacks on Swamps, Flooded Areas, and Forests

    15 Attack on a Theater of War: Seeking a Decision

    16 Attack on a Theater of War: Not Seeking a Decision

    17 Attack on Fortresses

    18 Attack on Convoys

    19 Attack on an Enemy Army in Billets

    20 Diversions

    21 Invasion

    22 The Culminating Point of Victory

    BOOK EIGHT

    War Plans

    1 Introduction

    2 Absolute War and Real War

    3 A. Interdependence of the Elements of War

    B. Scale of the Military Objective and of the Effort To Be Made

    4 Closer Definition of the Military Objective:

    The Defeat of the Enemy

    5 Closer Definition of the Military Objective–Continued:

    Limited Aims

    6 A. The Effect of the Political Aim on the Military Objective

    B. War Is an Instrument of Policy

    7 The Limited Aim: Offensive War

    8 The Limited Aim: Defensive War

    9 The Plan of a War designed to Lead to the Total

    Defeat of the Enemy

    A Commentary

    A Guide to the Reading of On War

    BERNARD BRODIE

    Index

    ROSALIE WEST

    EDITORS' NOTE

    The reader may wonder why another English translation of Vom Kriege is needed when two already exist. The first, made by Colonel J. J. Graham in 1874, was republished in London in 1909. The second, by Professor O. J. Matthijs Jolles, appeared in New York in 1943. But Graham's translation, apart from its dated style, contains a large number of inaccuracies and obscurities; and while Jolles' translation is more precise, both his version and Graham's were based on German texts that contained significant alterations from the first edition published in 1832.

    The growing interest in Clausewitz's theoretical, political and historical writings in recent years suggested that the time had come for an entirely new translation. We have based our work on the first edition of 1832, supplemented by the annotated German text published by Professor Werner Hahlweg in 1952, except where obscurities in the original edition—which Clausewitz himself never reviewed—made it seem advisable to accept later emendations.

    In all but one respect we have followed the original arrangement of the text. The first edition printed four notes by Clausewitz on his theories, dating from various periods between 1816 and 1830, as introductions to On War itself—a practice adopted by most subsequent German and foreign editions. We have abandoned the haphazard arrangement in which these have always appeared, and instead print them in the order in which we believe the notes to have been written. Read consecutively they help to indicate how On War took shape in Clausewitz's mind, and suggest how it might have further developed had he lived to complete it. We have also included Marie von Clausewitz's Preface to the first edition of Clausewitz's posthumous works, which adds information on the genesis of On War, and on the manner in which the manuscript was prepared for publication. A brief note she inserted at the beginning of the third volume of Clausewitz's Works, immediately preceding Book Seven of On War, has been deleted since its primary concern is not with On War but with other historical and theoretical writings.

    We have attempted to present Clausewitz's ideas as accurately as possible, while remaining as close to his style and vocabulary as modern English usage would permit. But we have not hesitated to translate the same term in different ways if the context seemed to demand it. For instance, we have translated Moral and moralische Kraft variously as morale, moral, and psychological. Clausewitz himself was far from consistent in his terminology, as might be expected of a writer who was less concerned with establishing a formal system or doctrine than with achieving understanding and clarity of expression. At times he writes Geisteskräfte, Seelenkräfte, even Psychologie instead of moralische Kraft or moralische Grössen, and a similar flexibility characterizes his use of such terms as means, purpose, engagement, battle, etc. As he writes in Book Five, Chapter Seven: Strict adherence to terms would clearly result in little more than pedantic distinctions.

    The task of translation was initially undertaken by Mr. Angus Malcolm, formerly of the British Foreign Office, who to the deep regret of his many friends died while he was still engaged on the project. He had however already done much valuable preliminary work, for which we are greatly in his debt. We should like to thank Mrs. Elsbeth Lewin, editor of World Politics, and Professor Bernard Brodie of the University of California at Los Angeles for checking the manuscript and helping us resolve many ambiguities, and Messrs. Herbert S. Bailey, Jr. and Lewis Bateman of Princeton University Press for the care they took in preparing the manuscript for publication. Financial assistance by the Center of International Studies of Princeton University facilitated the early phases of our work. Finally, it is a pleasure to express our gratitude to Professors Klaus Knorr of Princeton University and Gordon Craig of Stanford University, without whose interest and encouragement this task would never have been undertaken.

    NOTE FOR THE 1984 EDITION

    We have corrected some errors and attempted to remove a few infelicities in our translation of Clausewitz's text. As in the past, however, we believe that this work demands translators who combine a deep respect for the author with the willingness to seek equivalents whenever too close a correspondence with the original would lead to artificiality.

    In the introductory essays, minor changes were made in The Genesis of War, and two paragraphs on the Marxist interpretation of Clausewitz were added to The Influence of Clausewitz. The only other change from our original edition is the inclusion of an index, which Mrs. Rosalie West has compiled on the model of the index in Professor Werner Hahlweg's 1952, 1972, and 1980 German editions of On War.

    MICHAEL HOWARD                                           PETER PARET

    Oxford University                                              Stanford University

    INTRODUCTORY ESSAYS

    By Peter Paret, Michael Howard,

    and Bernard Brodie

    PETER PARET

    The Genesis of On War

    Despite its comprehensiveness, systematic approach, and precise style, On War is not a finished work. That it was never completed to its author's satisfaction is largely explained by his ways of thinking and writing. Clausewitz was in his early twenties when he jotted down his first thoughts on the nature of military processes and on the place of war in social and political life. A pronounced sense of reality, skeptical of contemporary assumptions and theories, and an equally undoctrinaire fascination with the past, marked these observations and aphorisms and lent them a measure of internal consistency; but it would not be inappropriate to regard his writings before 1806 as essentially isolated insights—building-blocks for a structure that had not yet been designed.

