The scale of casualties in this artillery duel was tiny. With the benefit of fieldworks only nineteen Americans were hit, as against between 60 and 120 of the more exposed British. That makes only between eight and seventeen British casualties per hour, caused by perhaps seventeen American cannon plus a warship on the river – scarcely an impressive argument for the power of Napoleonic weapons! At this range there were probably no casualties caused by American riflemen, who were in any case present only in relatively small numbers. The myth that it was the lynx-eyed, rifle-toting ‘Hunters of Kentucky’ who beat off the British at New Orleans is based on very slender evidence.
By 1 January 1815 Pakenham had brought up many more guns, and was ready to try again. He successfully achieved surprise, with his infantry making a silent approach through morning mist, without flints in their muskets. However, he did not appear to envisage the operation as an open battle or a coup de main, but rather as the opening of a formal siege. He used his advantage only to set up batteries at a prudent range from the enemy – not to charge forward over the puny entrenchments. This was a major lost opportunity, which depressed the British troops still further at the same time as it gratuitously handed a boost in morale to Jackson’s ragged and disparate band.
The exact time taken in cannonading on 1 January is open to dispute, but the British troops lay out in the open all day while the rival artilleries attempted to silence each other at ranges between 600 and 800 yards. Overall, the British lost 67 casualties and had to abandon five guns, inflicting a mere 22 losses on the enemy. On the inland flank there was a close action when Coffee’s Tennessee riflemen beat off a small infantry attack, but this can scarcely be called a triumph of the rifle’s special properties. Coffee’s cleared field of fire was only 30 or 40 yards wide, which falls well within the range of smoothbore muskets.
Pakenham’s first two approaches to the US line had both been given limited objectives that stopped short of storming the entrenchments, but the Americans were well and truly alerted as a result. They raised the level of their mud parapets – reaching nine feet in places – and they received sizeable reinforcements. The British, by contrast, were becoming progressively more demoralised by their officers’ bungling and by an epidemic of dysentery in camp. On 8 January Pakenham nevertheless determined to make a third approach, in two columns linked by riflemen, covered by morning mist and – at long last – with the aim of making an escalade at close quarters.
The assault was comprehensively botched. It was not properly reconnoitred, and its start was damagingly delayed due to a vain attempt at co-ordination with a secondary attack to clear the west bank.73 This meant that visibility had begun to improve when the forward movement commenced, and the American artillery was able to open at some 500 yards’ range. Then it was found that the 44th regiment, leading Gibbs’ right-hand column, had failed to bring either its fascines or its scaling ladders. It fell into disorder close to the enemy’s ditch, and its supporting regiment was left to make an unexpected passage of lines to reach the front. Simultaneously the 93rd regiment, leading Keane’s left-hand column, was inexplicably ordered to halt without firing, within 100 yards of the enemy’s breastworks.74
The British had been told not to fire because that might have given away their position during the approach march, and then might have stopped their impetus once the assault had been launched. When they had halted in front of the enemy, however, there was clearly no longer any justification for this policy, and the soldiers were simply shot down like rabbits without doing anything in return. If more of them had fired back, the Americans might have suffered more than their actual loss of at most 52 killed and wounded.
On the American side there was apparently also a desire to hold back musketry until very close range, and certainly less than the range to be expected with rifles. Jackson is reported to have ordered fire ‘at fair buck range’, aiming ‘for buckles on the crossbelts’.75 In the event, however, the Americans seem to have opened somewhat earlier than intended, with the consensus of estimates setting the range somewhere around 200 yards.76 The colonel of the 44th appears to have been sniped by a rifleman at 300 yards,77 but apart from this, most of the rifle fire seems to have occurred at point-blank range (‘fifty feet’) after a small British ‘forlorn hope’ had managed to enter the most westerly redoubt. This fire came from Beale’s company of 35 New Orleans gentlemen-sharpshooters, who seem to have been almost the only rifle-armed Americans to be involved in the main centres of combat.78
As for the duration of the firing, it is variously set between five minutes and half an hour, probably indicating a major crescendo at first, trailing off into spasmodic shots as the British withdrew. It did not all take place at the opening range, but closed to less than 100 yards on both of the two main fronts – and individuals advanced to point-blank range at a number of places. British riflemen from the 95th regiment had initially been posted as skirmishers between 100 and 150 yards of the enemy before the main action began, and advanced to give close covering fire from the very foot of the fieldworks – but in the absence of a determined effort by the main body they do not appear to have achieved a great deal. Even if the entire US loss is attributed to the five British rifle companies firing only two shots per man – unrealistically assuming only a five-minute engagement – then we still find that it took around twenty rounds to hit each American. This certainly seems to fall short of the inflated expectations which some modern writers would have us entertain from the rifle.79
The casualties were enormous on the British side, certainly rising above 2,000, and possibly above 3,000, out of the 5–6,000 directly engaged. Most of the important officers were incapacitated, including Pakenham himself. He had quite correctly moved into the front line to urge the hesitant troops to resume their assault, and when he found they could (or would) make no progress with that, he called for the reserve brigade to advance and carry the position in a second impetus. It was at just this moment that he was killed, an event which Lambert, his second in command, took as decisive for the battle as a whole. He immediately cancelled the movement of the reserve, just when it might have been most effective.
