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Title: Some Principles of Maritime Strategy

Author: Julian Stafford Corbett

Release date: February 16, 2005 [eBook #15076]
Most recently updated: December 14, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SOME
PRINCIPLES OF MARITIME STRATEGY ***

E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Keith Edkins,
and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team

Some principles of maritime
strategy

Sir Julian Corbett (courtesy D.M. Schurman)

LONDON 1911.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

THE THEORETICAL STUDY OF WAR—ITS USE AND
3
LIMITATIONS

PART I. THEORY OF WAR

I. THE THEORY OF WAR 15
II. NATURES OF WARS—OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE 31
III. NATURES OF WARS—LIMITED AND UNLIMITED 41
IV. LIMITED WAR AND MARITIME EMPIRES 52
V. WARS OF INTERVENTION—LIMITED INTERFERENCE IN
60
UNLIMITED WAR
VI. CONDITIONS OF STRENGTH IN LIMITED WAR 72

PART II. THEORY OF NAVAL WAR

I. THEORY OF THE OBJECT—COMMAND OF THE SEA 91
II. THEORY OF THE MEANS—THE CONSTITUTION OF FLEETS 107
III. THEORY OF THE METHOD—CONCENTRATION AND
128
DISPERSAL OF FORCE

PART III. CONDUCT OF NAVAL WAR

I. INTRODUCTORY— 155
1. INHERENT DIFFERENCES IN THE CONDITIONS OF WAR
155
ON LAND AND ON SEA
2. TYPICAL FORMS OF NAVAL OPERATIONS 161
II. METHODS OF SECURING COMMAND— 167
1. ON OBTAINING A DECISION 167
2. BLOCKADE 183
III. METHODS OF DISPUTING COMMAND— 209
1. DEFENSIVE FLEET OPERATIONS—"A FLEET IN BEING" 209
2. MINOR COUNTER-ATTACKS 227
IV. METHODS OF EXERCISING COMMAND— 233
1. DEFENCE AGAINST INVASION 233
2. ATTACK AND DEFENCE OF TRADE 261
3. ATTACK, DEFENCE, AND SUPPORT OF MILITARY
280
EXPEDITIONS

Appendix: The "Green Pamphlet" 305
INDEX 346

INTRODUCTION
The Theoretical Study of War—Its Use and
Limitations

At first sight nothing can appear more unpractical, less promising of useful
result, than to approach the study of war with a theory. There seems indeed
to be something essentially antagonistic between the habit of mind that

seeks theoretical guidance and that which makes for the successful conduct
of war. The conduct of war is so much a question of personality, of
character, of common-sense, of rapid decision upon complex and ever-
shifting factors, and those factors themselves are so varied, so intangible, so
dependent upon unstable moral and physical conditions, that it seems
incapable of being reduced to anything like true scientific analysis. At the
bare idea of a theory or "science" of war the mind recurs uneasily to well-
known cases where highly "scientific" officers failed as leaders. Yet, on the
other hand, no one will deny that since the great theorists of the early
nineteenth century attempted to produce a reasoned theory of war, its
planning and conduct have acquired a method, a precision, and a certainty
of grasp which were unknown before. Still less will any one deny the value
which the shrewdest and most successful leaders in war have placed upon
the work of the classical strategical writers.
The truth is that the mistrust of theory arises from a misconception of what
it is that theory claims to do. It does not pretend to give the power of
conduct in the field; it claims no more than to increase the effective power
of conduct. Its main practical value is that it can assist a capable man to
acquire a broad outlook whereby he may be the surer his plan shall cover all
the ground, and whereby he may with greater rapidity and certainty seize all
the factors of a sudden situation. The greatest of the theorists himself puts
the matter quite frankly. Of theoretical study he says, "It should educate the
mind of the man who is to lead in war, or rather guide him to self-education,
but it should not accompany him on the field of battle."
Its practical utility, however, is not by any means confined to its effects
upon the powers of a leader. It is not enough that a leader should have the
ability to decide rightly; his subordinates must seize at once the full
meaning of his decision and be able to express it with certainty in well-
adjusted action. For this every man concerned must have been trained to
think in the same plane; the chief's order must awake in every brain the
same process of thought; his words must have the same meaning for all. If a
theory of tactics had existed in 1780, and if Captain Carkett had had a
sound training in such a theory, he could not possibly have misunderstood
Rodney's signal. As it was, the real intention of the signal was obscure, and
Rodney's neglect to explain the tactical device it indicated robbed his
country of a victory at an hour of the direst need. There had been no

previous theoretical training to supply the omission, and Rodney's fine
conception was unintelligible to anybody but himself.
Nor is it only for the sake of mental solidarity between a chief and his
subordinates that theory is indispensable. It is of still higher value for
producing a similar solidarity between him and his superiors at the Council
table at home. How often have officers dumbly acquiesced in ill-advised
operations simply for lack of the mental power and verbal apparatus to
convince an impatient Minister where the errors of his plan lay? How often,
moreover, have statesmen and officers, even in the most harmonious
conference, been unable to decide on a coherent plan of war from inability
to analyse scientifically the situation they had to face, and to recognise the
general character of the struggle in which they were about to engage. That
the true nature of a war should be realised by contemporaries as clearly as it
comes to be seen afterwards in the fuller light of history is seldom to be
expected. At close range accidental factors will force themselves into undue
prominence and tend to obscure the true horizon. Such error can scarcely
ever be eliminated, but by theoretical study we can reduce it, nor by any
other means can we hope to approach the clearness of vision with which
posterity will read our mistakes. Theory is, in fact, a question of education
and deliberation, and not of execution at all. That depends on the
combination of intangible human qualities which we call executive ability.
This, then, is all the great authorities ever claimed for theory, but to this
claim the chief of them at least, after years of active service on the Staff,
attached the highest importance. "In actual operations," he wrote in one of
his latest memoranda, "men are guided solely by their judgment, and it will
hit the mark more or less accurately according as they possess more or less
genius. This is the way all great generals have acted.... Thus it will always
be in action, and so far judgment will suffice. But when it is a question not
of taking action yourself, but of convincing others at the Council table, then
everything depends on clear conceptions and the exposition of the inherent
relations of things. So little progress has been made in this respect that most
deliberations are merely verbal contentions which rest on no firm
foundation, and end either in every one retaining his own opinion, or in a
compromise from considerations of mutual respect—a middle course of no
actual value."1

The writer's experience of such discussions was rich and at first hand. Clear
conceptions of the ideas and factors involved in a war problem, and a
definite exposition of the relations between them, were in his eyes the
remedy for loose and purposeless discussion; and such conceptions and
expositions are all we mean by the theory or the science of war. It is a
process by which we co-ordinate our ideas, define the meaning of the words
we use, grasp the difference between essential and unessential factors, and
fix and expose the fundamental data on which every one is agreed. In this
way we prepare the apparatus of practical discussion; we secure the means
of arranging the factors in manageable shape, and of deducing from them
with precision and rapidity a practical course of action. Without such an
apparatus no two men can even think on the same line; much less can they
ever hope to detach the real point of difference that divides them and isolate
it for quiet solution.
In our own case this view of the value of strategical theory has a special
significance, and one far wider than its continental enunciators
contemplated. For a world-wide maritime Empire the successful conduct of
war will often turn not only on the decisions of the Council chamber at
home, but on the outcome of conferences in all parts of the world between
squadronal commanders and the local authorities, both civil and military,
and even between commanders-in-chief of adjacent stations. In time of war
or of preparation for war, in which the Empire is concerned, arrangements
must always be based to an exceptional degree on the mutual relation of
naval, military, and political considerations. The line of mean efficiency,
though indicated from home, must be worked out locally, and worked out
on factors of which no one service is master. Conference is always
necessary, and for conference to succeed there must be a common vehicle
of expression and a common plane of thought. It is for this essential
preparation that theoretical study alone can provide; and herein lies its
practical value for all who aspire to the higher responsibilities of the
Imperial service.
So great indeed is the value of abstract strategical study from this point of
view, that it is necessary to guard ourselves against over-valuation. So far
from claiming for their so-called science more than the possibilities we
have indicated, the classical strategists insist again and again on the danger
of seeking from it what it cannot give. They even repudiate the very name

of "Science." They prefer the older term "Art." They will permit no laws or
rules. Such laws, they say, can only mislead in practice, for the friction to
which they are subject from the incalculable human factors alone is such
that the friction is stronger than the law. It is an old adage of lawyers that
nothing is so misleading as a legal maxim, but a strategical maxim is
undoubtedly and in every way less to be trusted in action.
What then, it will be asked, are the tangible results which we can hope to
attain from theory? If all on which we have to build is so indeterminate,
how are any practical conclusions to be reached? That the factors are
infinitely varied and difficult to determine is true, but that, it must be
remembered, is just what emphasises the necessity of reaching such firm
standpoints as are attainable. The vaguer the problem to be solved, the more
resolute must we be in seeking points of departure from which we can begin
to lay a course, keeping always an eye open for the accidents that will beset
us, and being always alive to their deflecting influences. And this is just
what the theoretical study of strategy can do. It can at least determine the
normal. By careful collation of past events it becomes clear that certain
lines of conduct tend normally to produce certain effects; that wars tend to
take certain forms each with a marked idiosyncrasy; that these forms are
normally related to the object of the war and to its value to one or both
belligerents; that a system of operations which suits one form may not be
that best suited to another. We can even go further. By pursuing an historical
and comparative method we can detect that even the human factor is not
quite indeterminable. We can assert that certain situations will normally
produce, whether in ourselves or in our adversaries, certain moral states on
which we may calculate.
Having determined the normal, we are at once in a stronger position. Any
proposal can be compared with it, and we can proceed to discuss clearly the
weight of the factors which prompt us to depart from the normal. Every
case must be judged on its merits, but without a normal to work from we
cannot form any real judgment at all; we can only guess. Every case will
assuredly depart from the normal to a greater or less extent, and it is equally
certain that the greatest successes in war have been the boldest departures
from the normal. But for the most part they have been departures made with
open eyes by geniuses who could perceive in the accidents of the case a just
reason for the departure.

Take an analogous example, and the province of strategical theory becomes
clear at once. Navigation and the parts of seamanship that belong to it have
to deal with phenomena as varied and unreliable as those of the conduct of
war. Together they form an art which depends quite as much as generalship
on the judgment of individuals. The law of storms and tides, of winds and
currents, and the whole of meteorology are subject to infinite and
incalculable deflections, and yet who will deny nowadays that by the
theoretical study of such things the seaman's art has gained in coherence
and strength? Such study will not by itself make a seaman or a navigator,
but without it no seaman or navigator can nowadays pretend to the name.
Because storms do not always behave in the same way, because currents are
erratic, will the most practical seaman deny that the study of the normal
conditions are useless to him in his practical decisions?
If, then, the theoretical study of strategy be approached in this way—if, that
is, it be regarded not as a substitute for judgment and experience, but as a
means of fertilising both, it can do no man harm. Individual thought and
common-sense will remain the masters and remain the guides to point the
general direction when the mass of facts begins to grow bewildering.
Theory will warn us the moment we begin to leave the beaten track, and
enable us to decide with open eyes whether the divergence is necessary or
justifiable. Above all, when men assemble in Council it will hold discussion
to the essential lines, and help to keep side issues in their place.
But beyond all this there lies in the theory of war yet another element of
peculiar value to a maritime Empire. We are accustomed, partly for
convenience and partly from lack of a scientific habit of thought, to speak
of naval strategy and military strategy as though they were distinct branches
of knowledge which had no common ground. It is the theory of war which
brings out their intimate relation. It reveals that embracing them both is a
larger strategy which regards the fleet and army as one weapon, which co-
ordinates their action, and indicates the lines on which each must move to
realise the full power of both. It will direct us to assign to each its proper
function in a plan of war; it will enable each service to realise the better the
limitations and the possibilities of the function with which it is charged, and
how and when its own necessities must give way to a higher or more
pressing need of the other. It discloses, in short, that naval strategy is not a
thing by itself, that its problems can seldom or never be solved on naval

considerations alone, but that it is only a part of maritime strategy—the
higher learning which teaches us that for a maritime State to make
successful war and to realise her special strength, army and navy must be
used and thought of as instruments no less intimately connected than are the
three arms ashore.
It is for these reasons that it is of little use to approach naval strategy except
through the theory of war. Without such theory we can never really
understand its scope or meaning, nor can we hope to grasp the forces which
most profoundly affect its conclusions.

PART ONE

THEORY OF WAR

CHAPTER ONE

THE THEORY
OF WAR

The last thing that an explorer arrives at is a complete map that will cover
the whole ground he has travelled, but for those who come after him and
would profit by and extend his knowledge his map is the first thing with
which they will begin. So it is with strategy. Before we start upon its study
we seek a chart which will show us at a glance what exactly is the ground
we have to cover and what are the leading features which determine its
form and general characteristics. Such a chart a "theory of war" alone can
provide. It is for this reason that in the study of war we must get our theory
clear before we can venture in search of practical conclusions. So great is
the complexity of war that without such a guide we are sure to go astray
amidst the bewildering multiplicity of tracks and obstacles that meet us at
every step. If for continental strategy its value has been proved abundantly,
then for maritime strategy, where the conditions are far more complex, the
need of it is even greater.
By maritime strategy we mean the principles which govern a war in which
the sea is a substantial factor. Naval strategy is but that part of it which
determines the movements of the fleet when maritime strategy has
determined what part the fleet must play in relation to the action of the land
forces; for it scarcely needs saying that it is almost impossible that a war
can be decided by naval action alone. Unaided, naval pressure can only
work by a process of exhaustion. Its effects must always be slow, and so
galling both to our own commercial community and to neutrals, that the
tendency is always to accept terms of peace that are far from conclusive.
For a firm decision a quicker and more drastic form of pressure is required.
Since men live upon the land and not upon the sea, great issues between
nations at war have always been decided—except in the rarest cases—either
by what your army can do against your enemy's territory and national life or
else by the fear of what the fleet makes it possible for your army to do.

