Masters of the Battlefield

by Davis, Paul K.

  At Waterloo Wellington made sure each unit was properly placed and had a clear understanding of its orders; he then rode back and forth across the lines to move men and materiel as needed. Orders were sent off by aides-de-camp, but Wellington was completely hands-on during the battle, not only repositioning reserves but at times taking personal command of units whose officers were killed or wounded. In his analysis of Wellington as a commander, Michael Glover writes, “Three times he personally led up the wavering Brunswick battalions and the third time they stayed in line and did their duty. A rifleman of the Ninety-fifth recalled how during the French cavalry charges ‘while we were in square the second time, the Duke of Wellington and his staff came up to us in all the fire, and saw we had lost all our commanding officers; he, himself, gave the word of command.’”124 By taking control to such an extent, Wellington would have left his forces in dire straits had he been incapacitated or killed, which does not argue in his favor. Further, any failures would be laid only at his feet.

  Wellington also employed the principle of morale to great effect, despite the fact that he is often criticized for displaying an uncaring attitude toward his soldiers. He certainly was not one to ride along the lines and whip up enthusiasm by his presence, as Napoleon or Alexander did. He famously called his troops “the scum of the earth,” although he followed it up (less famously) with the line “but you can hardly conceive of such a set brought together, and it is really wonderful that we should have made them the fine fellows they are.”125 Many things transformed the drunks of the city slums into a trusted soldiery: the Dundas and Moore reforms implemented in the boot camps of England, the increasing development of the concept of loyalty to the regiment, and the willingness to follow a winner. Wellington may not have earned the adulation of the troops, but he earned their respect. For all his denigrating comments, Wellington respected his troops as well; as he said to his confidante Lady Salisbury, “I could have done anything with that army, it was in such splendid order.”126

  Wellington’s aloof personality proved more an advantage than a drawback, for his apparent calmness under fire was essential to the men’s morale. Russell Weigley comments that “[t]he calmness of the Iron Duke during the climactic phase of the battle [Waterloo] was also invaluable in shaping the outcome, holding the Anglo-Dutch army to its stubborn resistance against the desperate onslaughts of the French.”127 This characteristic, shown at his final battle, was also there in his younger days at Assaye: as a volunteer in the 78th commented, he was “in the thick of the action the whole time.… I never saw a man so cool and collected as he was.”128 Wellington rode back and forth along the Mont St. Jean ridge throughout the battle of Waterloo, fully exposed to enemy fire as subordinates were shot down on either side; nothing could have been done at that battle to more motivate the men following him. He may not have been in the middle of the fight like Alexander or Belisarius or Gustavus, but Wellington risked death nonetheless. John Keegan writes, “That he had been spared was unquestionably one of the most remarkable outcomes of the battle, for he had been exposed to danger from its beginning to its end. Of his personal staff of sixty-three, no less than twenty had been killed or wounded.… Moreover, he himself had consistently been within cannon range of the enemy and frequently within musket range—say a hundred yards. That he had been mobile only made his exposure more extreme, for he always moved towards not away from fire.”129

  Although his campaigns in Iberia were a mixed bag of advance and retreat, Wellington finished his career the victor in every theater in which he fought. He had strategic and tactical genius. As Chandler notes, “His generalship was a blend of calculated example, of ‘heroic generalship’ at many a critical moment and place on the battlefield, and of cool realistic appraisal of strategic realities and military capabilities. That remains as clear today as it has ever done before.”130 Chandler attributes four major strengths to him: he never feared the French way of fighting, he grasped his role in the overall grand strategy of wherever he fought, he was a master of logistics, and he developed great skill in minor tactics, especially in his signature use of the reverse slope on the defensive. Although Wellington had risen through the ranks through purchase, he had been wise enough to learn lessons at each level of command so he knew what was necessary in any situation. Philip Haythornthwaite notes that “he owed much of his success to the attention he always paid to the inferior parts of tactics as a regimental officer. It was his firm belief that before a commander can group divisions and move an army he must understand the mechanism and power of the individual soldier, then that of a company, a battalion, a brigade and so on.”131