    The presence of a few of his earliest ideas in On War suggests the consequentially with which his theories evolved, though in the mature work these ideas appear as components of a dialectical process that Clausewitz had mastered in the course of two decades and adapted to his own purposes. An example is his concept of the role genius plays in war, which lies near the source of his entire theoretical effort. Survivors of a somewhat different kind are his definitions of strategy and tactics, which he first formulated when he was twenty-four, or the characteristically unromantic comparison of war to commercial transactions, dating from the same time. Most of his early thoughts, however, expanded and acquired new facets in the years between Napoleon's defeat of Prussia and the Russian campaign. Clausewitz was a member of the loose alliance of reform-minded civilians and soldiers who attempted with some success to modernize Prussian institutions at this time, and his manifold activities as staff officer, administrator, and teacher further stimulated his intellectual interests and his creativity. Numerous passages from memoranda, lectures, and essays written during the reform era reappear, barely changed, in On War. After 1815, by which time his manuscripts on politics, history, philosophy, strategy, and tactics ran into thousands of pages, Clausewitz set to work on a collection of essays analyzing various aspects of war, which gradually coalesced into a comprehensive theory that sought to define universal, permanent elements in war on the basis of a realistic interpretation of the present and the past. In the course of a decade, he wrote six of eight planned parts, and drafted the remaining two. By 1827, however, he had developed a new hypothesis on what he called the dual nature of war, the systematic exploration of which demanded a far-reaching revision of the entire manuscript. He died before he could rewrite more than the first chapters of Book One.¹

    On War thus presents its author's thoughts in various stages of completion. They range from the magnificent opening sequence of logically unfolding propositions to the rich but at times one-sided or contradictory discussions of Books Two through Six, to the essayistic chapters of the last two books, which suggest with brilliant strokes what a final version might have contained. Nothing can take the place of this unwritten version; but we should remember that Clausewitz's decision in 1827 to revise his manuscript had not implied a rejection of earlier theories—he only meant to expand and refine them. As we read the present text of On War, we can at least approximate Clausewitz's intention by keeping his closely related hypotheses of the dual nature of war and of its political character clearly in mind. It will be useful, at the end of this discussion, to return to his ultimate hypotheses and outline their most significant aspects, the more so since he never fully developed their implications to theory.

    That, despite the unevenness of its execution, On War offers an essentially consistent theory of conflict is indicative of the creative power of Clausewitz's method and ideas. Anyone prepared to enter into his manner of reasoning will grasp his thoughts on the timeless aspects of war. But our reading of On War can only benefit from an awareness of its genesis and intellectual context. What political and military experiences influenced its author? What were the assumptions and theories he reacted against? What, in his view, were the methodological requirements of sound analysis? Even a brief consideration of these questions will cast light on the development of Clausewitz's ideas and on the forms his ideas assumed in the various strata of On War.²

    Clausewitz, the son of a retired lieutenant who held a minor post in the Prussian internal revenue service, first encountered war in 1793 as a twelve-year-old lance corporal. In the previous year the French legislative assembly had declared war on Austria, with whom Prussia had recently concluded a defensive alliance. The French action was caused less by considerations of national interest than by internal politics, but it opened twenty-three years of conflict between revolutionary and later imperial France and the rest of Europe. Aside from the Duke of Brunswick's initial invasion, which came to a halt at Valmy, the Prussians did reasonably well in a war to which they never committed more than part of their military resources. They defeated the French repeatedly in Alsace and the Saar, and captured thousands of prisoners; when the fighting ended in 1795, they controlled the line of the Rhine. But these achievements brought no political returns. As might be expected, the war with its exertions, bloodshed, and unspectacular outcome made a strong impression on the young Clausewitz; he himself later wrote of its impact on his emotions and thought. In the following years, while stationed in a small provincial garrison, he drew some tentative conclusions from these early experiences, three of which in particular were to have a lasting influence: There was no single standard of excellence in war. The rhetoric and policies of the French Republic, which proclaimed the coming of a new age, by no means overpowered the armies of the ancien régime. Mercenaries and forcibly enrolled peasants, led by officers whose effectiveness still rested as much on aristocratic self-esteem as on professional expertise, proved a match for the levée en masse. On the other hand, Prussian drill failed to sweep away the revolutionary armies. As the Republic gained in stability and experience, it would have much to teach its opponents, whose ability to learn and to respond effectively remained in doubt. These events and his first readings in history suggested to Clausewitz that no one system was right to the exclusion of all others. Military institutions and the manner in which they employed violence depended on the economic, social, and political conditions of their respective states. Furthermore, political structures, like wars, could not be measured by a single standard. States were shaped by their particular past and present circumstances; very different forms had validity, and all were subject to continuing change.