The paramount concern, then, of maritime strategy is to determine the
mutual relations of your army and navy in a plan of war. When this is done,
and not till then, naval strategy can begin to work out the manner in which
the fleet can best discharge the function assigned to it.
The problem of such co-ordination is one that is susceptible of widely
varying solutions. It may be that the command of the sea is of so urgent an
importance that the army will have to devote itself to assisting the fleet in
its special task before it can act directly against the enemy's territory and
land forces; on the other hand, it may be that the immediate duty of the fleet
will be to forward military action ashore before it is free to devote itself
whole-heartedly to the destruction of the enemy's fleets. The crude maxims
as to primary objects which seem to have served well enough in continental
warfare have never worked so clearly where the sea enters seriously into a
war. In such cases it will not suffice to say the primary object of the army is
to destroy the enemy's army, or that of the fleet to destroy the enemy's fleet.
The delicate interactions of the land and sea factors produce conditions too
intricate for such blunt solutions. Even the initial equations they present are
too complex to be reduced by the simple application of rough-and-ready
maxims. Their right handling depends upon the broadest and most
fundamental principles of war, and it is as a standpoint from which to get a
clear and unobstructed view of the factors in their true relations that a
theory of war has perhaps its highest value.
The theory which now holds the field is that war in a fundamental sense is a
continuation of policy by other means. The process by which the
continental strategists arrived at it involved some hard philosophical
reasoning. Practical and experienced veterans as they were, their method is
not one that works easily with our own habit of thought. It will be well,
therefore, to endeavour first to present their conclusions in a concrete form,
which will make the pith of the matter intelligible at once. Take, now, the
ordinary case of a naval or military Staff being asked to prepare a war plan
against a certain State and to advise what means it will require. To any one
who has considered such matters it is obvious the reply must be another
question—What will the war be about? Without a definite answer or
alternative answers to that question a Staff can scarcely do more than
engage in making such forces as the country can afford as efficient as
possible. Before they take any sure step further they must know many

things. They must know whether they are expected to take something from
the enemy, or to prevent his taking something either from us or from some
other State. If from some other State, the measures to be taken will depend
on its geographical situation and on its relative strength by land and sea.
Even when the object is clear it will be necessary to know how much value
the enemy attaches to it. Is it one for which he will be likely to fight to the
death, or one which he will abandon in the face of comparatively slight
resistance? If the former, we cannot hope to succeed without entirely
overthrowing his powers of resistance. If the latter, it will suffice, as it often
has sufficed, to aim at something less costly and hazardous and better
within our means. All these are questions which lie in the lap of Ministers
charged with the foreign policy of the country, and before the Staff can
proceed with a war plan they must be answered by Ministers.
In short, the Staff must ask of them what is the policy which your
diplomacy is pursuing, and where, and why, do you expect it to break down
and force you to take up arms? The Staff has to carry on in fact when
diplomacy has failed to achieve the object in view, and the method they will
use will depend on the nature of that object. So we arrive crudely at our
theory that war is a continuation of policy, a form of political intercourse in
which we fight battles instead of writing notes.
It was this theory, simple and even meaningless as it appears at first sight,
that gave the key to the practical work of framing a modern war plan and
revolutionised the study of strategy. It was not till the beginning of the
nineteenth century that such a theory was arrived at. For centuries men had
written on the "Art of War," but for want of a working theory their labours
as a whole had been unscientific, concerned for the most part with the
discussion of passing fashions and the elaboration of platitudes. Much good
work it is true was done on details, but no broad outlook had been obtained
to enable us to determine their relation to the fundamental constants of the
subject. No standpoint had been found from which we could readily detach
such constants from what was merely accidental. The result was a tendency
to argue too exclusively from the latest examples and to become entangled
in erroneous thought by trying to apply the methods which had attained the
last success to war as a whole. There was no means of determining how far
the particular success was due to special conditions and how far it was due
to factors common to all wars.

It was the Revolutionary and Napoleonic wars, coinciding as they did with
a period of philosophic activity, that revealed the shallowness and empirical
nature of all that had been done up to that time. Napoleon's methods
appeared to his contemporaries to have produced so strenuous a revolution
in the conduct of land warfare that it assumed a wholly new aspect, and it
was obvious that those conceptions which had sufficed previously had
become inadequate as a basis of sound study. War on land seemed to have
changed from a calculated affair of thrust and parry between standing
armies to a headlong rush of one nation in arms upon another, each thirsting
for the other's life, and resolved to have it or perish in the attempt. Men felt
themselves faced with a manifestation of human energy which had had no
counterpart, at least in civilised times.
The assumption was not entirely true. For although the Continent had never
before adopted the methods in question, our own country was no stranger to
them either on sea or land. As we shall see, our own Revolution in the
seventeenth century had produced strenuous methods of making war which
were closely related to those which Napoleon took over from the French
Revolutionary leaders. A more philosophic outlook might have suggested
that the phenomenon was not really exceptional, but rather the natural
outcome of popular energy inspired by a stirring political ideal. But the
British precedent was forgotten, and so profound was the disturbance
caused by the new French methods that its effects are with us still. We are
in fact still dominated by the idea that since the Napoleonic era war has
been essentially a different thing. Our teachers incline to insist that there is
now only one way of making war, and that is Napoleon's way. Ignoring the
fact that he failed in the end, they brand as heresy the bare suggestion that
there may be other ways, and not content with assuming that his system will
fit all land wars, however much their natures and objects may differ, they
would force naval warfare into the same uniform under the impression
apparently that they are thereby making it presentable and giving it some
new force.
Seeing how cramping the Napoleonic idea has become, it will be
convenient before going further to determine its special characteristics
exactly, but that is no easy matter. The moment we approach it in a critical
spirit, it begins to grow nebulous and very difficult to define. We can dimly
make out four distinct ideas mingled in the current notion. First, there is the

idea of making war not merely with a professional standing army, but with
the whole armed nation—a conception which of course was not really
Napoleon's. It was inherited by him from the Revolution, but was in fact far
older. It was but a revival of the universal practice which obtained in the
barbaric stages of social development, and which every civilisation in turn
had abandoned as economically unsound and subversive of specialisation in
citizenship. The results of the abandonment were sometimes good and
sometimes bad, but the determining conditions have been studied as yet too
imperfectly to justify any broad generalisation. Secondly, there is the idea
of strenuous and persistent effort—not resting to secure each minor
advantage, but pressing the enemy without pause or rest till he is utterly
overthrown—an idea in which Cromwell had anticipated Napoleon by a
century and a half. Scarcely distinguishable from this is a third idea—that
of taking the offensive, in which there was really nothing new at all, since
its advantages had always been understood, and Frederick the Great had
pressed it to extremity with little less daring than Napoleon himself—nay
even to culpable rashness, as the highest exponents of the Napoleonic idea
admit. Finally, there is the notion of making the armed forces of the enemy
and not his territory or any part of it your main objective. This perhaps is
regarded as the strongest characteristic of Napoleon's methods, and yet even
here we are confused by the fact that undoubtedly on some very important
occasions—the Austerlitz campaign, for example—Napoleon made the
hostile capital his objective as though he believed its occupation was the
most effective step towards the overthrow of the enemy's power and will to
resist. He certainly did not make the enemy's main army his primary
objective—for their main army was not Mack's but that of the Archduke
Charles.
On the whole then, when men speak of the Napoleonic system they seem to
include two groups of ideas—one which comprises the conception of war
made with the whole force of the nation; the other, a group which includes
the Cromwellian idea of persistent effort, Frederick's preference for the
offensive at almost any risk, and finally the idea of the enemy's armed
forces as the main objective, which was also Cromwell's.
It is the combination of these by no means original or very distinct ideas
that we are told has brought about so entire a change in the conduct of war
that it has become altogether a different thing. It is unnecessary for our

purpose to consider how far the facts seem to support such a conclusion, for
in the inherent nature of things it must be radically unsound. Neither war
nor anything else can change in its essentials. If it appears to do so, it is
because we are still mistaking accidents for essentials, and this is exactly
how it struck the acutest thinkers of Napoleonic times.
For a while it is true they were bewildered, but so soon as they had had time
to clear their heads from the din of the struggle in which they had taken
part, they began to see that the new phenomena were but accidents after all.
They perceived that Napoleon's methods, which had taken the world by
storm, had met with success in wars of a certain nature only, and that when
he tried to extend those methods to other natures of war he had met with
failure and even disaster. How was this to be explained? What theory, for
instance, would cover Napoleon's successes in Germany and Italy, as well
as his failures in Spain and Russia? If the whole conception of war had
changed, how could you account for the success of England, who had not
changed her methods? To us the answer to these questions is of living and
infinite importance. Our standpoint remains still unchanged. Is there
anything inherent in the conception of war that justifies that attitude in our
case? Are we entitled to expect from it again the same success it met with in
the past?
The first man to enunciate a theory which would explain the phenomena of
the Napoleonic era and co-ordinate them with previous history was General
Carl von Clausewitz, a man whose arduous service on the Staff and the
actual work of higher instruction had taught the necessity of systematising
the study of his profession. He was no mere professor, but a soldier bred in
the severest school of war. The pupil and friend of Sharnhorst and
Gneisenau, he had served on the Staff of Blücher in 1813, he had been
Chief of the Staff to Wallmoden in his campaign against Davoust on the
Lower Elbe, and also to the Third Prussian Army Corps in the campaign of
1815. Thereafter for more than ten years he was Director of the General
Academy of War at Berlin, and died in 1831 as Chief of the Staff to
Marshal Gneisenau. For the fifty years that followed his death his theories
and system were, as he expected they would be, attacked from all sides. Yet
to-day his work is more firmly established than ever as the necessary basis
of all strategical thought, and above all in the "blood and iron" school of
Germany.

The process by which he reached his famous theory can be followed in his
classical work On War and the Notes regarding it which he left behind him.
In accordance with the philosophic fashion of his time he began by trying to
formulate an abstract idea of war. The definition he started with was that
"War is an act of violence to compel our opponent to do our will." But that
act of violence was not merely "the shock of armies," as Montecuccoli had
defined it a century and a half before. If the abstract idea of war be followed
to its logical conclusion, the act of violence must be performed with the
whole of the means at our disposal and with the utmost exertion of our will.
Consequently we get the conception of two armed nations flinging
themselves one upon the other, and continuing the struggle with the utmost
strength and energy they can command till one or other is no longer capable
of resistance. This Clausewitz called "Absolute War." But his practical
experience and ripe study of history told him at once that "Real War" was
something radically different. It was true, as he said, that Napoleon's
methods had approximated to the absolute and had given some colour to the
use of the absolute idea as a working theory. "But shall we," he acutely
asks, "rest satisfied with this idea and judge all wars by it however much
they may differ from it—shall we deduce from it all the requirements of
theory? We must decide the point, for we can say nothing trustworthy about
a war plan until we have made up our minds whether war should only be of
this kind or whether it may be of another kind." He saw at once that a
theory formed upon the abstract or absolute idea of war would not cover the
ground, and therefore failed to give what was required for practical
purposes. It would exclude almost the whole of war from Alexander's time
to Napoleon's. And what guarantee was there that the next war would
confirm to the Napoleonic type and accommodate itself to the abstract
theory? "This theory," he says, "is still quite powerless against the force of
circumstances." And so it proved, for the wars of the middle nineteenth
century did in fact revert to the pre-Napoleonic type.
In short, Clausewitz's difficulty in adopting his abstract theory as a working
rule was that his practical mind could not forget that war had not begun
with the Revolutionary era, nor was it likely to end with it. If that era had
changed the conduct of war, it must be presumed that war would change
again with other times and other conditions. A theory of war which did not
allow for this and did not cover all that had gone before was no theory at

all. If a theory of war was to be of any use as a practical guide it must cover
and explain not only the extreme manifestation of hostility which he
himself had witnessed, but every manifestation that had occurred in the past
or was likely to recur in the future.
It was in casting about for the underlying causes of the oscillations
manifested in the energy and intensity of hostile relations that he found his
solution. His experience on the Staff, and his study of the inner springs of
war, told him it was never in fact a question of purely military endeavour
aiming always at the extreme of what was possible or expedient from a
purely military point of view. The energy exhibited would always be
modified by political considerations and by the depth of the national interest
in the object of the war. He saw that real war was in fact an international
relation which differed from other international relations only in the method
we adopted to achieve the object of our policy. So it was he arrived at his
famous theory—"that war is a mere continuation of policy by other means."
At first sight there seems little enough in it. It may seem perhaps that we
have been watching a mountain in labour and nothing but a mouse has been
produced. But it is only upon some such simple, even obvious, formula that
any scientific system can be constructed with safety. We have only to
develop the meaning of this one to see how important and practical are the
guiding lines which flow from it.
With the conception of war as a continuation of political intercourse before
us, it is clear that everything which lies outside the political conception,
everything, that is, which is strictly peculiar to military and naval
operations, relates merely to the means which we use to achieve our policy.
Consequently, the first desideratum of a war plan is that the means adopted
must conflict as little as possible with the political conditions from which
the war springs. In practice, of course, as in all human relations, there will
be a compromise between the means and the end, between the political and
the military exigencies. But Clausewitz held that policy must always be the
master. The officer charged with the conduct of the war may of course
demand that the tendencies and views of policy shall not be incompatible
with the military means which are placed at his disposal; but however
strongly this demand may react on policy in particular cases, military action
must still be regarded only as a manifestation of policy. It must never

supersede policy. The policy is always the object; war is only the means by
which we obtain the object, and the means must always keep the end in
view.
The practical importance of this conception will now become clear. It will
be seen to afford the logical or theoretical exposition of what we began by
stating in its purely concrete form. When a Chief of Staff is asked for a war
plan he must not say we will make war in such and such a way because it
was Napoleon's or Moltke's way. He will ask what is the political object of
the war, what are the political conditions, and how much does the question
at issue mean respectively to us and to our adversary. It is these
considerations which determine the nature of the war. This primordial
question settled, he will be in a position to say whether the war is of the
same nature as those in which Napoleon's and Moltke's methods were
successful, or whether it is of another nature in which those methods failed.
He will then design and offer a war plan, not because it has the hall-mark of
this or that great master of war, but because it is one that has been proved to
fit the kind of war in hand. To assume that one method of conducting war
will suit all kinds of war is to fall a victim to abstract theory, and not to be a
prophet of reality, as the narrowest disciples of the Napoleonic school are
inclined to see themselves.
Hence, says Clausewitz, the first, the greatest and most critical decision
upon which the Statesman and the General have to exercise their judgment
is to determine the nature of the war, to be sure they do not mistake it for
something nor seek to make of it something which from its inherent
conditions it can never be. "This," he declares, "is the first and the most far-
reaching of all strategical questions."
The first value, then, of his theory of war is that it gives a clear line on
which we may proceed to determine the nature of a war in which we are
about to engage, and to ensure that we do not try to apply to one nature of
war any particular course of operations simply because they have proved
successful in another nature of war. It is only, he insists, by regarding war
not as an independent thing but as a political instrument that we can read
aright the lessons of history and understand for our practical guidance how
wars must differ in character according to the nature of the motives and
circumstances from which they proceed. This conception, he claims, is the

first ray of light to guide us to a true theory of war and thereby enable us to
classify wars and distinguish them one from another.
Jomini, his great contemporary and rival, though proceeding by a less
philosophical but no less lucid method, entirely endorses this view. A Swiss
soldier of fortune, his experience was much the same as that of Clausewitz.
It was obtained mainly on the Staff of Marshal Ney and subsequently on the
Russian headquarter Staff. He reached no definite theory of war, but his
fundamental conclusions were the same. The first chapter of his final work,
Précis de l'art de la Guerre, is devoted to "La Politique de la Guerre." In it
he classifies wars into nine categories according to their political object,
and he lays it down as a base proposition "That these different kinds of war
will have more or less influence on the nature of the operations which will
be demanded to attain the end in view, on the amount of energy that must be
put forth, and on the extent of the undertakings in which we must engage."
"There will," he adds, "be a great difference in the operations according to
the risks we have to run."
Both men, therefore, though on details of means they were often widely
opposed, are agreed that the fundamental conception of war is political.
Both of course agree that if we isolate in our mind the forces engaged in
any theatre of war the abstract conception reappears. So far as those forces
are concerned, war is a question of fighting in which each belligerent
should endeavour by all means at his command and with all his energy to
destroy the other. But even so they may find that certain means are barred to
them for political reasons, and at any moment the fortune of war or a
development of the political conditions with which it is entangled may
throw them back upon the fundamental political theory.
That theory it will be unprofitable to labour further at this point. Let it
suffice for the present to mark that it gives us a conception of war as an
exertion of violence to secure a political end which we desire to attain, and
that from this broad and simple formula we are able to deduce at once that
wars will vary according to the nature of the end and the intensity of our
desire to attain it. Here we may leave it to gather force and coherence as we
examine the practical considerations which are its immediate outcome.