New Orleans has often been taken as proof that a ditch and embankment topped by riflemen, provided its flanks were secure, was an unbeatable formula for defence during the Napoleonic period. The evidence, however, scarcely supports this interpretation. We have seen how the rifle was a negligible factor in the American victory, since most of the fire came from either cannon or smoothbore muskets; nor did their own riflemen appear to have been much help to the British. Essentially, the same result would have ensued if there had not been a single rifle on the battlefield.
As for the fortifications, there are plenty of signs that they could have been scaled, if only the attacking troops had pushed forward and actually tried to do it, even without the help of fascines or ladders. The 93rd could certainly have achieved more impressive results than it did, if only it had not been prevented from doing anything by its officers. By contrast, the ‘forlorn hope’ at the western end of the line actually took a redoubt almost before it could fire back; while elsewhere a number of individuals surmounted the works and were captured on the American side of them. Quartermaster Surtees’ riflemen reported they could have passed the ditch ‘with ease’, and it was his own opinion that if the 44th had pressed forward rapidly.
… their loss would not have been half so great; for the enemy’s troops in front of the right column were evidently intimidated, and ceased firing for some seconds as the column approached; and there is little doubt, had they pushed on to the ditch with celerity, the Americans would have abandoned their line . . 80
Captain Simpson of the 43rd regiment believed that
… protected by their [the 44th and Rifles’] fire, it was quite possible to have accomplished the passage of the ditch without the assistance of either scaling ladder or fascine … This observation is made in consequence of the whole of the defences having been passe
d by me, partly as conqueror, and partly as a wounded prisoner.81
Perhaps the key to these failures is that the spearheads of the assault columns were composed of relatively inexperienced units. Contrary to the claims of Boston propaganda, neither the 44th nor the 93rd had taken part in the Peninsular War. The 93rd, in particular, had enjoyed a quiet, sun-drenched decade since 1805 in Cape Colony. Apart from the 95th rifles, however, Pakenham deliberately took the decision to keep his Peninsular veterans either in second line or in reserve. They saw relatively little of the action, and were therefore effectively wasted. Surtees is doubtless right to claim that they could have rolled over the American line with little loss, if only they had been placed in the van;82 but they were not, and the moment was lost.
The true lesson of New Orleans is that inexperienced troops are vulnerable if asked to manoeuvre or make difficult assaults. The Americans had found this on 23 December, and the British on 8 January. Yet if they were properly supported by good artillery, fieldworks and leadership, the same troops were capable of laying down a heavy blanket of musketry at close range – especially if the enemy obliged by halting in the open. What is not proved by New Orleans, however, is that firepower on its own could stop an assault by experienced and strongly motivated soldiers, even against artillery and fieldworks. Apparently it took a very special sort of high command bungling to do that.
3
1815–1915: The Alleged Novelty of the ‘Empty Battlefield’ in World War I
Approximately half of the casualties suffered by the French Army in the First World War came during the first fifteen months of the conflict. It was during these months that it became obvious that the war, against all expectations, was to be a long and expensive affair. It would not be finished in a couple of mobile campaigns, as had been hoped. Instead, it was to be a contest of attrition in which the manpower, industry and morale of each nation would be tested to the limit and sometimes ultimately broken.
This realisation came as a profound shock to almost all participants, and it soon generated bitter feelings of betrayal and recrimination. The legacy of those feelings has been faithfully handed down to every generation until the present day, since it seems that a miscalculation made in 1914 has led to nothing less than the spoiling and bloodying of the entire twentieth century.
The miscalculation which made the war indecisive was purely military in nature, and indeed largely a matter of minor tactics. It arose from the erroneous belief that good infantry could, as often as not, capture enemy defensive positions and hold them against a counter attack. If this feat had proved possible, then it would also have been practical for entire offensives to make steady progress leading to decisive break-outs behind the enemy’s lines. In the event, however, it did not turn out to be possible. The successful capture of an enemy position became a very rare event indeed.
It seems that the generals of 1914 failed to appreciate the significance of enhanced firepower which a variety of new weapons had placed in the hands of their soldiers. They did not fully realise the havoc which could be caused by the combination of mud, barbed wire, magazine rifles, machine guns and quick-firing artillery with high explosive shell. There was apparently a misplaced confidence that although all this might well increase the casualties suffered by attacking troops, such losses would rarely be enough to affect the final outcome. After receiving a few successful attacks, it was felt, a defender would realise the hopelessness of his posture and retire. He would then suffer the much higher losses incurred by an army in flight. The outlay in lives which the attacker had made would be more than recouped, provided that his offensive morale had been initially high.