    Linked to this individualizing, antirationalist view of history and of social and military institutions was a second conclusion, which placed the young officer in opposition to prevailing opinion in Prussia and, indeed, Europe. He thought it was a mistake to believe that war could be mastered by observing this or that set of rules. The variety and constant change in war could never be fully caught by a system. Any dogmatic simplification—that victory depended on the control of key points, for instance, or on the disruption of the opponent's lines of communication—only falsified reality. Possibly Clausewitz already distrusted the conviction, held by most military theorists of his day, that the scope of chance in war should and could be reduced to a minimum by the employment of the correct operational and tactical doctrine. For someone who passionately wanted to understand war in a systematic and objectively verifiable manner it was particularly hard to accept the power of chance; but by the time he was in his mid-twenties his realism and the logic of his view of historical change had brought him to the point of regarding chance not only as inevitable but even as a positive element in war.

    Finally, the campaigns of 1793 and 1794 set Clausewitz on the path of recognizing war as a political phenomenon. Wars, as everyone knew, were fought for a purpose that was political, or at least always had political consequences. Not as readily apparent was the implication that followed. If war was meant to achieve a political purpose, everything that entered into war—social and economic preparation, strategic planning, the conduct of operations, the use of violence on all levels—should be determined by this purpose, or at least accord with it. Even though soldiers had to acquire special expertise, and function in what in some respects was a separate world, it would be a denial of reality to allow them to carry on their bloody work undisturbed until an armistice brought their political employer back into the equation. Just as war and its institutions reflected their social environment, so every aspect of fighting should be suffused by its political impulse, whether this impulse was intense or moderate. The appropriate relationship between politics and war occupied Clausewitz throughout his life, but even his earliest manuscripts and letters show his awareness of their interaction.

    The ease with which this link—always acknowledged in the abstract—can be forgotten in specific cases, and Clausewitz's insistence that it must never be overlooked, are illustrated by his polite rejection toward the end of his life of a strategic problem set by the chief of the Prussian General Staff, in which every military detail of the opposing sides was spelled out, but no mention made of their political purpose. To a friend who had sent him the problem for comment, Clausewitz replied that it was not possible to draft a sensible plan of operations without indicating the political condition of the states involved, and their relationship to each other: "War is not an independent phenomenon, but the continuation of politics by different means. Consequently, the main lines of every major strategic plan are largely political in nature, and their political character increases the more the plan applies to the entire campaign and to the whole state. A war plan results directly from the political conditions of the two warring states, as well as from their relations to third powers. A plan of campaign results from the war plan, and frequently—if there is only one theater of operations—may even be identical with it. But the political element even enters the separate components of a campaign; rarely will it be without influence on such major episodes of warfare as a battle, etc. According to this point of view, there can be no question of a purely military evaluation of a great strategic issue, nor of a purely military scheme to solve it."³

    In the second half of the 1790's, the young Clausewitz had taken only the first steps on the intellectual journey that was to lead to this conclusion; but, as I suggested earlier, from the outset he traveled a straight road, with few tangents or interruptions. The five years he spent as subaltern in the small town of Neuruppin have commonly been dismissed as a time of stagnation, but it seems that biographers have been too literal in their interpretation of a characteristically critical and self-critical comment on the period that he made years later. In reality his situation was not without advantages. Far from serving in an undistinguished provincial unit, he belonged to a regiment that had a member of the royal family, Prince Ferdinand, as honorary colonel and patron. Near the town lay the residence of another Hohenzollern, Prince Henry, Frederick the Great's most gifted brother, whose library, opera, and theater were open to the officer corps. Most important, the regiment was known throughout the army for its innovative educational policies, financed largely by the officers themselves. On its return from France the regiment had organized a primary and trade school for the children of the rank and file, and a more advanced school for its cadets and ensigns, which also admitted sons of the local gentry. It is probable though not certain that like other lieutenants, Clausewitz taught classes in the latter institution; and there can be no doubt that his exposure to a serious teaching program deepened the interest he already felt in education. As a fifteen-year-old, he later wrote, he had been captivated by the idea that the acquisition of knowledge could lead to human perfectibility. Soon the goal of improving society reinforced that of self-improvement, and his desire to learn was joined by concern with the methodology of education. The ways in which abstractions might accurately reflect and convey reality, the manner in which men can be taught to understand the truth, and the ultimate purpose of education—which, he held, consisted not in the transmission of technical expertise but in the development of independent judgment—all came to be major considerations in Clausewitz's theoretical work.