CHAPTER TWO

NATURES OF WARS—
OFFENSIVE AND
DEFENSIVE

Having determined that wars must vary in character according to the nature
and importance of their object, we are faced with the difficulty that the
variations will be of infinite number and of all degrees of distinction. So
complex indeed is the graduation presented that at first sight it appears
scarcely possible to make it the basis of practical study. But on further
examination it will be seen that by applying the usual analytical method the
whole subject is susceptible of much simplification. We must in short
attempt to reach some system of classification; that is, we must see if it is
not possible to group the variations into some well-founded categories.
With a subject so complex and intangible the grouping must of course be to
some extent arbitrary, and in some places the lines of demarcation will be
shadowy; but if classification has been found possible and helpful in
Zoology or Botany, with the infinite and minute individual variations with
which they have to deal, it should be no less possible and helpful in the
study of war.
The political theory of war will at any rate give us two broad and well-
marked classifications. The first is simple and well known, depending on
whether the political object of the war is positive or negative. If it be
positive—that is, if our aim is to wrest something from the enemy—then
our war in its main lines will be offensive. If, on the other hand, our aim be
negative, and we simply seek to prevent the enemy wresting some
advantage to our detriment, then the war in its general direction will be
defensive.
It is only as a broad conception that this classification has value. Though it
fixes the general trend of our operations, it will not in itself affect their
character. For a maritime Power at least it is obvious that this must be so.
For in any circumstances it is impossible for such a Power either to

establish its defence or develop fully its offence without securing a working
control of the sea by aggressive action against the enemy's fleets.
Furthermore, we have always found that however strictly our aim may be
defensive, the most effective means of securing it has been by counter-
attack over-sea, either to support an ally directly or to deprive our enemy of
his colonial possessions. Neither category, then, excludes the use of
offensive operations nor the idea of overthrowing our enemy so far as is
necessary to gain our end. In neither case does the conception lead us
eventually to any other objective than the enemy's armed forces, and
particularly his naval forces. The only real difference is this—that if our
object be positive our general plan must be offensive, and we should at least
open with a true offensive movement; whereas if our object be negative our
general plan will be preventive, and we may bide our time for our counter-
attack. To this extent our action must always tend to the offensive. For
counter-attack is the soul of defence. Defence is not a passive attitude, for
that is the negation of war. Rightly conceived, it is an attitude of alert
expectation. We wait for the moment when the enemy shall expose himself
to a counter-stroke, the success of which will so far cripple him as to render
us relatively strong enough to pass to the offensive ourselves.
From these considerations it will appear that, real and logical as the
classification is, to give it the designation "offensive and defensive" is
objectionable from every point of view. To begin with, it does not
emphasise what the real and logical distinction is. It suggests that the basis
of the classification is not so much a difference of object as a difference in
the means employed to achieve the object. Consequently we find ourselves
continually struggling with the false assumption that positive war means
using attack, and negative war being content with defence.
That is confusing enough, but a second objection to the designation is far
more serious and more fertile of error. For the classification "offensive and
defensive" implies that offensive and defensive are mutually exclusive
ideas, whereas the truth is, and it is a fundamental truth of war, that they are
mutually complementary. All war and every form of it must be both
offensive and defensive. No matter how clear our positive aim nor how high
our offensive spirit, we cannot develop an aggressive line of strategy to the
full without the support of the defensive on all but the main lines of
operation. In tactics it is the same. The most convinced devotee of attack

admits the spade as well as the rifle. And even when it comes to men and
material, we know that without a certain amount of protection neither ships,
guns, nor men can develop their utmost energy and endurance in striking
power. There is never, in fact, a clean choice between attack and defence. In
aggressive operations the question always is, how far must defence enter
into the methods we employ in order to enable us to do the utmost within
our resources to break or paralyse the strength of the enemy. So also with
defence. Even in its most legitimate use, it must always be supplemented by
attack. Even behind the walls of a fortress men know that sooner or later the
place must fall unless by counter-attack on the enemy's siege works or
communications they can cripple his power of attack.
It would seem, therefore, that it were better to lay aside the designation
"offensive and defensive" altogether and substitute the terms "positive and
negative." But here again we are confronted with a difficulty. There have
been many wars in which positive methods have been used all through to
secure a negative end, and such wars will not sit easily in either class. For
instance, in the War of Spanish Succession our object was mainly to prevent
the Mediterranean becoming a French lake by the union of the French and
Spanish crowns, but the method by which we succeeded in achieving our
end was to seize the naval positions of Gibraltar and Minorca, and so in
practice our method was positive. Again, in the late Russo-Japanese War the
main object of Japan was to prevent Korea being absorbed by Russia. That
aim was preventive and negative. But the only effective way of securing her
aim was to take Korea herself, and so for her the war was in practice
positive.
On the other hand, we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that in the majority of
wars the side with the positive object has acted generally on the offensive
and the other generally on the defensive. Unpractical therefore as the
distinction seems to be, it is impossible to dismiss it without inquiring why
this was so, and it is in this inquiry that the practical results of the
classification will be found to lie—that is, it forces us to analyse the
comparative advantages of offence and defence. A clear apprehension of
their relative possibilities is the corner stone of strategical study.
Now the advantages of the offensive are patent and admitted. It is only the
offensive that can produce positive results, while the strength and energy

which are born of the moral stimulation of attack are of a practical value
that outweighs almost every other consideration. Every man of spirit would
desire to use the offensive whether his object were positive or negative, and
yet there are a number of cases in which some of the most energetic masters
of war have chosen the defensive, and chosen with success. They have
chosen it when they have found themselves inferior in physical force to
their enemy, and when they believed that no amount of aggressive spirit
could redress that inferiority.
Obviously, then, for all the inferiority of the defensive as a drastic form of
war it must have some inherent advantage which the offensive does not
enjoy. In war we adopt every method for which we have sufficient strength.
If, then, we adopt the less desirable method of defence, it must be either that
we have not sufficient strength for offence, or that the defence gives us
some special strength for the attainment of our object.
What, then, are these elements of strength? It is very necessary to inquire,
not only that we may know that if for a time we are forced back upon the
defensive all is not lost, but also that we may judge with how much daring
we should push our offensive to prevent the enemy securing the advantages
of defence.
As a general principle we all know that possession is nine points of the law.
It is easier to keep money in our pocket than to take it from another man's.
If one man would rob another he must be the stronger or better armed
unless he can do it by dexterity or stealth, and there lies one of the
advantages of offence. The side which takes the initiative has usually the
better chance of securing advantage by dexterity or stealth. But it is not
always so. If either by land or sea we can take a defensive position so good
that it cannot be turned and must be broken down before our enemy can
reach his objective, then the advantage of dexterity and stealth passes to us.
We choose our own ground for the trial of strength. We are hidden on
familiar ground; he is exposed on ground that is less familiar. We can lay
traps and prepare surprises by counter-attack, when he is most dangerously
exposed. Hence the paradoxical doctrine that where defence is sound and
well designed the advantage of surprise is against the attack.

It will be seen therefore that whatever advantages lie in defence they
depend on the preservation of the offensive spirit. Its essence is the counter-
attack—waiting deliberately for a chance to strike—not cowering in
inactivity. Defence is a condition of restrained activity—not a mere
condition of rest. Its real weakness is that if unduly prolonged it tends to
deaden the spirit of offence. This is a truth so vital that some authorities in
their eagerness to enforce it have travestied it into the misleading maxim,
"That attack is the best defence." Hence again an amateurish notion that
defence is always stupid or pusillanimous, leading always to defeat, and
that what is called "the military spirit" means nothing but taking the
offensive. Nothing is further from the teaching or the practice of the best
masters. Like Wellington at Torres Vedras, they all at times used the
defensive till the elements of strength inherent in that form of war, as
opposed to the exhausting strain inherent in the form that they had fixed
upon their opponents, lifted them to a position where they in their turn were
relatively strong enough to use the more exhausting form.
The confusion of thought which has led to the misconceptions about
defence as a method of war is due to several obvious causes. Counter-
attacks from a general defensive attitude have been regarded as a true
offensive, as, for instance, in Frederick the Great's best-known operations,
or in Admiral Tegetthoff's brilliant counterstroke at Lissa, or our own
operations against the Spanish Armada. Again, the defensive has acquired
an ill name by its being confused with a wrongly arrested offensive, where
the superior Power with the positive object lacked the spirit to use his
material superiority with sufficient activity and perseverance. Against such
a Power an inferior enemy can always redress his inferiority by passing to a
bold and quick offensive, thus acquiring a momentum both moral and
physical which more than compensates his lack of weight. The defensive
has also failed by the choice of a bad position which the enemy was able to
turn or avoid. A defensive attitude is nothing at all, its elements of strength
entirely disappear, unless it is such that the enemy must break it down by
force before he can reach his ultimate objective. Even more often has it
failed when the belligerent adopting it, finding he has no available
defensive position which will bar the enemy's progress, attempts to guard
every possible line of attack. The result is of course that by attenuating his
force he only accentuates his inferiority.

Clear and well proven as these considerations are for land warfare, their
application to the sea is not so obvious. It will be objected that at sea there
is no defensive. This is generally true for tactics, but even so not universally
true. Defensive tactical positions are possible at sea, as in defended
anchorages. These were always a reality, and the mine has increased their
possibilities. In the latest developments of naval warfare we have seen the
Japanese at the Elliot Islands preparing a real defensive position to cover
the landing of their Second Army in the Liaotung Peninsula. Strategically
the proposition is not true at all. A strategical defensive has been quite as
common at sea as on land, and our own gravest problems have often been
how to break down such an attitude when our enemy assumed it. It usually
meant that the enemy remained in his own waters and near his own bases,
where it was almost impossible for us to attack him with decisive result,
and whence he always threatened us with counterattack at moments of
exhaustion, as the Dutch did at Sole Bay and in the Medway. The difficulty
of dealing decisively with an enemy who adopted this course was realised
by our service very early, and from first to last one of our chief
preoccupations was to prevent the enemy availing himself of this device
and to force him to fight in the open, or at least to get between him and his
base and force an action there.
Probably the most remarkable manifestation of the advantages that may be
derived in suitable conditions from a strategical defensive is also to be
found in the late Russo-Japanese War. In the final crisis of the naval
struggle the Japanese fleet was able to take advantage of a defensive
attitude in its own waters which the Russian Baltic fleet would have to
break down to attain its end, and the result was the most decisive naval
victory ever recorded.
The deterrent power of active and dexterous operations from such a position
was well known to our old tradition. The device was used several times,
particularly in our home waters, to prevent a fleet, which for the time we
were locally too weak to destroy, from carrying out the work assigned to it.
A typical position of the kind was off Scilly, and it was proved again and
again that even a superior fleet could not hope to effect anything in the
Channel till the fleet off Scilly had been brought to decisive action. But the
essence of the device was the preservation of the aggressive spirit in its
most daring form. For success it depended on at least the will to seize every

occasion for bold and harassing counter-attacks such as Drake and his
colleagues struck at the Armada.
To submit to blockade in order to engage the attention of a superior enemy's
fleet is another form of defensive, but one that is almost wholly evil. For a
short time it may do good by permitting offensive operations elsewhere
which otherwise would be impossible. But if prolonged, it will sooner or
later destroy the spirit of your force and render it incapable of effective
aggression.
The conclusion then is that although for the practical purpose of framing or
appreciating plans of war the classification of wars into offensive and
defensive is of little use, a clear apprehension of the inherent relative
advantages of offence and defence is essential. We must realise that in
certain cases, provided always we preserve the aggressive spirit, the
defensive will enable an inferior force to achieve points when the offensive
would probably lead to its destruction. But the elements of strength depend
entirely on the will and insight to deal rapid blows in the enemy's
unguarded moments. So soon as the defensive ceases to be regarded as a
means of fostering power to strike and of reducing the enemy's power of
attack it loses all its strength. It ceases to be even a suspended activity, and
anything that is not activity is not war.
With these general indications of the relative advantages of offence and
defence we may leave the subject for the present. It is possible of course to
catalogue the advantages and disadvantages of each form, but any such bald
statement—without concrete examples to explain the meaning—must
always appear controversial and is apt to mislead. It is better to reserve their
fuller consideration till we come to deal with strategical operations and are
able to note their actual effect upon the conduct of war in its various forms.
Leaving therefore our first classification of wars into offensive and
defensive we will pass on to the second, which is the only one of real
practical importance.

CHAPTER THREE

NATURES OF WARS—
LIMITED AND
UNLIMITED

The second classification to which we are led by the political theory of war,
is one which Clausewitz was the first to formulate and one to which he
came to attach the highest importance. It becomes necessary therefore to
examine his views in some detail—not because there is any need to regard a
continental soldier, however distinguished, as an indispensable authority for
a maritime nation. The reason is quite the reverse. It is because a careful
examination of his doctrine on this point will lay open what are the radical
and essential differences between the German or Continental School of
Strategy and the British or Maritime School—that is, our own traditional
School, which too many writers both at home and abroad quietly assume to
have no existence. The evil tendency of that assumption cannot be too
strongly emphasised, and the main purpose of this and the following
chapters will be to show how and why even the greatest of the continental
strategists fell short of realising fully the characteristic conception of the
British tradition.
By the classification in question Clausewitz distinguished wars into those
with a "Limited" object and those whose object was "Unlimited." Such a
classification was entirely characteristic of him, for it rested not alone upon
the material nature of the object, but on certain moral considerations to
which he was the first to attach their real value in war. Other writers such as
Jomini had attempted to classify wars by the special purpose for which they
were fought, but Clausewitz's long course of study convinced him that such
a distinction was unphilosophical and bore no just relation to any tenable
theory of war. Whether, that is, a war was positive or negative mattered
much, but its special purpose, whether, for instance, according to Jomini's
system, it was a war "to assert rights" or "to assist an ally" or "to acquire
territory," mattered not at all.