  Perhaps the one word that best describes Wellington as commander is flexibility, or the ability to use what was at hand to accomplish his goals, no matter how it may have looked. His comparison between his own methods and those of his French opponents in the peninsula best illustrates his way of war: “They planned their campaigns just as you might make a splendid piece of harness. It looks well; and answers very well; until it gets broken; and then you are done for. Now I made my campaigns of ropes. If anything went wrong, I tied a knot; and went on.”132

  16

  Conclusion

  A Coup d’Oeil at the Great Commanders

  Definitions, axioms, pet theories, and checklists abound, but leadership, like sex, is a doing thing.

  —Henry G. Gole, “Leadership in Literature”

  OUR SUBJECT IS Menschenführung, one of those clumsy-precise German words, which means “leading human beings.” As historian and retired air force general Montgomery Meigs observes, “There seems to be no real conclusive body of thought on what makes a good general. So as a start point, study of the leadership attributes of generals, past and present, should be useful. Historians and commentators alike usually cite character as the essential ingredient of enlightened senior leadership, especially of military leaders.”1 Meigs goes on to propose four qualities of character for great commanders: intellect, energy, selflessness, and humanity. While these are without question essential, we might add decisiveness and speed on the battlefield, as well as the ability to both maximize one’s own strengths while minimizing those of the enemy. Almost all the generals discussed in this work were at the cusp of a change in warfare and were often responsible for bringing about that change. But let’s examine Meigs’s more traditional list of attributes.

  MEIGS SAYS THAT INTELLECT is the basis of competence, intuition, and will. Few of the generals considered here were products of institutions of higher learning (Meigs himself went to West Point); they all learned their craft through experience. Some, especially the most recent subjects, commented on their appreciation of history. Han Xin had the writings of Sun Tzu to which to turn for advice, while Belisarius had the writings of Vegetius.2 The others learned what they knew from actual combat, as well as from whatever commanders they may have served under or against. Alexander learned from his father, Hannibal from his, Scipio from Hannibal, Žižka from his experience against the Teutonic Knights, Marlborough from Turenne, and so forth.

  I would argue that what Meigs means by intellect should include another abstraction—“vision.” This quality might include not only a willingness to use new weaponry (Scipio, Oda Nobunaga, Jan Žižka, Gustavus Adolphus) or even tactical innovations (Epaminondas, Frederick), but the oft-mentioned coup d’oeil—the ability to sum up the terrain, the opposition, and the correct offensive moves in a matter of moments. Can such a quality be learned? Perhaps—if one were to study the masters and look at the maps of their battlefields, or walk the battlefields and see what the generals saw, or look at any terrain and decide as quickly as possible where the lay of the land would help or hinder an offense or a defense. Acquiring this quality would probably require regularly war-gaming, a late development in learning to command.

  The heart of the coup d’oeil is the ability quickly to determine an enemy’s center of gravity, which means, in the strategic sense, choosing the enemy army as oppose
d to being locked on a fixed objective. In the tactical sense, it often means knowing how to find and eliminate the enemy commander. That certainly was Alexander’s consistent goal, and Epaminondas’s when Cleombrotus was killed at Leuctra. As I discuss below, knowing an enemy’s weakness is often the center of gravity.

  One also has to include imagination under intellect, meaning not only introducing new tactics but employing methods that almost exceed the conception of adversaries. The citizens of Tyre, for example, were certain that their island city and its walls were impervious to attack—until Alexander built a mole more than half a mile long from the shore, and developed weapons and siege engines to operate from ships against those walls. Long Ju, likewise, could not imagine that Han Xin would build a dam to entice him across the Wei River, only to have much of his army drowned and the rest isolated.