    In 1801 Clausewitz gained admission to the new War College that Scharnhorst, recently transferred from the Hanoverian service, had organized in Berlin. Clausewitz graduated at the head of the class in 1803, and was appointed adjutant to a young prince, son of his former commander Prince Ferdinand, an assignment that enabled him to remain in the capital, in close contact with his teacher Scharnhorst. The impact that Scharnhorst exerted on Clausewitz's life and on the development of his ideas cannot be emphasized enough. Scharnhorst was an exceptionally energetic, daring soldier, as well as a scholar and a gifted politician—a harmonious combination of seeming opposites that his favorite pupil was never to equal. This is not the place to discuss his opinions on strategy, on conscription, and on command- and staff-organization, which constituted a pragmatic reconciliation of the old and the new; important for our purpose is the intellectual independence with which he approached the fundamental military issues of the age, as well as his sympathy with the aims of humanistic education, and his conviction that the study of history must be at the center of any advanced study of war. Clausewitz's tentative attitudes on military theory and on education were confirmed and guided further by Scharnhorst, who also deepened Clausewitz's awareness of the social forces that determined the military style and energies of states. Scharnhorst, the son of a free peasant who had risen to the rank of squadron sergeant-major, had had a difficult career in the Hanoverian army, where he had been repeatedly slighted in favor of well-connected noble comrades. The experience did not turn him into a democrat, nor—having achieved professional success, including a title of nobility—did he fall into facile acceptance of privilege. What mattered to him was not the particular structure of society or the form taken by its institutions, but the spirit that animated them. To give a specific example, in the regimental school for soldiers' children at Neuruppin Clausewitz had witnessed something of the humanitarian, paternalistic concern for the poor that was a pronounced feature of the late Enlightenment in Prussia. Scharnhorst taught him that this was adequate neither for the individual nor for the state. If the French Revolution had proved anything, it was that states wishing to preserve their independence must become more efficient in tapping the energies of their populations. Elites existed in every society, and were justified so long as they strengthened the community, remained open to talent, and rewarded merit. But nothing could justify the continuation of privilege that protected mediocrity while depriving the state of the abilities and enthusiasm of the common man. It was this attitude that a few years later was to determine the direction of the Prussian reform movement—less perhaps in civil matters than on the military side under the leadership of Scharnhorst and his close associates. In the genesis of Clausewitz's ideas, the essentially un-ideological view of social and political arrangements, which he had learned in part from Scharnhorst and which he expressed as early as 1804 and 1805, clearly parallels his undoctrinaire approach to war. Statesman and soldier must shed tradition, convenience, any influence that interferes with their achieving the major objective. Similarly, the theorist, wishing to understand the nature of the state and the nature of war, must never allow his thoughts to diverge far from the element central to each—power in politics, violence in war.

    The most important task that faced Prussian soldiers in the opening years of the nineteenth century was to come to terms intellectually and institutionally with the new French way of warfare. Within one decade the resources that France mobilized for war had risen to unprecedented levels. The number of soldiers now available to her generals made possible campaigns that accepted greater risks, brought about battle more frequently, spread over more territory, and pursued political goals of greater magnitude than had been feasible for the armies of the ancien régime. This new technique was used by Napoleon with a brilliance that shocked as much as did his ruthlessness. For most Germans it was difficult enough to understand his system, which combined the gifts of an exceptional individual with social, administrative, and psychological achievements of the Revolution, which were necessarily alien to them. For theorists of any nationality it was even more difficult to recognize Napoleonic strategy and tactics as a historical phenomenon, inevitably subject to change, rather than as the ultimate in war, a permanent standard of excellence for war past, present, and future.

    European military literature commented with considerable insight on separate elements of this system, but, as Clausewitz saw early on, failed in attempts at comprehensive analysis. The best work in this area was done by the Prussian theorist Heinrich von Bülow and the Swiss-French staff officer Antoine Jomini on whose writings Clausewitz sharpened his theoretical skills in the years preceding and immediately following the Prussian debacle of 1806. Bülow had grasped the value of such recent tactical developments as skirmishing in large numbers, rapidity of movement, and aimed fire; at the same time he discounted the effectiveness of battle in the new age, regarded it as a resort of despair, and instead postulated a strategic system of points of domination and angles of approach, whose geometric patterns combined in a fantastic manner with his paeans on the natural, unfettered fighting man. In his first published work, a long essay on Bülow, Clausewitz acknowledged the usefulness of some of his terminology, as he was to find merit in some of Jomini's concepts, but pointed out that his method of analysis was flawed and that its conclusions were unrealistic. In his urge to rationalize war, turn it into a science, and make it predictive, Bülow attributed dominant roles to geographic features and the appropriate arrangement of the supply system, while largely ignoring the physical and psychological effects that might result from unexpected movements of the opponent, from violence, from the fortuitous. Strategy, Clausewitz objected, comprises not only the forces that are susceptible to mathematical analysis; no, the realm of the military art extends wherever in psychology our intelligence discovers a resource that can serve the soldier.⁴

    Jomini came closer to contemporary reality, but erred, Clausewitz thought, in taking one part of war—major armies seeking a decisive victory—for the whole. His claim that he had distilled general principles of war from the operations of Napoleon, and from supposedly similar, though inferior, operations of Frederick, Clausewitz dismissed as absurd. He wrote in 1808 that Jomini's principles would lose their absolute validity if it could be shown that earlier generations had good reasons to ignore them. Caesar or Eugene of Savoy, responding to the social, technological, and political realities of their times, were not inferior to Napoleon because they did not fight in a manner that the French Revolution had made possible. And just as the past could be understood only in its own terms, men, too, must be interpreted as individuals, not as abstractions. Jomini had unrealistically imposed one rational standard of behavior on men with such different personalities as Frederick and Napoleon, and besides had ignored the differences in their experiences, to which each naturally reacted in his own way.⁵

    If the present did not provide the ideal against which war in the past could be measured, Clausewitz was equally insistent that Napoleonic war could not establish standards for the future.⁶ What did this mean for theory? To Clausewitz the answer was obvious: The theory of any activity, even if it aimed at effective performance rather than comprehensive understanding, must discover the essential, timeless elements of this activity, and distinguish them from its temporary features. Violence and political impact were two of the permanent characteristics of war. Another was the free play of human intelligence, will, and emotions. These were the forces that dominated the chaos of warfare, not such schematic devices as Büllow's base of operations or Jomini's operating on interior lines.