Whatever the object, the vital and paramount question was the intensity
with which the spirit of the nation was absorbed in its attainment. The real
point to determine in approaching any war plan was what did the object
mean to the two belligerents, what sacrifices would they make for it, what
risks were they prepared to run? It was thus he stated his view. "The smaller
the sacrifice we demand from our opponent, the smaller presumably will be
the means of resistance he will employ, and the smaller his means, the
smaller will ours be required to be. Similarly the smaller our political
object, the less value shall we set upon it and the more easily we shall be
induced to abandon it." Thus the political object of the war, its original
motive, will not only determine for both belligerents reciprocally the aim of
the force they use, but it will also be the standard of the intensity of the
efforts they will make. So he concludes there may be wars of all degrees of
importance and energy from a war of extermination down to the use of an
army of observation. So also in the naval sphere there may be a life and
death struggle for maritime supremacy or hostilities which never rise
beyond a blockade.
Such a view of the subject was of course a wide departure from the theory
of "Absolute War" on which Clausewitz had started working. Under that
theory "Absolute War" was the ideal form to which all war ought to attain,
and those which fell short of it were imperfect wars cramped by a lack of
true military spirit. But so soon as he had seized the fact that in actual life
the moral factor always must override the purely military factor, he saw that
he had been working on too narrow a basis—a basis that was purely
theoretical in that it ignored the human factor. He began to perceive that it
was logically unsound to assume as the foundation of a strategical system
that there was one pattern to which all wars ought to conform. In the light
of his full and final apprehension of the value of the human factor he saw
wars falling into two well-marked categories, each of which would
legitimately be approached in a radically different manner, and not
necessarily on the lines of "Absolute War."
He saw that there was one class of war where the political object was of so
vital an importance to both belligerents that they would tend to fight to the
utmost limit of their endurance to secure it. But there was another class
where the object was of less importance, that is to say, where its value to
one or both the belligerents was not so great as to be worth unlimited

sacrifices of blood and treasure. It was these two kinds of war he designated
provisionally "Unlimited" and "Limited," by which he meant not that you
were not to exert the force employed with all the vigour you could develop,
but that there might be a limit beyond which it would be bad policy to
spend that vigour, a point at which, long before your force was exhausted or
even fully developed, it would be wiser to abandon your object rather than
to spend more upon it.
This distinction it is very necessary to grasp quite clearly, for it is often
superficially confused with the distinction already referred to, which
Clausewitz drew in the earlier part of his work—that is, the distinction
between what he called the character of modern war and the character of the
wars which preceded the Napoleonic era. It will be remembered he insisted
that the wars of his own time had been wars between armed nations with a
tendency to throw the whole weight of the nation into the fighting line,
whereas in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries wars were waged by
standing armies and not by the whole nation in arms. The distinction of
course is real and of far-reaching consequences, but it has no relation to the
distinction between "Limited" and "Unlimited" war. War may be waged on
the Napoleonic system either for a limited or an unlimited object.
A modern instance will serve to clear the field. The recent Russo-Japanese
War was fought for a limited object—the assertion of certain claims over
territory which formed no part of the possessions of either belligerent.
Hostilities were conducted on entirely modern lines by two armed nations
and not by standing armies alone. But in the case of one belligerent her
interest in the object was so limited as to cause her to abandon it long
before her whole force as an armed nation was exhausted or even put forth.
The expense of life and treasure which the struggle was involving was
beyond what the object was worth.
This second distinction—that is, between Limited and Unlimited wars—
Clausewitz regarded as of greater importance than his previous one founded
on the negative or positive nature of the object. He was long in reaching it.
His great work On War as he left it proceeds almost entirely on the
conception of offensive or defensive as applied to the Napoleonic ideal of
absolute war. The new idea came to him towards the end in the full maturity
of his prolonged study, and it came to him in endeavouring to apply his

strategical speculations to the practical process of framing a war plan in
anticipation of a threatened breach with France. It was only in his final
section On War Plans that he began to deal with it. By that time he had
grasped the first practical result to which his theory led. He saw that the
distinction between Limited and Unlimited war connoted a cardinal
distinction in the methods of waging it. When the object was unlimited, and
would consequently call forth your enemy's whole war power, it was
evident that no firm decision of the struggle could be reached till his war
power was entirely crushed. Unless you had a reasonable hope of being able
to do this it was bad policy to seek your end by force—that is, you ought
not to go to war. In the case of a limited object, however, the complete
destruction of the enemy's armed force was beyond what was necessary.
Clearly you could achieve your end if you could seize the object, and by
availing yourself of the elements of strength inherent in the defensive could
set up such a situation that it would cost the enemy more to turn you out
than the object was worth to him.
Here then was a wide difference in the fundamental postulate of your war
plan. In the case of an unlimited war your main strategical offensive must
be directed against the armed forces of the enemy; in the case of a limited
war, even where its object was positive, it need not be. If conditions were
favourable, it would suffice to make the object itself the objective of your
main strategical offensive. Clearly, then, he had reached a theoretical
distinction which modified his whole conception of strategy. No longer is
there logically but one kind of war, the Absolute, and no longer is there but
one legitimate objective, the enemy's armed forces. Being sound theory, it
of course had an immediate practical value, for obviously it was a
distinction from which the actual work of framing a war plan must take its
departure.
A curious corroboration of the soundness of these views is that Jomini
reached an almost identical standpoint independently and by an entirely
different road. His method was severely concrete, based on the comparison
of observed facts, but it brought him as surely as the abstract method of his
rival to the conclusion that there were two distinct classes of object. "They
are of two different kinds," he says, "one which may be called territorial or
geographical ... the other on the contrary consists exclusively in the
destruction or disorganisation of the enemy's forces without concerning

yourself with geographical points of any kind." It is under the first category
of his first main classification "Of offensive wars to assert rights," that he
deals with what Clausewitz would call "Limited Wars." Citing as an
example Frederick the Great's war for the conquest of Silesia, he says, "In
such a war ... the offensive operations ought to be proportional to the end in
view. The first move is naturally to occupy the provinces claimed" (not, be
it noted, to direct your blow at the enemy's main force). "Afterwards," he
proceeds, "you can push the offensive according to circumstances and your
relative strength in order to obtain the desired cession by menacing the
enemy at home." Here we have Clausewitz's whole doctrine of "Limited
War"; firstly, the primary or territorial stage, in which you endeavour to
occupy the geographical object, and then the secondary or coercive stage, in
which you seek by exerting general pressure upon your enemy to force him
to accept the adverse situation you have set up.
Such a method of making war obviously differs in a fundamental manner
from that which Napoleon habitually adopted, and yet we have it presented
by Jomini and Clausewitz, the two apostles of the Napoleonic method. The
explanation is, of course, that both of them had seen too much not to know
that Napoleon's method was only applicable when you could command a
real physical or moral preponderance. Given such a preponderance, both
were staunch for the use of extreme means in Napoleon's manner. It is not
as something better than the higher road that they commend the lower one,
but being veteran staff-officers and not mere theorists, they knew well that a
belligerent must sometimes find the higher road beyond his strength, or
beyond the effort which the spirit of the nation is prepared to make for the
end in view, and like the practical men they were, they set themselves to
study the potentialities of the lower road should hard necessity force them
to travel it. They found that these potentialities in certain circumstances
were great. As an example of a case where the lower form was more
appropriate Jomini cites Napoleon's campaign against Russia in 1812. In his
opinion it would have been better if Napoleon had been satisfied to begin
on the lower method with a limited territorial object, and he attributes his
failure to the abuse of a method which, however well suited to his wars in
Germany, was incapable of achieving success in the conditions presented by
a war with Russia.

Seeing how high was Napoleon's opinion of Jomini as a master of the
science of war, it is curious how his views on the two natures of wars have
been ignored in the present day. It is even more curious in the case of
Clausewitz, since we know that in the plenitude of his powers he came to
regard this classification as the master-key of the subject. The explanation is
that the distinction is not very clearly formulated in his first seven books,
which alone he left in anything like a finished condition. It was not till he
came to write his eighth book On War Plans that he saw the vital
importance of the distinction round which he had been hovering. In that
book the distinction is clearly laid down, but the book unhappily was never
completed. With his manuscript, however, he left a "Note" warning us
against regarding his earlier books as a full presentation of his developed
ideas. From the note it is also evident that he thought the classification on
which he had lighted was of the utmost importance, that he believed it
would clear up all the difficulties which he had encountered in his earlier
books—difficulties which he had come to see arose from a too exclusive
consideration of the Napoleonic method of conducting war. "I look upon the
first six books," he wrote in 1827, "as only a mass of material which is still
in a manner without form and which has still to be revised again. In this
revision the two kinds of wars will be kept more distinctly in view all
through, and thereby all ideas will gain in clearness, in precision, and in
exactness of application." Evidently he had grown dissatisfied with the
theory of Absolute War on which he had started. His new discovery had
convinced him that that theory would not serve as a standard for all natures
of wars. "Shall we," he asks in his final book, "shall we now rest satisfied
with this idea and by it judge of all wars, however much they may differ?"2
He answers his question in the negative. "You cannot determine the
requirements of all wars from the Napoleonic type. Keep that type and its
absolute method before you to use when you can or when you must, but
keep equally before you that there are two main natures of war."
In his note written at this time, when the distinction first came to him, he
defines these two natures of war as follows: "First, those in which the object
is the overthrow of the enemy, whether it be we aim at his political
destruction or merely at disarming him and forcing him to conclude peace
on our terms; and secondly, those in which our object is merely to make
some conquests on the frontiers of his country, either for the purpose of

retaining them permanently or of turning them to account as a matter of
exchange in settling terms of peace."3 It was in his eighth book that he
intended, had he lived, to have worked out the comprehensive idea he had
conceived. Of that book he says, "The chief object will be to make good the
two points of view above mentioned, by which everything will be
simplified and at the same time be given the breath of life. I hope in this
book to iron out many creases in the heads of strategists and statesmen, and
at least to show the object of action and the real point to be considered in
war."4
That hope was never realised, and that perhaps is why his penetrating
analysis has been so much ignored. The eighth book as we have it is only a
fragment. In the spring of 1830—an anxious moment, when it seemed that
Prussia would require all her best for another struggle single-handed with
France—he was called away to an active command. What he left of the
book on "War Plans" he describes as "merely a track roughly cleared, as it
were, through the mass, in order to ascertain the points of greatest
moment." It was his intention, he says, to "carry the spirit of these ideas into
his first six books"—to put the crown on his work, in fact, by elaborating
and insisting upon his two great propositions, viz. that war was a form of
policy, and that being so it might be Limited or Unlimited.
The extent to which he would have infused his new idea into the whole
every one is at liberty to judge for himself; but this indisputable fact
remains. In the winter in view of the threatening attitude of France in regard
to Belgium he drew up a war plan, and it was designed not on the
Napoleonic method of making the enemy's armed force the main strategical
objective, but on seizing a limited territorial object and forcing a
disadvantageous counter-offensive upon the French. The revolutionary
movement throughout Europe had broken the Holy Alliance to pieces. Not
only did Prussia find herself almost single-handed against France, but she
herself was sapped by revolution. To adopt the higher form of war and seek
to destroy the armed force of the enemy was beyond her power. But she
could still use the lower form, and by seizing Belgium she could herself
force so exhausting a task on France that success was well within her
strength. It was exactly so we endeavoured to begin the Seven Years' War;
and it was exactly so the Japanese successfully conducted their war with
Russia; and what is more striking, it was on similar lines that in 1859

Moltke in similar circumstances drew up his first war plan against France.
His idea at that time was on the lines which Jomini held should have been
Napoleon's in 1812. It was not to strike directly at Paris or the French main
army, but to occupy Alsace-Lorraine and hold that territory till altered
conditions should give him the necessary preponderance for proceeding to
the higher form or forcing a favourable peace.
In conclusion, then, we have to note that the matured fruit of the
Napoleonic period was a theory of war based not on the single absolute
idea, but on the dual distinction of Limited and Unlimited. Whatever
practical importance we may attach to the distinction, so much must be
admitted on the clear and emphatic pronouncements of Clausewitz and
Jomini. The practical importance is another matter. It may fairly be argued
that in continental warfare—in spite of the instances quoted by both the
classical writers—it is not very great, for reasons that will appear directly.
But it must be remembered that continental warfare is not the only form in
which great international issues are decided. Standing at the final point
which Clausewitz and Jomini reached, we are indeed only on the threshold
of the subject. We have to begin where they left off and inquire what their
ideas have to tell for the modern conditions of worldwide imperial States,
where the sea becomes a direct and vital factor.