  Second, we must consider energy, which is best displayed in the commander’s involvement with the troops, during peacetime but more particularly during war. Before the battle, the generals covered in this book were in motion with their armies if not marching in the ranks, and whenever possible were scouting the battlefield before the fighting started. Jan Žižka was planning deployments even when he was blind. Whether they arrived in wagons or on horseback or by footslogging, they were in the field and in view. To accomplish what he did, Subedei needed to keep up with his troops’ rapid movements. Leadership means not merely leading but being seen leading. Sitting in headquarters is not an option. To make his point, Meigs quotes General Matthew Ridgeway, who guided UN forces in Korea after Douglas MacArthur was relieved of his command: “A basic element in troop leadership is the responsibility of the commander to be where the crisis of action is going to happen.”3

  Energy is of course vital if one is going to actively be involved in the fighting, as Alexander was in all of his battles. Caesar certainly illustrated it at Alesia. And Belisarius seemed to be everywhere during the siege of Rome—coordinating troops, civilians, and construction when he wasn’t firing arrows at Ostrogoth riders from the walls or leading cavalry operations. Even when not in actual combat, the general needs to be in a position to act and react. Wellington was always described as being where the action was hottest. One regular observation of Napoleon’s declining days involved the lack of energy he demonstrated in comparison with early in his career. His physical ailments kept him from the Waterloo battlefield at its most important juncture.

  Meigs’s third quality, selflessness, is best illustrated when commanders place themselves in harm’s way to achieve victory. As we’ve seen, most of the commanders in this book spent time in the field with their troops and sometimes suffered their privations, but without exception all of them were on or near the battlefield when the action started. From Epaminondas to Marlborough they were often engaging in combat themselves—as we’ve seen with Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar, and Belisarius in particular. Meigs observes that Marlborough was not “worrying about his own skin when he placed himself in danger at Ramillies and Oudenarde.”4

  Those who held themselves back from swinging a sword or firing a musket (Oda, Frederick, Napoleon, Wellington) were on the field, watching and directing the action and within arrow or gun range. In the political arena, some of these men were willing to act from behind the scenes, but the battlefield is a different kind of arena. A commander must truly be willing to sacrifice himself, as J. F. C. Fuller once wrote: “Death is the bandmaster of War, and unless all, from general to drummer boy, follow the beat of his baton, harmony must eventually give way to discord.”5

  The last of Meigs’s qualities of greatness is humanity. As he expresses this quality, “The difference between winning and not winning lies often in the faith of the unit in their leader and in their ability together to persevere through that last final push that breaks the enemy’s will. To engender that faith, generals must have a human touch and a feel for the troops.”6 Meigs’s “human touch” may not be what most people would call humanity—concern about the lives and conditions of others. Yet it is how the soldiers under one’s command would define it. Alexander and Napoleon were renowned for identifying individual soldiers by name and praising their performances. Napoleon in particular offered quick rewards for exemplary service. His comment on what men would do for a scrap of ribbon reveals a certain cynicism; on the other hand, he knew that that scrap of ribbon translated into status and often rank and monetary advancement. Oda exhibited little concern for the welfare of his individual soldiers, but by instituting the widespread use of ashigaru he offered a way for peasants to rise in status through military service.

  Hannibal could not appeal to his veterans’ sense of national pride—many were mercenaries and far from home—so he appealed to their personal pride by setting the example. The humanity these generals showed is what motivates all good soldiers: it binds individuals together and creates cohesion; it is the basis of brotherhood. Hannibal was a soldier’s soldier; what man under him could do less? Žižka didn’t let blindness keep him from the battlefield, and his men served him with greater devotion because of it.

  Further, Žižka had a religious motivation that was unique among the commanders in this book. Religion played a remarkably small role in their fighting lives, it seems. Alexander may have viewed himself as divine, but was hardly intent on spreading Greek religion. Belisarius was a champion of Justinian, who was as well known for his religious reforms in the Byzantine Empire as for his foreign policy, but neither seems to have used “God and country” in motivating the troops. Gustavus, as a champion of the Protestant cause in the Thirty Years War, was probably the only other commander here whose faith in God inspired him in battle. Indeed just before his final cavalry charge he commented, “The Lord God is my armor.”