    There was nothing new about stressing the significance of psychological factors in war. But even those writers who attributed predominance to the emotions had little of substance to say about them; discussions of courage, fear, and morale figure only on the margin of the works of Maurice de Saxe or Henry Lloyd. By contrast the young Clausewitz placed the psychological at the center of his theoretical speculations. But since psychology was still a rudimentary discipline that offered him few of the taxonomic and interpretive tools he needed, he did so in a manner that modern readers may find puzzling: he subsumed a large part of his interpretation of emotional and moral characteristics under the concept of genius. It is essential to understand that by genius Clausewitz meant not only originality and creativity raised to their highest power but also, as he wrote in On War, gifts of mind and temperament in general. Genius served as his favorite analytic device to conceptualize the various abilities and feelings that affected the behavior of more ordinary as well as of exceptional men.

    Even in his early writings Clausewitz had no difficulty in exposing the inadequacy of prescriptive systems when faced with the infinite resources of the mind and spirit. In his essay on Bülow he wrote that there must be no conflict between common sense and sound theory since sound theory rested on common sense and genius, or gave them expression.⁷ He was to hold fast to this thought; it occurs repeatedly in On War, not only in the chapter On Military Genius, but elsewhere as well, for example in the chapter On the Theory of War, where characteristically it is linked to a sarcastic attack on the surrender of such system-builders as Bülow and Jomini before the unpredictable riches of the spirit: "Anything that could not be reached by the meager wisdom of one-sided points of view was held to be beyond scientific control: it lay in the realm of genius, which rises above all rules. Pity the soldier who is supposed to crawl among these scraps of rules, which are not good enough for genius, which genius can ignore or laugh at. No; what genius does is the best rule, and theory can do no better than show how and why this should be the case. Pity the theory that conflicts with reason!"⁸ Theory and its resultant doctrines are thus subordinate to the great creative talent, and to the universals of reason and feeling that it expresses.

    Clausewitz himself was still far from formulating a theory that explained why and how the action of genius should be the finest rule. He needed to develop additional analytic devices before he could advance appreciably, and it might be added that he never fully overcame the difficulties inherent in the dual role that he ascribed to the concept of genius. The problems of theory, however, were not identical with the problems of historical understanding; here attention to the emotions of individuals and groups combined readily with belief in the particularity of past epochs. Clausewitz's history of Gustavus Adolphus in the Thirty Years War, written about 1805, constitutes his initial effort to integrate these two interpretive principles on a large scale.⁹ It was a remarkably successful attempt, and only the first of many historical studies he was to write in the course of his life. Indeed, if quantity is the measure, Clausewitz was more of a historian than a theorist. That he was innovative in this discipline, too, tends to be forgotten—possibly because his most original historical writings were not published for decades, and because German historical scholarship soon developed and expanded the vein which he had been among the first to work, while as a theorist he remained without true successors. For a man of his time, he took an unusually straightforward approach to the past. He did not hide an ironic interest in the passions and limitations of his characters, especially when writing about recent events; but he rarely showed ideological or patriotic prejudice. As well as he could, he tried to discover how and why things happened as they did. His urge to be objective was intensified by his belief, based on personal predilection and Scharnhorst's teaching, that military theory in a variety of ways was dependent on history. His mature conclusions on their appropriate relationship are best discussed when we come to the writing of On War.

    The defeat of Prussia in 1806 confirmed Clausewitz in his view that war could not be considered in isolation, as an essentially military act. It was obvious to him that the politics of the previous decade had largely decided the issue before fighting began, while social conditions of long standing in the Prussian monarchy had created military institutions and attitudes that proved helpless against an opponent who was numerically superior and attuned to the new forms of fighting. For Clausewitz personally the campaign was once more an infantryman's war; he served with a grenadier battalion until his unit was compelled to surrender. After internment in France and a sojourn in Switzerland he returned to Prussia in the spring of 1808. For the next four years he acted as confidential assistant to his former teacher Scharnhorst, who employed him in a variety of assignments related to the modernization of the army: reorganizing and reequipping the troops, drafting new tactical and operational instructions, disseminating the new doctrine as teacher at the War College and military tutor to the crown prince. Finally, Clausewitz played a larger part than might be expected of a junior officer in the evolution of the political and strategic thinking of the reform party. The practical experience he acquired was unusually broad, and further strengthened the pragmatic note that ran through his theoretical as well as his historical writings. During these years he married. His wife, a sophisticated, intelligent woman, shared his literary and philosophic interests, and fully supported his growing political and professional independence; only the lack of children marred an otherwise exceptionally happy marriage. He also formed a lasting friendship with the second leader of the military reformers, Gneisenau, a relationship that was to shape much of his subsequent career. After Prussia was forced to contribute a corps to the army that Napoleon was assembling for the invasion of Russia he resigned his commission, and in the spring of 1812 accepted a staff appointment in the Russian army.

    The richness as well as the volume of his writings during these very active years is astonishing. To outline only the major hypotheses that Clausewitz advanced in fields as seemingly diverse as grand strategy and national character would take up more space than is possible here; but even a brief introduction ought not to ignore the conclusions he reached on the nature and function of military theory, since they were to determine the approach he followed in On War. Something must also be said about the analytic method he was developing. Finally, his many advances in the content of theory can at least be suggested by discussing one representative conceptualization of this period—the concept of friction, with which he complemented earlier ideas and made them productive in scientific enquiry.