CHAPTER FOUR

LIMITED WAR AND
MARITIME EMPIRES—
Development of Clausewitz's and Jomini's
Theory of a Limited Territorial Object, and Its
Application to Modern Imperial Conditions

The German war plans already cited, which were based respectively on the
occupation of Belgium and Alsace-Lorraine, and Jomini's remarks on
Napoleon's disastrous Russian campaign serve well to show the point to
which continental strategists have advanced along the road which
Clausewitz was the first to indicate clearly. We have now to consider its
application to modern imperial conditions, and above all where the
maritime element forcibly asserts itself. We shall then see how small that
advance has been compared with its far-reaching effects for a maritime and
above all an insular Power.
It is clear that Clausewitz himself never apprehended the full significance of
his brilliant theory. His outlook was still purely continental, and the
limitations of continental warfare tend to veil the fuller meaning of the
principle he had framed. Had he lived, there is little doubt he would have
worked it out to its logical conclusion, but his death condemned his theory
of limited war to remain in the inchoate condition in which he had left it.
It will be observed, as was natural enough, that all through his work
Clausewitz had in his mind war between two contiguous or at least adjacent
continental States, and a moment's consideration will show that in that type
of war the principle of the limited object can rarely if ever assert itself in
perfect precision. Clausewitz himself put it quite clearly. Assuming a case
where "the overthrow of the enemy"—that is, unlimited war—is beyond our
strength, he points out that we need not therefore necessarily act on the
defensive. Our action may still be positive and offensive, but the object can
be nothing more than "the conquest of part of the enemy's country." Such a

conquest he knew might so far weaken your enemy or strengthen your own
position as to enable you to secure a satisfactory peace. The path of history
is indeed strewn with such cases. But he was careful to point out that such a
form of war was open to the gravest objections. Once you had occupied the
territory you aimed at, your offensive action was, as a rule, arrested. A
defensive attitude had to be assumed, and such an arrest of offensive action
he had previously shown was inherently vicious, if only for moral reasons.
Added to this you might find that in your effort to occupy the territorial
object you had so irretrievably separated your striking force from your
home-defence force as to be in no position to meet your enemy if he was
able to retort by acting on unlimited lines with a stroke at your heart. A case
in point was the Austerlitz campaign, where Austria's object was to wrest
North Italy from Napoleon's empire. She sent her main army under the
Archduke Charles to seize the territory she desired. Napoleon immediately
struck at Vienna, destroyed her home army, and occupied the capital before
the Archduke could turn to bar his way.
The argument is this: that, as all strategic attack tends to leave points of
your own uncovered, it always involves greater or less provision for their
defence. It is obvious, therefore, that if we are aiming at a limited territorial
object the proportion of defence required will tend to be much greater than
if we are directing our attack on the main forces of the enemy. In unlimited
war our attack will itself tend to defend everything elsewhere, by forcing
the enemy to concentrate against our attack. Whether the limited form is
justifiable or not therefore depends, as Clausewitz points out, on the
geographical position of the object.
So far British experience is with him, but he then goes on to say the more
closely the territory in question is an annex of our own the safer is this form
of war, because then our offensive action will the more surely cover our
home country. As a case in point he cites Frederick the Great's opening of
the Seven Years' War with the occupation of Saxony—a piece of work
which materially strengthened Prussian defence. Of the British opening in
Canada he says nothing. His outlook was too exclusively continental for it
to occur to him to test his doctrine with a conspicuously successful case in
which the territory aimed at was distant from the home territory and in no
way covered it. Had he done so he must have seen how much stronger an
example of the strength of limited war was the case of Canada than the case

of Saxony. Moreover, he would have seen that the difficulties, which in
spite of his faith in his discovery accompanied his attempt to apply it, arose
from the fact that the examples he selected were not really examples at all.
When he conceived the idea, the only kind of limited object he had in his
mind was, to use his own words, "some conquests on the frontiers of the
enemy's country," such as Silesia and Saxony for Frederick the Great,
Belgium in his own war plan, and Alsace-Lorraine in that of Moltke. Now it
is obvious that such objects are not truly limited, for two reasons. In the
first place, such territory is usually an organic part of your enemy's country,
or otherwise of so much importance to him that he will be willing to use
unlimited effort to retain it. In the second place, there will be no strategical
obstacle to his being able to use his whole force to that end. To satisfy the
full conception of a limited object, one of two conditions is essential.
Firstly, it must be not merely limited in area, but of really limited political
importance; and secondly, it must be so situated as to be strategically
isolated or to be capable of being reduced to practical isolation by
strategical operations. Unless this condition exists, it is in the power of
either belligerent, as Clausewitz himself saw, to pass to unlimited war if he
so desires, and, ignoring the territorial objective, to strike at the heart of his
enemy and force him to desist.
If, then, we only regard war between contiguous continental States, in
which the object is the conquest of territory on either of their frontiers, we
get no real generic difference between limited and unlimited war. The line
between them is in any case too shadowy or unstable to give a classification
of any solidity. It is a difference of degree rather than of kind. If, on the
other hand, we extend our view to wars between worldwide empires, the
distinction at once becomes organic. Possessions which lie oversea or at the
extremities of vast areas of imperfectly settled territory are in an entirely
different category from those limited objects which Clausewitz
contemplated. History shows that they can never have the political
importance of objects which are organically part of the European system,
and it shows further that they can be isolated by naval action sufficiently to
set up the conditions of true limited war.
Jomini approaches the point, but without clearly detaching it. In his chapter
"On Great Invasions and Distant Expeditions," he points out how unsafe it

is to take the conditions of war between contiguous States and apply them
crudely to cases where the belligerents are separated by large areas of land
or sea. He hovers round the sea factor, feeling how great a difference it
makes, but without getting close to the real distinction. His conception of
the inter-action of fleets and armies never rises above their actual co-
operation in touch one with the other in a distant theatre. He has in mind the
assistance which the British fleet afforded Wellington in the Peninsula, and
Napoleon's dreams of Asiatic conquest, pronouncing such distant invasions
as impossible in modern times except perhaps in combination with a
powerful fleet that could provide the army of invasion with successive
advanced bases. Of the paramount value of the fleet's isolating and
preventive functions he gives no hint.
Even when he deals with oversea expeditions, as he does at some length, his
grip of the point is no closer. It is indeed significant of how entirely
continental thought had failed to penetrate the subject that in devoting over
thirty pages to an enumeration of the principles of oversea expeditions, he,
like Clausewitz, does not so much as mention the conquest of Canada; and
yet it is the leading case of a weak military Power succeeding by the use of
the limited form of war in forcing its will upon a strong one, and succeeding
because it was able by naval action to secure its home defence and isolate
the territorial object.
For our ideas of true limited objects, therefore, we must leave the
continental theatres and turn to mixed or maritime wars. We have to look to
such cases as Canada and Havana in the Seven Years' War, and Cuba in the
Spanish-American War, cases in which complete isolation of the object by
naval action was possible, or to such examples as the Crimea and Korea,
where sufficient isolation was attainable by naval action owing to the length
and difficulty of the enemy's land communications and to the strategical
situation of the territory at stake.
These examples will also serve to illustrate and enforce the second essential
of this kind of war. As has been already said, for a true limited object we
must have not only the power of isolation, but also the power by a secure
home defence of barring an unlimited counterstroke. In all the above cases
this condition existed. In all of them the belligerents had no contiguous
frontiers, and this point is vital. For it is obvious that if two belligerents

have a common frontier, it is open to the superior of them, no matter how
distant or how easy to isolate the limited object may be, to pass at will to
unlimited war by invasion. This process is even possible when the
belligerents are separated by a neutral State, since the territory of a weak
neutral will be violated if the object be of sufficient importance, or if the
neutral be too strong to coerce, there still remains the possibility that his
alliance may be secured.
We come, then, to this final proposition—that limited war is only
permanently possible to island Powers or between Powers which are
separated by sea, and then only when the Power desiring limited war is able
to command the sea to such a degree as to be able not only to isolate the
distant object, but also to render impossible the invasion of his home
territory.
Here, then, we reach the true meaning and highest military value of what
we call the command of the sea, and here we touch the secret of England's
success against Powers so greatly superior to herself in military strength. It
is only fitting that such a secret should have been first penetrated by an
Englishman. For so it was, though it must be said that except in the light of
Clausewitz's doctrine the full meaning of Bacon's famous aphorism is not
revealed. "This much is certain," said the great Elizabethan on the
experience of our first imperial war; "he that commands the sea is at great
liberty and may take as much or as little of the war as he will, whereas those
that be strongest by land are many times nevertheless in great straits." It
would be difficult to state more pithily the ultimate significance of
Clausewitz's doctrine. Its cardinal truth is clearly indicated—that limited
wars do not turn upon the armed strength of the belligerents, but upon the
amount of that strength which they are able or willing to bring to bear at the
decisive point.
It is much to be regretted that Clausewitz did not live to see with Bacon's
eyes and to work out the full comprehensiveness of his doctrine. His
ambition was to formulate a theory which would explain all wars. He
believed he had done so, and yet it is clear he never knew how complete
was his success, nor how wide was the field he had covered. To the end it
would seem he was unaware that he had found an explanation of one of the
most inscrutable problems in history—the expansion of England—at least

so far as it has been due to successful war. That a small country with a weak
army should have been able to gather to herself the most desirable regions
of the earth, and to gather them at the expense of the greatest military
Powers, is a paradox to which such Powers find it hard to be reconciled.
The phenomenon seemed always a matter of chance-an accident without
any foundation in the essential constants of war. It remained for Clausewitz,
unknown to himself, to discover that explanation, and he reveals it to us in
the inherent strength of limited war when means and conditions are
favourable for its use.
We find, then, if we take a wider view than was open to Clausewitz and
submit his latest ideas to the test of present imperial conditions, so far from
failing to cover the ground they gain a fuller meaning and a firmer basis.
Apply them to maritime warfare and it becomes clear that his distinction
between limited and unlimited war does not rest alone on the moral factor.
A war may be limited not only because the importance of the object is too
limited to call forth the whole national force, but also because the sea may
be made to present an insuperable physical obstacle to the whole national
force being brought to bear. That is to say, a war may be limited physically
by the strategical isolation of the object, as well as morally by its
comparative unimportance.

CHAPTER FIVE

WARS OF
INTERVENTION—LIMITED
INTERFERENCE
IN UNLIMITED WAR

Before leaving the general consideration of limited war, we have still to
deal with a form of it that has not yet been mentioned. Clausewitz gave it
provisionally the name of "War limited by contingent," and could find no
place for it in his system. It appeared to him to differ essentially from war
limited by its political object, or as Jomini put it, war with a territorial
object. Yet it had to be taken into account and explained, if only for the part
it had played in European history.
For us it calls for the most careful examination, not only because it baffled
the great German strategist to reconcile it with his theory of war, but also
because it is the form in which Great Britain most successfully
demonstrated the potentiality for direct continental interference of a small
army acting in conjunction with a dominant fleet.
The combined operations which were the normal expression of the British
method of making war on the limited basis were of two main classes.
Firstly, there were those designed purely for the conquest of the objects for
which we went to war, which were usually colonial or distant oversea
territory; and secondly, operations more or less upon the European seaboard
designed not for permanent conquest, but as a method of disturbing our
enemy's plans and strengthening the hands of our allies and our own
position. Such operations might take the form of insignificant coastal
diversions, or they might rise through all degrees of importance till, as in
Wellington's operations in the Peninsula, they became indistinguishable in
form from regular continental warfare.
It would seem, therefore, that these operations were distinguished not so
much by the nature of the object as by the fact that we devoted to them, not

the whole of our military strength, but only a certain part of it which was
known as our "disposal force." Consequently, they appear to call for some
such special classification, and to fall naturally into the category which
Clausewitz called "War limited by contingent."
It was a nature of war well enough known in another form on the Continent.
During the eighteenth century there had been a large number of cases of
war actually limited by contingent—that is, cases where a country not
having a vital interest in the object made war by furnishing the chief
belligerent with an auxiliary force of a stipulated strength.
It was in the sixth chapter of his last book that Clausewitz intended to deal
with this anomalous form of hostility. His untimely death, however, has left
us with no more than a fragment, in which he confesses that such cases are
"embarrassing to his theory." If, he adds, the auxiliary force were placed
unreservedly at the disposal of the chief belligerent, the problem would be
simple enough. It would then, in effect, be the same thing as unlimited war
with the aid of a subsidised force. But in fact, as he observes, this seldom
happened, for the contingent was always more or less controlled in
accordance with the special political aims of the Government which
furnished it. Consequently, the only conclusion he succeeded in reaching
was that it was a form of war that had to be taken into account, and that it
was a form of limited war that appeared to differ essentially from war
limited by object. We are left, in fact, with an impression that there must be
two kinds of limited war.
But if we pursue his historical method and examine the cases in which this
nature of war was successful, and those in which it was unsuccessful, we
shall find that wherever success is taken as an index of its legitimate
employment, the practical distinction between the two kinds of limited war
tends to disappear. The indications are that where the essential factors
which justify the use of war limited by object are present in war limited by
contingent, then that form of war tends to succeed, but not otherwise. We
are brought, in fact, to this proposition, that the distinction "Limited by
contingent" is not one that is inherent in war, and is quite out of line with
the theory in hand—that, in reality, it is not a form of war, but a method
which may be employed either for limited or unlimited war. In other words,
war limited by contingent, if it is to be regarded as a legitimate form of war

at all, must take frankly the one shape or the other. Either the contingent
must act as an organic unit of the force making unlimited war without any
reservations whatever, or else it should be given a definite territorial object,
with an independent organisation and an independent limited function.
Our own experience seems to indicate that war by contingent or war with "a
disposal force" attains the highest success when it approaches most closely
to true limited war—that is, as in the case of the Peninsula and the Crimea,
where its object is to wrest or secure from the enemy a definite piece of
territory that to a greater or less extent can be isolated by naval action. Its
operative power, in fact, appears to bear some direct relation to the intimacy
with which naval and military action can be combined to give the
contingent a weight and mobility that are beyond its intrinsic power.
If, then, we would unravel the difficulties of war limited by contingent, it
seems necessary to distinguish between the continental and the British form
of it. The continental form, as we have seen, differs but little in conception
from unlimited war. The contingent is furnished at least ostensibly with the
idea that it is to be used by the chief belligerent to assist him in
overthrowing the common enemy, and that its objective will be the enemy's
organised forces or his capital. Or it may be that the contingent is to be used
as an army of observation to prevent a counterstroke, so as to facilitate and
secure the main offensive movement of the chief belligerent. In either case,
however small may be our contribution to the allied force, we are using the
unlimited form and aiming at an unlimited and not a mere territorial object.
If now we turn to British experience of war limited by contingent, we find
that the continental form has frequently been used, but we also find it
almost invariably accompanied by a popular repugnance, as though there
were something in it antagonistic to the national instinct. A leading case is
the assistance we sent to Frederick the Great in the Seven Years' War. At the
opening of the war, so great was the popular repugnance that the measure
was found impossible, and it was not till Frederick's dazzling resistance to
the Catholic powers had clothed him with the glory of a Protestant hero,
that Pitt could do what he wanted. The old religious fire was stirred. The
most potent of all national instincts kindled the people to a generous
warmth which overcame their inborn antipathy to continental operations,
and it was possible to send a substantial contingent to Frederick's

assistance. In the end the support fully achieved its purpose, but it must be
noted that even in this case the operations were limited not only by
contingent but also by object. It is true that Frederick was engaged in an
unlimited war in which the continued existence of Prussia was at stake, and
that the British force was an organic element in his war plan. Nevertheless,
it formed part of a British subsidised army under Prince Ferdinand of
Brunswick, who though nominated by Frederick was a British commander-
in-chief. His army was in organisation entirely distinct from that of
Frederick, and it was assigned the very definite and limited function of
preventing the French occupying Hanover and so turning the Prussian right
flank. Finally it must be noted that its ability to perform this function was
due to the fact that the theatre of operations assigned to it was such that in
no probable event could it lose touch with the sea, nor could the enemy cut
its lines of supply and retreat.
These features of the enterprise should be noted. They differentiate it from
our earlier use of war limited by contingent in the continental manner, of
which Marlborough's campaigns were typical, and they exhibit the special
form which Marlborough would have chosen had political exigencies
permitted and which was to become characteristic of British effort from
Pitt's time onward. In the method of our greatest War Minister we have not
only the limit by contingent but also the limit of a definite and independent
function, and finally we have touch with the sea. This is the really vital
factor, and upon it, as will presently appear, depends the strength of the
method.
In the earlier part of the Great War we employed the same form in our
operations in North-Western Europe. There we had also the limited function
of securing Holland, and also complete touch with the sea, but our theatre
of operations was not independent. Intimate concerted action with other
forces was involved, and the result in every case was failure. Later on in
Sicily, where absolute isolation was attainable, the strength of the method
enabled us to achieve a lasting result with very slender means. But the
result was purely defensive. It was not till the Peninsular War developed
that we found a theatre for war limited by contingent in which all the
conditions that make for success were present. Even there so long as our
army was regarded as a contingent auxiliary to the Spanish army the usual
failure ensued. Only in Portugal, the defence of which was a true limited