We must therefore ask what caused this apparent myopia on the part of so many generals who were, after all, the chosen leaders of a reasonably technical profession. By 1914 they were supported by a wealth of deep and perceptive staff studies, and far more good specialist advice than had ever been available in the days of Napoleon. Science and industry were bombarding the armies of Europe with their products, which the armies themselves were not slow to accept. It is therefore all the more astonishing that such a unanimous miscalculation should have been made. Why was it made?
The normal answer to this question is that the generals were actually stupid and pig-headed. They had political interests which clouded their analyses, or social backgrounds which prevented them from understanding the revolution being wrought in the laboratory or steel-mill.1 One could not expect a Prussian Junker or an Anglo-Irish landlord to understand all the obscure technological developments which seemed to succeed each other so rapidly. Armaments were changing with such unprecedented and vertiginous speed that it was hardly surprising if the officer caste was left behind.
There is undoubtedly a great deal of truth in these charges; but at the end of the day they can give us no more than half of the total picture. As so often in tactical studies, sociological or political explanations cannot really get to the root of the question. There is also a story which must be told in terms of purely military logic; an evolution of theories and experiments which finally led decision-makers to believe that they had no option but to adopt the course they did.
It is particularly misleading to think of the tactical changes of 1914 as a ‘revolution’, or something which happened suddenly. The generals of the First World War were not confronted by a totally new or unforeseen set of circumstances, but had been given astonishingly long advance warning. In both theory and practice the debate about firepower had been going on ever since Waterloo, and possibly even earlier. Anyone concerned with formulating tactical policy had found it thrust unavoidably under his nose.
What happened in 1914 was that armies finally put into practice the conclusions they had reached after many years, and in fact many decades, of deep thought. They were perfectly well aware of the problems posed by new weapons; but believed they had found the scientifically correct solutions. They had examined all the options and chosen the least costly. It is for this reason, and not because they were ‘out of their depth’, that generals clung so stubbornly to the methods they had chosen. All other methods seemed to offer far more dubious results, if not total disaster. In a sense we might even suggest that the generals of the First World War felt they were using advanced professional expertise to minimise the losses. They were doing all the things they had trained to do, with good prior knowledge of what the problems would be.
These problems are best summed up in the expression ‘the empty battlefield’. With improving firepower infantry would no longer be able to show itself within range of the enemy in heavy formations, since they would make too good a target. Instead, the troops would break down into loose chains or skirmish screens, and seek to use the terrain for cover. All an observer would see would be the occasional head, peering out and looking for a target. Individual marksmanship would become much more important in a battle of this type, and the range of engagement would increase. A true musketry ‘firefight’2 would take place, in which the infantry would try to kill its enemies at a distance. Gone are the heady massed scrimmages so beloved of Victorian battle painters: the battlefield starts to look more like an empty field than a drill parade.
It has often been assumed that the ‘empty battlefield’ first appeared in the First World War, or at least in the later nineteenth century. The introduction of smokeless powder, in particular, has been considered a decisive event, since riflemen no longer needed to give away their positions when they fired. This innovation coincided with the appearance of the high explosive shell, the perfected magazine rifle and the Maxim gun in the late 1880s, and so it has been acclaimed as the turning point by those who would look for a ‘revolutionary moment’ in the evolution of tactics.
It is true enough that all these developments were important; but in fact they mark no more than one evolution among many in a continuous process which had started very much earlier. The idea of the empty battlefield was already well known long before the late nineteenth century, and the
problems which it posed had already been extensively analysed by tacticians.
Let us consider, once again, the Battle of Waterloo. We have already seen the methods of action adopted by massed bodies of prime infantry when they came to close range; they relied upon the bayonet rather than upon musketry. For them the objective was to scare the enemy into panic flight rather than to kill him. If they did get into a close-range firefight like Maitland’s, then it would be a brief but bloody exchange between two closely-packed masses. On other parts of the field, however, there was an altogether different type of combat being fought, in which the infantry was less ready to come to close contact or to use massed formations, and more anxious to use sustained aimed fire and the protection of the ground.
Captain Leach of the 1/95 Rifles gives us a clear description of a part of the field which was to all intents and purposes ‘empty’. He reports that:
From the time that La Haye Sainte fell into the hands of the French until the moment of the General Advance of our Army, the mode of attack and defence was remarkable for its sameness. But I speak merely of what took place immediately about our part of the position.
It consisted of one uninterrupted fire of musketry (the distance between the hostile lines I imagine to have been rather more than one hundred yards) between Kempt’s and some of Lambert’s regiments posted along the thorn hedge, and the French infantry lining the knoll and the crest of the hill near it. Several times the French officers made desperate attempts to induce their men to charge Kempt’s line, and I saw more than once parties of the French in our front spring up from their kneeling position and advance some yards towards the thorn hedge, headed by their officers with vehement gestures, but our fire was so very hot and deadly that they almost instantly ran back behind the crest of the hill, always leaving a great many killed or disabled behind them.3
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