    By 1808 Clausewitz firmly distinguished between the utilitarian, pedagogic, and cognitive functions of theory. The first—improving the soldier's effectiveness—was the major, often the only, aim of contemporary military theorists. Clausewitz shared their wish to define and respond to the practical issues of modern war, and never more so than in the years when he was passionately involved in rebuilding the Prussian army for the inevitable second contest with Napoleon. But on grounds of logic as well as realism he grew skeptical about the direct link between theory and performance that military theorists took for granted. His study of Kantian philosophy before 1806 gave him at least some of the intellectual tools he needed to resolve his doubts—his most significant borrowings being the view of theory held by late-Enlightenment writers on aesthetics, and their concepts of means and purpose, which came to play a pervasive role in On War. An essay Art and Theory of Art illustrates his use of aesthetics to explore the violent art of defeating one's enemies. Art, he wrote, "is a developed capacity. If it is to express itself it must have a purpose, like every application of existing forces, and to approach this purpose it is necessary to have means…. To combine purpose and means is to create. Art is the capacity to create; the theory of art teaches this combination [of purpose and means] to the extent that concepts can do so. Thus, we may say: theory is the representation of art by way of concepts. We can easily see that this constitutes the whole of art, with two exceptions: talent, which is fundamental to everything, and practice"—neither of which can be the product of theory.¹⁰ In short, even the most realistic theory could never match reality. It followed that all attempts to establish rules with prescriptive power were pointless in an activity such as fighting, and that military theory could never be immediately utilitarian. As Clausewitz wrote in the same essay, rules are not intended for individual cases, and action in the individual case can be determined only by [applying the concepts of] purpose and means.¹¹ All that theory could do was to give the artist or soldier points of reference and standards of evaluation in specific areas of action, with the ultimate purpose not of telling him how to act but of developing his judgment.

    It was this process of refining the judgment and instinctive tact of the acting individual that constituted the pedagogic function of theory, not drawing up rules to be learned by rote. (Another pedagogic aspect of theory, important to Clausewitz personally, had to do with the creative process. By developing an analytic framework for war, Clausewitz strengthened his intellectual capacities and implemented the program of self-education from which he had not swerved since adolescence.) But although only serious speculative inquiry could set the mind free, Clausewitz believed that most men were neither capable of achieving intellectual mastery over complex areas of human activity nor much interested in it. To help them through the confusion of war they demanded relatively firm guides. How were these to be provided? According to Clausewitz, experience went a long way, but in the end appropriate guides for conduct could only grow out of a comprehensive and scientific analysis.

    This was the cognitive side of theory. Nonutilitarian analyses, concerned solely with gaining a deeper understanding, might bring about improvements in operational and strategic performance. But for Clausewitz scientific inquiry needed no justification. While he never lost interest in the military here and now, understanding as such was what eventually mattered most to him, and it was to this task that On War addressed itself.

    When Clausewitz first began to think of writing a study that would explore the whole of war, not merely some of its parts, he chose as intellectual models such books as Montesquieu's De l'Esprit des lois and Kant's Critique of Practical Reason. If in its final version On War bore little resemblance to these works, they nevertheless indicate something about the method employed by its author. Earlier I characterized this method as dialectical. It was that, but in a special sense. Certainly, he did not proceed in a formal, highly structured manner. Hegel's thesis, antithesis, synthesis, to mention an approach that has often been read into On War, would have seemed inappropriate to Clausewitz, as did any system, the logical and intellectual symmetry of which were achieved at the expense of reality. But he frequently did develop his ideas in what may be called a modified form of thesis and antithesis, which permitted him to explore the specific characteristics of a particular phenomenon with a high degree of exactitude. Purpose and means, strategy and tactics, theory and reality, intent and execution, friend and enemy—these are some of the opposites he defines and compares not only to gain a truer understanding of each member of the pair but also to trace the dynamic links that connect all elements of war into a state of permanent interaction. One of the striking features of this way of thinking is that it defines each element as sharply as possible while insisting on the absence of discrete limits. War and politics, attack and defense, intelligence and courage—to mention some additional pairings—are never absolute opposites; rather one flows into the other.

    Again German philosophy, together with certain analytic and structural assumptions of the natural sciences, provided Clausewitz with a fundamental attitude and with the intellectual tools to express it. Belief in the need to ascertain the essence of each phenomenon, or its regulative idea—as violence, according to Clausewitz, was the essential idea of the phenomenon war—combined with a universal view and with the sense that small details contained the key to large forces, as knowledge of one flower was basic to the understanding of nature, or knowing why and how a man fought was essential to understanding war.

    It was in accord with this larger cultural outlook as well as with his personal tendencies that Clausewitz eschewed generalization and simultaneously rejected the anarchy of pure pragmatism. His aim was to achieve a logical structuring of reality. He believed this could be done if the search for regulative ideas and their elaboration were informed and controlled by the theorist's respect for present and past reality. Consequently, his method consisted in a permanent discourse between observation, historical interpretation, and speculative reasoning. As the analysis proceeds it tries to take account of every element of war in its present and past dimensions, accommodate itself to all, integrate all, and never emphasize one to the exclusion of others. We will see that this characteristic also holds true of the resulting theory, which floats, Clausewitz said, between the major phenomena of war, without stressing any one in particular. The dangers of exaggeration, of being blinded by contemporary conditions, let alone of one-sided advocacy, are thus largely avoided.