object, and where we had a sea-girt theatre independent of extraneous allies,
was success achieved from the first. So strong was the method here, and so
exhausting the method which it forced on the enemy, that the local balance
of force was eventually reversed and we were able to pass to a drastic
offensive.
The real secret of Wellington's success—apart from his own genius—was
that in perfect conditions he was applying the limited form to an unlimited
war. Our object was unlimited. It was nothing less than the overthrow of
Napoleon. Complete success at sea had failed to do it, but that success had
given us the power of applying the limited form, which was the most
decisive form of offence within our means. Its substantial contribution to
the final achievement of the object is now universally recognised.
The general result, then, of these considerations is that war by contingent in
the continental form seldom or never differs generically from unlimited
war, for the conditions required by limited war are seldom or never present.
But what may be called the British or maritime form is in fact the
application of the limited method to the unlimited form, as ancillary to the
larger operations of our allies—a method which has usually been open to us
because the control of the sea has enabled us to select a theatre in effect
truly limited.5
But what if the conditions of the struggle in which we wish to intervene are
such that no truly limited theatre is available? In that case we have to
choose between placing a contingent frankly at the disposal of our ally, or
confining ourselves to coastal diversion, as we did at Frederick the Great's
request in the early campaigns of the Seven Years' War. Such operations can
seldom be satisfactory to either party. The small positive results of our
efforts to intervene in this way have indeed done more than anything to
discredit this form of war, and to brand it as unworthy of a first-class Power.
Yet the fact remains that all the great continental masters of war have feared
or valued British intervention of this character even in the most
unfavourable conditions. It was because they looked for its effects rather in
the threat than in the performance. They did not reckon for positive results
at all. So long as such intervention took an amphibious form they knew its
disturbing effect upon a European situation was always out of all proportion
to the intrinsic strength employed or the positive results it could give. Its

operative action was that it threatened positive results unless it were
strongly met. Its effect, in short, was negative. Its value lay in its power of
containing force greater than its own. That is all that can be claimed for it,
but it may be all that is required. It is not the most drastic method of
intervention, but it has proved itself the most drastic for a Power whose
forces are not adapted for the higher method. Frederick the Great was the
first great soldier to recognise it, and Napoleon was the last. For years he
shut his eyes to it, laughed at it, covered it with a contempt that grew ever
more irritable. In 1805 he called Craig's expedition a "pygmy combination,"
yet the preparation of another combined force for an entirely different
destination caused him to see the first as an advance guard of a movement
he could not ignore, and he sacrificed his fleet in an impotent effort to deal
with it.
It was not, however, till four years later that he was forced to place on
record his recognition of the principle. Then, curiously enough, he was
convinced by an expedition which we have come to regard as above all
others condemnatory of amphibious operations against the Continent. The
Walcheren expedition is now usually held as the leading case of fatuous war
administration. Historians can find no words too bad for it. They ignore the
fact that it was a step—the final and most difficult step—in our post-
Trafalgar policy of using the army to perfect our command of the sea
against a fleet acting stubbornly on the defensive. It began with
Copenhagen in 1807. It failed at the Dardanelles because fleet and army
were separated; it succeeded at Lisbon and at Cadiz by demonstration
alone. Walcheren, long contemplated, had been put off till the last as the
most formidable and the least pressing. Napoleon had been looking for the
attempt ever since the idea was first broached in this country, but as time
passed and the blow did not fall, the danger came to be more and more
ignored. Finally, the moment came when he was heavily engaged in Austria
and forced to call up the bulk of his strength to deal with the Archduke
Charles. The risks were still great, but the British Government faced them
boldly with open eyes. It was now or never. They were bent on developing
their utmost military strength in the Peninsula, and so long as a potent and
growing fleet remained in the North Sea it would always act as an
increasing drag on such development. The prospective gain of success was
in the eyes of the Government out of all proportion to the probable loss by

failure. So when Napoleon least expected it they determined to act, and
caught him napping. The defences of Antwerp had been left incomplete.
There was no army to meet the blow—nothing but a polyglot rabble
without staff or even officers. For a week at least success was in our hands.
Napoleon's fleet only escaped by twenty-four hours, and yet the failure was
not only complete but disastrous. Still so entirely were the causes of failure
accidental, and so near had it come to success, that Napoleon received a
thorough shock and looked for a quick repetition of the attempt. So
seriously indeed did he regard his narrow escape that he found himself
driven to reconsider his whole system of home defence. Not only did he
deem it necessary to spend large sums in increasing the fixed defences of
Antwerp and Toulon, but his Director of Conscription was called upon to
work out a scheme for providing a permanent force of no less than 300,000
men from the National Guard to defend the French coasts. "With 30,000
men in transports at the Downs," the Emperor wrote, "the English can
paralyse 300,000 of my army, and that will reduce us to the rank of a
second-class Power."6
The concentration of the British efforts in the Peninsula apparently rendered
the realisation of this project unnecessary—that is, our line of operation was
declared and the threat ceased. But none the less Napoleon's recognition of
the principle remains on record—not in one of his speeches made for some
ulterior purpose, but in a staff order to the principal officer concerned.
It is generally held that modern developments in military organisation and
transport will enable a great continental Power to ignore such threats.
Napoleon ignored them in the past, but only to verify the truth that in war to
ignore a threat is too often to create an opportunity. Such opportunities may
occur late or early. As both Lord Ligonier and Wolfe laid it down for such
operations, surprise is not necessarily to be looked for at the beginning. We
have usually had to create or wait for our opportunity—too often because
we were either not ready or not bold enough to seize the first that occurred.
The cases in which such intervention has been most potent have been of
two classes. Firstly, there is the intrusion into a war plan which our enemy
has designed without allowing for our intervention, and to which he is
irrevocably committed by his opening movements. Secondly, there is
intervention to deprive the enemy of the fruits of victory. This form finds its

efficacy in the principle that unlimited wars are not always decided by the
destruction of armies. There usually remains the difficult work of
conquering the people afterwards with an exhausted army. The intrusion of
a small fresh force from the sea in such cases may suffice to turn the scale,
as it did in the Peninsula, and as, in the opinion of some high authorities, it
might have done in France in 1871.
Such a suggestion will appear to be almost heretical as sinning against the
principle which condemns a strategical reserve. We say that the whole
available force should be developed for the vital period of the struggle. No
one can be found to dispute it nowadays. It is too obviously true when it is a
question of a conflict between organised forces, but in the absence of all
proof we are entitled to doubt whether it is true for that exhausting and
demoralising period which lies beyond the shock of armies.

CHAPTER SIX

CONDITIONS OF
STRENGTH IN LIMITED
WAR

The elements of strength in limited war are closely analogous to those
generally inherent in defence. That is to say, that as a correct use of defence
will sometimes enable an inferior force to gain its end against a superior
one, so are there instances in which the correct use of the limited form of
war has enabled a weak military Power to attain success against a much
stronger one, and these instances are too numerous to permit us to regard
the results as accidental.
An obvious element of strength is that where the geographical conditions
are favourable we are able by the use of our navy to restrict the amount of
force our army will have to deal with. We can in fact bring up our fleet to
redress the adverse balance of our land force. But apart from this very
practical reason there is another, which is rooted in the first principles of
strategy.
It is that limited war permits the use of the defensive without its usual
drawbacks to a degree that is impossible in unlimited war. These drawbacks
are chiefly that it tends to surrender the initiative to the enemy and that it
deprives us of the moral exhilaration of the offensive. But in limited war, as
we shall see, this need not be the case, and if without making these
sacrifices we are able to act mainly on the defensive our position becomes
exceedingly strong.
The proposition really admits of no doubt. For even if we be not in whole-
hearted agreement with Clausewitz's doctrine of the strength of defence,
still we may at least accept Moltke's modification of it. He held that the
strongest form of war—that is, the form which economically makes for the
highest development of strength in a given force—is strategic offensive
combined with tactical defensive. Now these are in effect the conditions
which limited war should give—that is, if the theatre and method be rightly

chosen. Let it be remembered that the use of this form of war presupposes
that we are able by superior readiness or mobility or by being more
conveniently situated to establish ourselves in the territorial object before
our opponent can gather strength to prevent us. This done, we have the
initiative, and the enemy being unable by hypothesis to attack us at home,
must conform to our opening by endeavouring to turn us out. We are in a
position to meet his attack on ground of our own choice and to avail
ourselves of such opportunities of counter-attack as his distant and therefore
exhausting offensive movements are likely to offer. Assuming, as in our
own case we always must assume, that the territorial object is sea-girt and
our enemy is not able to command the sea, such opportunities are certain to
present themselves, and even if they are not used will greatly embarrass the
main attack—as was abundantly shown in the Russian nervousness during
their advance into the Liaotung Peninsula, due to the fear of a counter-
stroke from the Gulf of Pe-chi-li.
The actual situation which this method of procedure sets up is that our
major strategy is offensive—that is, our main movement is positive, having
for its aim the occupation of the territorial object. The minor strategy that
follows should be in its general lines defensive, designed, so soon as the
enemy sets about dislodging us, to develop the utmost energy of counter-
attack which our force and opportunities justify.
Now if we consider that by universal agreement it is no longer possible in
the present conditions of land warfare to draw a line between tactics and
minor strategy, we have in our favour for all practical purposes the identical
position which Moltke regarded as constituting the strongest form of war.
That is to say, our major strategy is offensive and our minor strategy is
defensive.
If, then, the limited form of war has this element of strength over and above
the unlimited form, it must be correct to use it when we are not strong
enough to use the more exhausting form and when the object is limited; just
as much as it is correct to use the defensive when our object is negative and
we are too weak for the offensive. The point is of the highest importance,
for it is a direct negation of the current doctrine that in war there can be but
one legitimate object, the overthrow of the enemy's means of resistance, and
that the primary objective must always be his armed forces. It raises in fact

the whole question as to whether it is not sometimes legitimate and even
correct to aim directly at the ulterior object of the war.
An impression appears to prevail—in spite of all that Clausewitz and
Jomini had to say on the point—that the question admits of only one
answer. Von der Goltz, for instance, is particularly emphatic in asserting
that the overthrow of the enemy must always be the object in modern war.
He lays it down as "the first principle of modern warfare," that "the
immediate objective against which all our efforts must be directed is the
hostile main army." Similarly Prince Kraft has the maxim that "the first aim
should be to overcome the enemy's army. Everything else, the occupation of
the country, &c., only comes in the second line."
It will be observed that he here admits that the process of occupying the
enemy's territory is an operation distinct from the overthrow of the enemy's
force. Von der Goltz goes further, and protests against the common error of
regarding the annihilation of the enemy's principal army as synonymous
with the complete attainment of the object. He is careful to assert that the
current doctrine only holds good "when the two belligerent states are of
approximately the same nature." If, then, there are cases in which the
occupation of territory must be undertaken as an operation distinct from
defeating the enemy's forces, and if in such cases the conditions are such
that we can occupy the territory with advantage without first defeating the
enemy, it is surely mere pedantry to insist that we should put off till to-
morrow what we can do better to-day. If the occupation of the enemy's
whole territory is involved, or even a substantial part of it, the German
principle of course holds good, but all wars are not of that character.
Insistence on the principle of "overthrow," and even its exaggeration, was
of value, in its day, to prevent a recurrence to the old and discredited
methods. But its work is done, and blind adherence to it without regard to
the principles on which it rests tends to turn the art of war into mere
bludgeon play.

Clausewitz, at any rate, as General Von Caemmerer has pointed out,7 was
far too practical a soldier to commit himself to so abstract a proposition in
all its modern crudity. If it were true, it would never be possible for a
weaker Power to make successful war against a stronger one in any cause

whatever—a conclusion abundantly refuted by historical experience. That
the higher form like the offensive is the more drastic is certain, if conditions
are suitable for its use, but Clausewitz, it must be remembered, distinctly
lays it down that such conditions presuppose in the belligerent employing
the higher form a great physical or moral superiority or a great spirit of
enterprise—an innate propensity for extreme hazards. Jomini did not go
even so far as this. He certainly would have ruled out "an innate propensity
to extreme hazards," for in his judgment it was this innate propensity which
led Napoleon to abuse the higher form to his own undoing. So entirely
indeed does history, no less than theory, fail to support the idea of the one
answer, that it would seem that even in Germany a reaction to Clausewitz's
real teaching is beginning. In expounding it Von Caemmerer says, "Since
the majority of the most prominent military authors of our time uphold the
principle that in war our efforts must always be directed to their utmost
limits and that a deliberate employment of lower means betrays more or
less weakness, I feel bound to declare that the wideness of Clausewitz's
views have inspired me with a high degree of admiration."
Now what Clausewitz held precisely was this—that when the conditions are
not favourable for the use of the higher form, the seizure of a small part of
the enemy's territory may be regarded as a correct alternative to destroying
his armed forces. But he clearly regards this form of war only as a make-
shift. His purely continental outlook prevented his considering that there
might be cases where the object was actually so limited in character that the
lower form of war would be at once the more effective and the more
economical to use. In continental warfare, as we have seen, such cases can
hardly occur, but they tend to declare themselves strongly when the
maritime factor is introduced to any serious extent.
The tendency of British warfare to take the lower or limited form has
always been as clearly marked as is the opposite tendency on the Continent.
To attribute such a tendency, as is sometimes the fashion, to an inherent
lack of warlike spirit is sufficiently contradicted by the results it has
achieved. There is no reason indeed to put it down to anything but a
sagacious instinct for the kind of war that best accords with the conditions
of our existence. So strong has this instinct been that it has led us usually to
apply the lower form not only where the object of the war was a well-
defined territorial one, but to cases in which its correctness was less