  Those are Meigs’s elements. Other military thinkers have outlined other qualities, most of them connected in some way. U.S. Air Force colonel John Boyd believes that decisiveness is key to military victory and devised the so-called OODA loop: “observe,” “orient,” “decide,” and “act.”7

  This has to be done again and again as the battle develops and done faster than the enemy can. This also incorporates some of the aspects of “vision” discussed above—the coup d’oeil during which the commander chooses a deployment or method of attack, particularly one his opponent least expects. Decisiveness shows itself in battle by the commander’s knowing when and where to strike. At Austerlitz, Napoleon not only set up the battlefield deployment but knew precisely where the enemy weak point would appear and when to launch his striking force.

  The generals discussed here were quick to issue the necessary orders, knowing their men could and would implement them. Alexander could throw himself into the battle assured that his subordinates would do their jobs. Hannibal at Cannae could face an army far superior in numbers because he knew his men and because he had developed a bold plan. Han Xin could do the same at Jingxing. Though he did not have a close relationship with his relatively new troops, he could anticipate their abilities. At both Ramillies and Oudenarde, Marlborough demonstrated the ability to plan and deploy—almost on the run—even as his enemy was deploying simultaneously. None of these commanders ever exhibited hesitation. Even on defense, they knew when to seize the opportunity to counterattack.

  Related to decisiveness is of course speed, a quality perhaps best demonstrated at the operational level. Whichever general can get his men to a battlefield before the enemy expects them has a distinct advantage. Sometimes this means the general gets to choose his battleground and create an ambush, like Hannibal at Lake Trasimene. Belisarius reached Rome so quickly the Ostrogoths had to abandon the city, setting up the yearlong siege. Subedei paced his withdrawal in order to set up the ambush at the Kalkha River. Žižka had enough time to read the ground and deploy at Sudomer before the imperial forces attacked. At Hohenfriedberg and Leuthen, Frederick got to the field before his enemy was fully deployed and created a surprise attack. So did Marlborough at the Schellenberg and Subedei at the Sa
jo River. The result is often a smaller casualty count for both sides, as was not the case at Lutzen, Blenheim, and Waterloo.

  Speed in battle can be just as important. Epaminondas’s deep phalanx running across the plain at Leuctra caught the Spartans in midmaneuver. Alexander began the battle at the Issus late in the day, before the Persians could read and react. Oda surprised Imagawa’s army at Okehazama by rushing into his camp in the immediate wake of a hailstorm. Žižka broke out of his encirclement at Kutna Hora by striking in the dead of night against an unprepared Sigismund. Frederick’s rapid redeployment at Rossbach caught the French cavalry and infantry completely unawares. Napoleon’s rapid redeployment of troops at Rivoli beat back one uncoordinated Austrian attack after another until he could launch his counteroffensive.

  In the end every great commander recognizes relative strengths and weaknesses—whether in a coup d’oeil, or over time. This applies to new tactics or weaponry, which can play a part in overturning an enemy’s strength. For example, the deep phalanx at Leuctra broke the “invincible” Spartan force. The Persian chariots proved useless against the sarissas and discipline of Alexander’s formations. Pompey’s large cavalry force had no better luck against Caesar’s smaller mixed cavalry and light infantry using their pila as stabbing spears instead of javelins. Oda’s matchlocks broke the Takeda cavalry, just as the Hussite hand cannons helped to defeat the imperial knights—their armor became a liability once they were unhorsed. Žižka also negated the superior numbers of his enemies by deploying his forces in such a way that the enemy was obliged to fight on a narrow front. Gustavus’s lighter artillery tore apart the imperial tercios, as did his quicker-firing musketeers. Napoleon’s army was famous for its artillery; Wellington negated its effectiveness by employing the reverse slope at many of his battles in Spain, and most notably at Waterloo.