    An example of the way in which Clausewitz's method transformed reality into analyzable form is provided by his development of the concept of friction. He first used the term during the campaign of 1806 to describe the difficulties Scharnhorst encountered in persuading the high command to reach decisions, and the further difficulties of having the decisions implemented. Uncertainty, ignorance, confusion, fatigue, error, countless other imponderables—all interfered with the effective application of force. During the reform era Clausewitz expanded the concept, and linked it with other ideas, until by 1812 he had fully grasped its theoretical implications. An essay he addressed to the crown prince at the end of his tutorials concluded with a section on friction, which both in content and wording became the basis for the chapter Friction in War in On War, and for the discussion of friction that runs through the entire work.¹² Waging war is very difficult, he wrote, "but the difficulty is not that erudition and great talent are needed…there is no great art to devising a good plan of operations. The entire difficulty lies in this: To remain faithful in action to the principles we have laid down for ourselves."

    To explain why this should be so, Clausewitz resorted to a simile: The conduct of war resembles the workings of an intricate machine with tremendous friction, so that combinations which are easily planned on paper can be executed only with great effort. Consequently the commander's free will and intelligence find themselves hampered at every turn, and remarkable strength of mind and spirit are needed to overcome this resistance. Even then many good ideas are destroyed by friction, and we must carry out more simply and modestly what in more complicated form would have given greater results.

    Friction, he continued, even if it is created by physical forces—bad weather, for instance, or hunger—always has a psychologically inhibiting effect; psychic energy must therefore take a part in overcoming it: In action our physical images and perceptions are more vivid than the impressions we gained beforehand by mature reflection. But they are only the outward appearances of things, which, as we know, rarely match their essence precisely. We therefore run the risk of sacrificing mature reflection to first impressions. In the face of these pressures, men must hold to their convictions and retain confidence in their knowledge and judgment; otherwise they will succumb to the force of friction. Friction, he was to conclude in On War, is the only notion that more or less comprises those matters that distinguish the real war from war on paper.¹³

    By creating the concept of friction he rendered one of the most important elements in his image of war—chance—subject to theoretical analysis. Insofar as friction interfered with one's own actions, it stood only for the negative aspects of chance. The positive aspects of chance were represented by the equally pervasive force of friction on the enemy's side. To appreciate the significance of this development we must recall that the military writers of the Enlightenment, while often acknowledging the power of the fortuitous, did their best to reduce the scope of chance. Their spiritual successors Bülow and Jomini strove for the same goal by means of systems that extended the enormously detailed rules of eighteenth-century march, camp, and tactical arrangements to strategy. Success could be assured by choosing correct techniques. Other writers claimed modern war to be anarchic, susceptible only to empirical treatment. Scharnhorst, on the contrary, held that the natural behavior of societies and individuals in war could be understood and thus to some extent guided, and Clausewitz gave this belief theoretical form. In their view, to exclude or deny chance was to go against nature; indeed, chance was to be welcomed because it was part of reality. It was not only a threat but also a positive force to be exploited. Napoleon expressed this idea perfectly in his operational dictum: Engage the enemy, and see what happens. The commander put himself in the way of chance; the power at his disposal and his will to use it enabled him to turn chance into a new reality.

    The force that could most effectively create and exploit this reality was genius. Thus the concept of friction came to form the counterpart in external life to the result of Clausewitz's earlier analyses of the inner life of the individual. Observation and reflection had led him to elevate genius—the harmonious combination of exceptional gifts, and by extension, intellectual and emotional qualities in general—to a central position in his conceptualization of war. The concepts of genius, friction, chance, in their manifold interaction, now made it possible for the theorist to subject vast areas of military reality to logical, systematic analysis.

    During the war of 1812 Clausewitz served as staff officer with several Russian commands, his ignorance of the language limiting him to the role of observer until the end of December, when he took part in talks between Russian authorities and the commander of the Prussian corps in the Grande Armée that led to the strategically and politically important separation of the Prussian forces from French control. As the fighting moved west he devised the plan for organizing the East Prussian militia, a further significant step in the process of detaching Prussia from French dominance. In the spring campaign of 1813, still in Russian uniform, he acted as adviser to Scharnhorst and Gneisenau until the former's death, and then became chief of staff of a small international army that covered the Baltic flank of the Allies. Though strict monarchists, including the king himself, continued to resent his earlier refusal to follow official policy and fight for the French, he eventually gained readmission to the Prussian service. During the Waterloo campaign he served as chief of staff of one of the four corps making up the Prussian field army, and fought at Ligny and Wavre, where his corps tied down Grouchy's superior force until the main French army was beyond help. In 1816 he became chief of staff of Gneisenau's new command, with headquarters at Coblenz on the Rhine; two years later he was transferred to Berlin as Superintendent of the War Academy. His new duties were neither onerous nor particularly rewarding. Several times he sought to exchange the army for diplomacy; but since his reformist politics made him unacceptable to the court, he remained in his administrative position for twelve years, not displeased, on balance, with the opportunity of giving much of his time to study and writing.

    It was in the early years of peace, after the violent interval of the last campaigns against Napoleon, that Clausewitz returned seriously to theoretical work. A note found in his papers, which his wife quotes in her introduction to On War, indicates that while stationed in the Rhineland he began writing brief essays on strategy, addressed to the expert.¹⁴ None of these pieces seems to have survived; but we possess at least one preliminary study from which Clausewitz hoped to distill the aphoristic essay he was aiming for: On Progression and Pause in Military Activity. It provided the basis for Chapter Sixteen in Book Three of On War, which in turn elaborates one of the key arguments in the first chapter of the work: real war falls short of the total violence that is its essence in theory because, among other reasons, war does not consist in a single act or in a group of simultaneous actions, but extends over time with periods of action and inaction alternating. Another, much less significant, essay may have been the discussion on army organization that is usually printed as an appendix in German editions of On War. Its essential points can be found in Chapter Five of Book Five.