obvious. As has been explained in the last chapter, we have applied it, and
applied it on the whole with success, when we have been acting in concert
with continental allies for an unlimited object—where, that is, the common
object has been the overthrow of the common enemy.
The choice between the two forms really depends upon the circumstances
of each case. We have to consider whether the political object is in fact
limited, whether if unlimited in the abstract it can be reduced to a concrete
object that is limited, and finally whether the strategical conditions are such
as lend themselves to the successful application of the limited form.
What we require now is to determine those conditions with greater
exactness, and this will be best done by changing our method to the
concrete and taking a leading case.
The one which presents them in their clearest and simplest form is without
doubt the recent war between Russia and Japan. Here we have a particularly
striking example of a small Power having forced her will upon a much
greater Power without "overthrowing" her—that is, without having crushed
her power of resistance. That was entirely beyond the strength of Japan. So
manifest was the fact that everywhere upon the Continent, where the
overthrow of your enemy was regarded as the only admissible form of war,
the action of the Japanese in resorting to hostilities was regarded as
madness. Only in England, with her tradition and instinct for what an island
Power may achieve by the lower means, was Japan considered to have any
reasonable chance of success.
The case is particularly striking; for every one felt that the real object of the
war was in the abstract unlimited, that it was in fact to decide whether
Russia or Japan was to be the predominant power in the Far East. Like the
Franco-German War of 1870 it had all the aspect of what the Germans call
"a trial of strength." Such a war is one which above all appears incapable of
decision except by the complete overthrow of the one Power or the other.
There was no complication of alliances nor any expectation of them. The
Anglo-Japanese Treaty had isolated the struggle. If ever issue hung on the
sheer fighting force of the two belligerents it would seem to have been this
one. After the event we are inclined to attribute the result to the moral
qualities and superior training and readiness of the victors. These qualities

indeed played their part, and they must not be minimised; but who will
contend that if Japan had tried to make her war with Russia, as Napoleon
made his, she could have fared even as well as he did? She had no such
preponderance as Clausewitz laid down as a condition precedent to
attempting the overthrow of her enemy—the employment of unlimited war.
Fortunately for her the circumstances did not call for the employment of
such extreme means. The political and geographical conditions were such
that she was able to reduce the intangible object of asserting her prestige to
the purely concrete form of a territorial objective. The penetration of Russia
into Manchuria threatened the absorption of Korea into the Russian Empire,
and this Japan regarded as fatal to her own position and future development.
Her power to maintain Korean integrity would be the outward and visible
sign of her ability to assert herself as a Pacific Power. Her abstract quarrel
with Russia could therefore be crystallised into a concrete objective in the
same way as the quarrel of the Western Powers with Russia in 1854
crystallised into the concrete objective of Sebastopol.
In the Japanese case the immediate political object was exceptionally well
adapted for the use of limited war. Owing to the geographical position of
Korea and to the vast and undeveloped territories which separate it from the
centre of Russian power, it could be practically isolated by naval action.
Further than this, it fulfilled the condition to which Clausewitz attached the
greatest importance—that is to say, the seizure of the particular object so far
from weakening the home defence of Japan would have the effect of greatly
increasing the strength of her position. Though offensive in effect and
intention it was also, like Frederick's seizure of Saxony, a sound piece of
defensive work. So far from exposing her heart, it served to cover it almost
impregnably. The reason is plain. Owing to the wide separation of the two
Russian arsenals at Port Arthur and Vladivostock, with a defile controlled
by Japan interposed, the Russian naval position was very faulty. The only
way of correcting it was for Russia to secure a base in the Straits of Korea,
and for this she had been striving by diplomatic means at Seoul for some
time. Strategically the integrity of Korea was for Japan very much what the
integrity of the Low Countries was for us, but in the case of the Low
Countries, since they were incapable of isolation, our power of direct action
was always comparatively weak. Portugal, with its unrivalled strategical
harbour at Lisbon, was an analogous case in our old oceanic wars, and since

it was capable of being in a measure isolated from the strength of our great
rival by naval means we were there almost uniformly successful. On the
whole it must be said that notwithstanding the success we achieved in our
long series of wars waged on a limited basis, in none of them were the
conditions so favourable for us as in this case they were for Japan. In none
of them did our main offensive movement so completely secure our home
defence. Canada was as eccentric as possible to our line of home defence,
while in the Crimea so completely did our offensive uncover the British
Islands, that we had to supplement our movement against the limited object
by sending our main fighting fleet to hold the exit of the Baltic against the
danger of an unlimited counter-stroke.8
Whether or not it was on this principle that the Japanese conceived the war
from the outset matters little. The main considerations are that with so
favourable a territorial object as Korea limited war was possible in its most
formidable shape, that the war did in fact develop on limited lines, and that
it was entirely successful. Without waiting to secure the command of the
sea, Japan opened by a surprise seizure of Seoul, and then under cover of
minor operations of the fleet proceeded to complete her occupation of
Korea. As she faced the second stage, that of making good the defence of
her conquest, the admirable nature of her geographical object was further
displayed. The theoretical weakness of limited war at this point is the arrest
of your offensive action. But in this case such arrest was neither necessary
nor possible, and for these reasons. To render the conquest secure not only
must the Korean frontier be made inviolable, but Korea must be
permanently isolated by sea. This involved the destruction of the Russian
fleet, and this in its turn entailed the reduction of Port Arthur by military
means. Here, then, in the second stage Japan found herself committed to
two lines of operation with two distinct objectives, Port Arthur and the
Russian army that was slowly concentrating in Manchuria—a thoroughly
vicious situation. So fortunate, however, was the geographical conformation
of the theatre that by promptitude and the bold use of an uncommanded sea
it could be reduced to something far more correct. By continuing the
advance of the Korean army into Manchuria and landing another force
between it and the Port Arthur army the three corps could be concentrated
and the vicious separation of the lines of operations turned to good account.
They could be combined in such a way as to threaten an enveloping

counter-attack on Liao-yang before the Russian offensive concentration
could be completed. Not only was Liao-yang the Russian point of
concentration, but it also was a sound position both for defending Korea
and covering the siege of Port Arthur. Once secured, it gave the Japanese all
the advantages of defence and forced the Russians to exhaust themselves in
offensive operations which were beyond their strength. Nor was it only
ashore that this advantage was gained. The success of the system, which
culminated in the fall of Port Arthur, went further still. Not only did it make
Japan relatively superior at sea, but it enabled her to assume a naval
defensive and so to force the final naval decision on Russia with every
advantage of time, place, and strength in her own favour.
By the battle of Tsushima the territorial object was completely isolated by
sea, and the position of Japan in Korea was rendered as impregnable as that
of Wellington at Torres Vedras. All that remained was to proceed to the third
stage and demonstrate to Russia that the acceptance of the situation that had
been set up was more to her advantage than the further attempt to break it
down. This the final advance to Mukden accomplished, and Japan obtained
her end very far short of having overthrown her enemy. The offensive
power of Russia had never been so strong, while that of Japan was almost if
not quite exhausted.
Approached in this way, the Far Eastern struggle is seen to develop on the
same lines as all our great maritime wars of the past, which continental
strategists have so persistently excluded from their field of study. It presents
the normal three phases—the initial offensive movement to seize the
territorial object, the secondary phase, which forces an attenuated offensive
on the enemy, and the final stage of pressure, in which there is a return to
the offensive "according," as Jomini puts it, "to circumstances and your
relative force in order to obtain the cession desired."
It must not of course be asked that these phases shall be always clearly
defined. Strategical analysis can never give exact results. It aims only at
approximations, at groupings which will serve to guide but will always
leave much to the judgment. The three phases in the Russo-Japanese War,
though unusually well defined, continually overlapped. It must be so; for in
war the effect of an operation is never confined to the limits of its
immediate or primary intention. Thus the occupation of Korea had the

secondary defensive effect of covering the home country, while the initial
blow which Admiral Togo delivered at Port Arthur to cover the primary
offensive movement proved, by the demoralisation it caused in the Russian
fleet, to be a distinct step in the secondary phase of isolating the conquest.
In the later stages of the war the line between what was essential to set up
the second phase of perfecting the isolation and the third phase of general
pressure seems to have grown very nebulous.
It was at this stage that the Japanese strategy has been most severely
criticised, and it was just here they seem to have lost hold of the conception
of a limited war, if in fact they had ever securely grasped the conception as
the elder Pitt understood it. It has been argued that in their eagerness to deal
a blow at the enemy's main army they neglected to devote sufficient force to
reduce Port Arthur, an essential step to complete the second phase. Whether
or not the exigencies of the case rendered such distribution of force
inevitable or whether it was due to miscalculation of difficulties, the result
was a most costly set-back. For not only did it entail a vast loss of time and
life at Port Arthur itself, but when the sortie of the Russian fleet in June
brought home to them their error, the offensive movement on Liao-yang
had to be delayed, and the opportunity passed for a decisive counter-stroke
at the enemy's concentration ashore.
This misfortune, which was to cost the Japanese so dear, may perhaps be
attributed at least in part to the continental influences under which their
army had been trained. We at least can trace the unlimited outlook in the
pages of the German Staff history. In dealing with the Japanese plan of
operations it is assumed that the occupation of Korea and the isolation of
Port Arthur were but preliminaries to a concentric advance on Liao-yang,
"which was kept in view as the first objective of the operations on land."
But surely on every theory of the war the first objective of the Japanese on
land was Seoul, where they expected to have to fight their first important
action against troops advancing from the Yalu; and surely their second was
Port Arthur, with its fleet and arsenal, which they expected to reduce with
little more difficulty than they had met with ten years before against the
Chinese. Such at least was the actual progression of events, and a criticism
which regards operations of such magnitude and ultimate importance as
mere incidents of strategic deployment is only to be explained by the
domination of the Napoleonic idea of war, against the universal application

of which Clausewitz so solemnly protested. It is the work of men who have
a natural difficulty in conceiving a war plan that does not culminate in a
Jena or a Sedan. It is a view surely which is the child of theory, bearing no
relation to the actuality of the war in question and affording no explanation
of its ultimate success. The truth is, that so long as the Japanese acted on the
principles of limited war, as laid down by Clausewitz and Jomini and
plainly deducible from our own rich experience, they progressed beyond all
their expectations, but so soon as they departed from them and suffered
themselves to be confused with continental theories they were surprised by
unaccountable failure.
The expression "Limited war" is no doubt not entirely happy. Yet no other
has been found to condense the ideas of limited object and limited interest,
which are its special characteristics. Still if the above example be kept in
mind as a typical case, the meaning of the term will not be mistaken. It only
remains to emphasise one important point. The fact that the doctrine of
limited war traverses the current belief that our primary objective must
always be the enemy's armed forces is liable to carry with it a false
inference that it also rejects the corollary that war means the use of battles.
Nothing is further from the conception. Whatever the form of war, there is
no likelihood of our ever going back to the old fallacy of attempting to
decide wars by manoeuvres. All forms alike demand the use of battles. By
our fundamental theory war is always "a continuation of political
intercourse, in which fighting is substituted for writing notes." However
great the controlling influence of the political object, it must never obscure
the fact that it is by fighting we have to gain our end.
It is the more necessary to insist on this point, for the idea of making a piece
of territory your object is liable to be confused with the older method of
conducting war, in which armies were content to manoeuvre for strategical
positions, and a battle came almost to be regarded as a mark of bad
generalship. With such parading limited war has nothing to do. Its conduct
differs only from that of unlimited war in that instead of having to destroy
our enemy's whole power of resistance, we need only overthrow so much of
his active force as he is able or willing to bring to bear in order to prevent or
terminate our occupation of the territorial object.

The first consideration, then, in entering on such a war is to endeavour to
determine what the force will amount to. It will depend, firstly, on the
importance the enemy attaches to the limited object, coupled with the
nature and extent of his preoccupations elsewhere, and, secondly, it will
depend upon the natural difficulties of his lines of communication and the
extent to which we can increase those difficulties by our conduct of the
initial operations. In favourable circumstances therefore (and here lies the
great value of the limited form) we are able to control the amount of force
we shall have to encounter. The most favourable circumstances and the only
circumstances by which we ourselves can profit are such as permit the more
or less complete isolation of the object by naval action, and such isolation
can never be established until we have entirely overthrown the enemy's
naval forces.
Here, then, we enter the field of naval strategy. We can now leave behind us
the theory of war in general and, in order to pave the way to our final
conclusions, devote our attention to the theory of naval warfare in
particular.

PART TWO

THEORY
OF
NAVAL WAR

CHAPTER ONE

THEORY OF THE
OBJECT—COMMAND
OF THE SEA

The object of naval warfare must always be directly or indirectly either to
secure the command of the sea or to prevent the enemy from securing it.
The second part of the proposition should be noted with special care in
order to exclude a habit of thought, which is one of the commonest sources
of error in naval speculation. That error is the very general assumption that
if one belligerent loses the command of the sea it passes at once to the other
belligerent. The most cursory study of naval history is enough to reveal the
falseness of such an assumption. It tells us that the most common situation
in naval war is that neither side has the command; that the normal position
is not a commanded sea, but an uncommanded sea. The mere assertion,
which no one denies, that the object of naval warfare is to get command of
the sea actually connotes the proposition that the command is normally in
dispute. It is this state of dispute with which naval strategy is most nearly
concerned, for when the command is lost or won pure naval strategy comes
to an end.
This truth is so obvious that it would scarcely be worth mentioning were it
not for the constant recurrence of such phrases as: "If England were to lose
command of the sea, it would be all over with her." The fallacy of the idea
is that it ignores the power of the strategical defensive. It assumes that if in
the face of some extraordinary hostile coalition or through some
extraordinary mischance we found ourselves without sufficient strength to
keep the command, we should therefore be too weak to prevent the enemy
getting it—a negation of the whole theory of war, which at least requires
further support than it ever receives.
And not only is this assumption a negation of theory; it is a negation both of
practical experience and of the expressed opinion of our greatest masters.
We ourselves have used the defensive at sea with success, as under William

the Third and in the War of American Independence, while in our long wars
with France she habitually used it in such a way that sometimes for years,
though we had a substantial preponderance, we could not get command, and
for years were unable to carry out our war plan without serious interruption
from her fleet.
So far from the defensive being a negligible factor at sea, or even the mere
pestilent heresy it is generally represented, it is of course inherent in all war,
and, as we have seen, the paramount questions of strategy both at sea and
on land turn on the relative possibilities of offensive and defensive, and
upon the relative proportions in which each should enter into our plan of
war. At sea the most powerful and aggressively-minded belligerent can no
more avoid his alternating periods of defence, which result from inevitable
arrests of offensive action, than they can be avoided on land. The defensive,
then, has to be considered; but before we are in a position to do so with
profit, we have to proceed with our analysis of the phrase, "Command of
the Sea," and ascertain exactly what it is we mean by it in war.
In the first place, "Command of the Sea" is not identical in its strategical
conditions with the conquest of territory. You cannot argue from the one to
the other, as has been too commonly done. Such phrases as the "Conquest
of water territory" and "Making the enemy's coast our frontier" had their
use and meaning in the mouths of those who framed them, but they are
really little but rhetorical expressions founded on false analogy, and false
analogy is not a secure basis for a theory of war.
The analogy is false for two reasons, both of which enter materially into the
conduct of naval war. You cannot conquer sea because it is not susceptible
of ownership, at least outside territorial waters. You cannot, as lawyers say,
"reduce it into possession," because you cannot exclude neutrals from it as
you can from territory you conquer. In the second place, you cannot subsist
your armed force upon it as you can upon enemy's territory. Clearly, then, to
make deductions from an assumption that command of the sea is analogous
to conquest of territory is unscientific, and certain to lead to error.
The only safe method is to inquire what it is we can secure for ourselves,
and what it is we can deny the enemy by command of the sea. Now, if we
exclude fishery rights, which are irrelevant to the present matter, the only