    These essays, concise as they are, do not match the extreme brevity of the chapters in Montesquieu's works, which, Clausewitz writes, served him as a kind of general model at this time. Nor does the structure of his argument resemble Montesquieu's. But the character of De l'Esprit des lois, and the personality of its author, indicate clearly enough the basis for Clausewitz's sense of affinity. The introduction, to mention one example, contains sentences that Clausewitz himself might have written: I ask for a favor that I fear will not be granted—do not judge the labor of twenty years at a moment's notice; approve or reject the entire work, not a few of its statements. If one wishes to seek the authors intention, it can be discovered only in the scheme of the work. A subsequent passage in which Montesquieu states that while writing he knew neither rules nor exceptions can hardly be improved on as a description of Clausewitz's attitude to the study of war.¹⁵

    The essays, each singling out a particular phenomenon or concept, had the advantage of revealing the major features of each with great clarity, but their inevitably fragmented analysis left Clausewitz dissatisfied. As he added new sections and revised existing ones, the compressed aphoristic character of his work gave way to fuller treatment, which responded to his preference for the systematic development of ideas and the uniform application of concepts on a broad range of phenomena. Coincidentally, an expanded and more explicit analysis would be suitable, he felt, for a wider audience than he had had originally in mind. The result was On War essentially as we know it today, except for the limited revisions made from 1827 on.

    Readers of this work and of the studies leading up to it may ask why Clausewitz felt it necessary to assert repeatedly that violence is the essence of war, and dismiss his reiteration as a pedantic insistence on the obvious. But Clausewitz stressed the point not only because experience and the study of the past had convinced him of its truth; he was also responding to the surprisingly numerous theorists who continued to claim that wars could be won by maneuver rather than bloodshed. What matters, in any case, are the deductions he drew from the self-evident. When he was twenty-four he had written that war must always be waged with the greatest possible amount of energy—that only the most decisive operations accord with the nature of war.¹⁶ Eight years later he instructed his pupil, the crown prince, that war always demanded the fullest mobilization of resources, and their most energetic exploitation.¹⁷ Here were specific implications derived from the concept of absolute war, of war that ideally should be waged with the extreme of violence—ideally, because the extreme of violence accorded with its nature. If war was an act of force, Clausewitz could discern no logical internal or self-imposed limits on the use of force. His insistence on extremes during the Napoleonic era resulted, of course, not only from logic but also from the historical situation. Between 1792 and 1815 exceptional effort and the willingness to take great risks were, in fact, needed to preserve Europe's independence, or to regain it. But even in the years of greatest challenge Clausewitz recognized that the demand of absolute or utmost violence, though logically valid, was rarely satisfied in reality. Absolute war was a fiction, an abstraction that served to unify all military phenomena and helped make their theoretical treatment possible. In practice the use of force tended to be limited. The power of friction reduced the abstract absolute to the modifications it assumed in reality. The major, unrevised part of On War is dominated by the mutually clarifying dialectical relationship between absolute and real war.

    But was it actually true that real war always modified the abstract absolute? And, secondly, was it valid to deduce from the concept of the absolute that all wars, whatever their cause and purpose, must be waged with supreme effort? In 1804 Clausewitz already distinguished between wars fought to exterminate the opponent, to destroy his political existence, and wars waged to weaken the opponent sufficiently so that one could impose conditions [on him] at the peace conference.¹⁸ Yet while drawing this distinction, Clausewitz denied that limited aims justified a limitation of effort. He argued that even if no more were intended than compelling the opponent to agree to terms, his power and will to resist must be broken. For political and social as well as for military reasons the preferred way of bringing about victory was the shortest, most direct way, and that meant using all possible force. In this view, as I have suggested, experience buttressed the demands of logic. It was not difficult to believe that from the first campaign of the Revolution to the wars of 1806 and 1809 France emerged victorious because her opponents would not exert themselves to the utmost. And it was in part because contemporary reality seemed to confirm that every war was a modification of the absolute and that every war should be waged without restrictions being placed on the rational application of force that these arguments retained what might be called a formal supremacy in Clausewitz's work even as he was coming to appreciate that they were one-sided.

    His essay on Progression and Pause indicates that by 1817 he was no longer content to impute the modification of military activity wholly to the force of friction. Because war consisted in a series of interactions between opponents, it was proper both in logic and reality that not every minute should pass at the highest pitch of effort and violence. Numerous hints in Books One through Six of On War point in the same direction. By the middle of the 1820's Clausewitz fully recognized that the second type of war in actuality—a war fought for limited goals—was not necessarily a modification or corruption of the theoretical principle of absolute war. As he stated in his Notice and in the last revision of Chapter One of Book One, a second type of war existed that was as valid as absolute war, not only in the field but also philosophically. Limited wars might be a modification of the absolute, but need not be, if the purpose for which they were waged was also limited. Violence continued to be the essence, the regulative idea, even of limited wars fought for limited ends; but in such cases the essence did not require its fullest possible expression. The concept of absolute war had by no means become invalid, it continued to perform decisive analytic functions; but it was now joined by the concept of limited

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