right we or our enemy can have on the sea is the right of passage; in other
words, the only positive value which the high seas have for national life is
as a means of communication. For the active life of a nation such means
may stand for much or it may stand for little, but to every maritime State it
has some value. Consequently by denying an enemy this means of passage
we check the movement of his national life at sea in the same kind of way
that we check it on land by occupying his territory. So far the analogy holds
good, but no further.
So much for the positive value which the sea has in national life. It has also
a negative value. For not only is it a means of communication, but, unlike
the means of communication ashore, it is also a barrier. By winning
command of the sea we remove that barrier from our own path, thereby
placing ourselves in position to exert direct military pressure upon the
national life of our enemy ashore, while at the same time we solidify it
against him and prevent his exerting direct military pressure upon
ourselves.
Command of the sea, therefore, means nothing but the control of maritime
communications, whether for commercial or military purposes. The object
of naval warfare is the control of communications, and not, as in land
warfare, the conquest of territory. The difference is fundamental. True, it is
rightly said that strategy ashore is mainly a question of communications,
but they are communications in another sense. The phrase refers to the
communications of the army alone, and not to the wider communications
which are part of the life of the nation.
But on land also there are communications of a kind which are essential to
national life—the internal communications which connect the points of
distribution. Here again we touch an analogy between the two kinds of war.
Land warfare, as the most devoted adherents of the modern view admit,
cannot attain its end by military victories alone. The destruction of your
enemy's forces will not avail for certain unless you have in reserve
sufficient force to complete the occupation of his inland communications
and principal points of distribution. This power is the real fruit of victory,
the power to strangle the whole national life. It is not until this is done that a
high-spirited nation, whose whole heart is in the war, will consent to make
peace and do your will. It is precisely in the same way that the command of

the sea works towards peace, though of course in a far less coercive manner,
against a continental State. By occupying her maritime communications and
closing the points of distribution in which they terminate we destroy the
national life afloat, and thereby check the vitality of that life ashore so far as
the one is dependent on the other. Thus we see that so long as we retain the
power and right to stop maritime communications, the analogy between
command of the sea and the conquest of territory is in this aspect very
close. And the analogy is of the utmost practical importance, for on it turns
the most burning question of maritime war, which it will be well to deal
with in this place.
It is obvious that if the object and end of naval warfare is the control of
communications it must carry with it the right to forbid, if we can, the
passage of both public and private property upon the sea. Now the only
means we have of enforcing such control of commercial communications at
sea is in the last resort the capture or destruction of sea-borne property.
Such capture or destruction is the penalty which we impose upon our
enemy for attempting to use the communications of which he does not hold
the control. In the language of jurisprudence, it is the ultimate sanction of
the interdict which we are seeking to enforce. The current term "Commerce
destruction" is not in fact a logical expression of the strategical idea. To
make the position clear we should say "Commerce prevention."
The methods of this "Commerce prevention" have no more connection with
the old and barbarous idea of plunder and reprisal than orderly requisitions
ashore have with the old idea of plunder and ravaging. No form of war
indeed causes so little human suffering as the capture of property at sea. It
is more akin to process of law, such as distress for rent, or execution of
judgment, or arrest of a ship, than to a military operation. Once, it is true, it
was not so. In the days of privateers it was accompanied too often, and
particularly in the Mediterranean and the West Indies, with lamentable
cruelty and lawlessness, and the existence of such abuses was the real
reason for the general agreement to the Declaration of Paris by which
privateering was abolished.
But it was not the only reason. The idea of privateering was a survival of a
primitive and unscientific conception of war, which was governed mainly
by a general notion of doing your enemy as much damage as possible and

making reprisal for wrongs he had done you. To the same class of ideas
belonged the practice of plunder and ravaging ashore. But neither of these
methods of war was abolished for humanitarian reasons. They disappeared
indeed as a general practice before the world had begun to talk of humanity.
They were abolished because war became more scientific. The right to
plunder and ravage was not denied. But plunder was found to demoralise
your troops and unfit them for fighting, and ravaging proved to be a less
powerful means of coercing your enemy than exploiting the occupied
country by means of regular requisitions for the supply of your own army
and the increase of its offensive range. In short, the reform arose from a
desire to husband your enemy's resources for your own use instead of
wantonly wasting them.
In a similar way privateering always had a debilitating effect upon our own
regular force. It greatly increased the difficulty of manning the navy, and
the occasional large profits had a demoralising influence on detached
cruiser commanders. It tended to keep alive the mediaeval corsair spirit at
the expense of the modern military spirit which made for direct operations
against the enemy's armed forces. It was inevitable that as the new
movement of opinion gathered force it should carry with it a conviction that
for operating against sea-borne trade sporadic attack could never be so
efficient as an organised system of operations to secure a real strategical
control of the enemy's maritime communications. A riper and sounder view
of war revealed that what may be called tactical commercial blockade—that
is, the blockade of ports—could be extended to and supplemented by a
strategical blockade of the great trade routes. In moral principle there is no
difference between the two. Admit the principle of tactical or close
blockade, and as between belligerents you cannot condemn the principle of
strategical or distant blockade. Except in their effect upon neutrals, there is
no juridical difference between the two.
Why indeed should this humane yet drastic process of war be rejected at sea
if the same thing is permitted on land? If on land you allow contributions
and requisitions, if you permit the occupation of towns, ports, and inland
communications, without which no conquest is complete and no effective
war possible, why should you refuse similar procedure at sea where it
causes far less individual suffering? If you refuse the right of controlling
communications at sea, you must also refuse the right on land. If you admit

the right of contributions on land, you must admit the right of capture at
sea. Otherwise you will permit to military Powers the extreme rights of war
and leave to the maritime Powers no effective rights at all. Their ultimate
argument would be gone.
In so far as the idea of abolishing private capture at sea is humanitarian, and
in so far as it rests on a belief that it would strengthen our position as a
commercial maritime State, let it be honourably dealt with. But so far as its
advocates have as yet expressed themselves, the proposal appears to be
based on two fallacies. One is, that you can avoid attack by depriving
yourself of the power of offence and resting on defence alone, and the other,
the idea that war consists entirely of battles between armies or fleets. It
ignores the fundamental fact that battles are only the means of enabling you
to do that which really brings wars to an end-that is, to exert pressure on the
citizens and their collective life. "After shattering the hostile main army,"
says Von der Goltz, "we still have the forcing of a peace as a separate and,
in certain circumstances, a more difficult task ... to make the enemy's
country feel the burdens of war with such weight that the desire for peace
will prevail. This is the point in which Napoleon failed.... It may be
necessary to seize the harbours, commercial centres, important lines of
traffic, fortifications and arsenals, in other words, all important property
necessary to the existence of the people and army."
If, then, we are deprived of the right to use analogous means at sea, the
object for which we fight battles almost ceases to exist. Defeat the enemy's
fleets as we may, he will be but little the worse. We shall have opened the
way for invasion, but any of the great continental Powers can laugh at our
attempts to invade single-handed. If we cannot reap the harvest of our
success by deadening his national activities at sea, the only legitimate
means of pressure within our strength will be denied us. Our fleet, if it
would proceed with such secondary operations as are essential for forcing a
peace, will be driven to such barbarous expedients as the bombardment of
seaport towns and destructive raids upon the hostile coasts.
If the means of pressure which follow successful fighting were abolished
both on land and sea there would be this argument in favour of the change,
that it would mean perhaps for civilised States the entire cessation of war;
for war would become so impotent, that no one would care to engage in it.

It would be an affair between regular armies and fleets, with which the
people had little concern. International quarrels would tend to take the form
of the mediaeval private disputes which were settled by champions in trial
by battle, an absurdity which led rapidly to the domination of purely legal
procedure. If international quarrels could go the same way, humanity would
have advanced a long stride. But the world is scarcely ripe for such a
revolution. Meanwhile to abolish the right of interference with the flow of
private property at sea without abolishing the corresponding right ashore
would only defeat the ends of humanitarians. The great deterrent, the most
powerful check on war, would be gone. It is commerce and finance which
now more than ever control or check the foreign policy of nations. If
commerce and finance stand to lose by war, their influence for a peaceful
solution will be great; and so long as the right of private capture at sea
exists, they stand to lose in every maritime war immediately and inevitably
whatever the ultimate result may be. Abolish the right, and this deterrent
disappears; nay, they will even stand to win immediate gains owing to the
sudden expansion of Government expenditure which the hostilities will
entail, and the expansion of sea commerce which the needs of the armed
forces will create. Any such losses as maritime warfare under existing
conditions must immediately inflict will be remote if interference with
property is confined to the land. They will never indeed be serious except in
the case of complete defeat, and no one enters upon war expecting defeat. It
is in the hope of victory and gain that aggressive wars are born. The fear of
quick and certain loss is their surest preventive. Humanity, then, will surely
beware how in a too hasty pursuit of peaceful ideals it lets drop the best
weapon it has for scotching the evil it has as yet no power to kill.
In what follows, therefore, it is intended to regard the right of private
capture at sea as still subsisting. Without it, indeed, naval warfare is almost
inconceivable, and in any case no one has any experience of such a
truncated method of war on which profitable study can be founded.
The primary method, then, in which we use victory or preponderance at sea
and bring it to bear on the enemy's population to secure peace, is by the
capture or destruction of the enemy's property, whether public or private.
But in comparing the process with the analogous occupation of territory and
the levying of contributions and requisitions we have to observe a marked
difference. Both processes are what may be called economic pressure. But

ashore the economic pressure can only be exerted as the consequence of
victory or acquired domination by military success. At sea the process
begins at once. Indeed, more often than not, the first act of hostility in
maritime wars has been the capture of private property at sea. In a sense this
is also true ashore. The first step of an invader after crossing the frontier
will be to control to a less or greater extent such private property as he is
able to use for his purposes. But such interference with private property is
essentially a military act, and does not belong to the secondary phase of
economic pressure. At sea it does, and the reason why this should be so lies
in certain fundamental differences between land and sea warfare which are
implicit in the communication theory of naval war.
To elucidate the point, it must be repeated that maritime communications,
which are the root of the idea of command of the sea, are not analogous to
military communications in the ordinary use of the term. Military
communications refer solely to the army's lines of supply and retreat.
Maritime communications have a wider meaning. Though in effect
embracing the lines of fleet supply, they correspond in strategical values not
to military lines of supply, but to those internal lines of communication by
which the flow of national life is maintained ashore. Consequently maritime
communications are on a wholly different footing from land
communications. At sea the communications are, for the most part, common
to both belligerents, whereas ashore each possesses his own in his own
territory. The strategical effect is of far-reaching importance, for it means
that at sea strategical offence and defence tend to merge in a way that is
unknown ashore. Since maritime communications are common, we as a rule
cannot attack those of the enemy without defending our own. In military
operations the converse is the rule. Normally, an attack on our enemy's
communications tends to expose their own.
The theory of common communications will become clear by taking an
example. In our wars with France our communications with the
Mediterranean, India, and America ran down from the Channel mouth past
Finisterre and St. Vincent; and those of France, at least from her Atlantic
ports, were identical for almost their entire distance. In our wars with the
Dutch the identity was even closer. Even in the case of Spain, her great
trade routes followed the same lines as our own for the greater part of their
extent. Consequently the opening moves which we generally made to

defend our trade by the occupation of those lines placed us in a position to
attack our enemy's trade. The same situation arose even when our opening
dispositions were designed as defence against home invasion or against
attacks upon our colonies, for the positions our fleet had to take up to those
ends always lay on or about the terminal and focal points of trade routes.
Whether our immediate object were to bring the enemy's main fleets to
action or to exercise economic pressure, it made but little difference. If the
enemy were equally anxious to engage, it was at one of the terminal or focal
areas we were almost certain to get contact. If he wished to avoid a
decision, the best way to force him to action was to occupy his trade routes
at the same vital points.
Thus it comes about that, whereas on land the process of economic
pressure, at least in the modern conception of war, should only begin after
decisive victory, at sea it starts automatically from the first. Indeed such
pressure may be the only means of forcing the decision we seek, as will
appear more clearly when we come to deal with the other fundamental
difference between land and sea warfare.
Meanwhile we may note that at sea the use of economic pressure from the
commencement is justified for two reasons. The first is, as we have seen,
that it is an economy of means to use our defensive positions for attack
when attack does not vitiate those positions, and it will not vitiate them if
fleet cruisers operate with restraint. The second is, that interference with the
enemy's trade has two aspects. It is not only a means of exerting the
secondary economic pressure, it is also a primary means towards
overthrowing the enemy's power of resistance. Wars are not decided
exclusively by military and naval force. Finance is scarcely less important.
When other things are equal, it is the longer purse that wins. It has even
many times redressed an unfavourable balance of armed force and given
victory to the physically weaker Power. Anything, therefore, which we are
able to achieve towards crippling our enemy's finance is a direct step to his
overthrow, and the most effective means we can employ to this end against
a maritime State is to deny him the resources of seaborne trade.
It will be seen, therefore, that in naval warfare, however closely we may
concentrate our efforts on the destruction of our enemy's armed forces as
the direct means to his overthrow, it would be folly to stay our hands when

opportunities occur, as they will automatically, for undermining his
financial position on which the continued vigour of those armed forces so
largely depends. Thus the occupation of our enemy's sea communications
and the confiscatory operations it connotes are in a sense primary
operations, and not, as on land, secondary.
Such, then, are the abstract conclusions at which we arrive in our attempt to
analyse the idea of command of the sea and to give it precision as the
control of common communications. Their concrete value will appear when
we come to deal with the various forms which naval operations may take,
such as, "seeking out the enemy's fleet," blockade, attack and defence of
trade, and the safeguarding of combined expeditions. For the present it
remains to deal with the various kinds of sea command which flow from the
communication idea.
If the object of the command of the sea is to control communications, it is
obvious it may exist in various degrees. We may be able to control the
whole of the common communications as the result either of great initial
preponderance or of decisive victory. If we are not sufficiently strong to do
this, we may still be able to control some of the communications; that is,
our control may be general or local. Obvious as the point is, it needs
emphasising, because of a maxim that has become current that "the sea is
all one." Like other maxims of the kind, it conveys a truth with a trail of
error in its wake. The truth it contains seems to be simply this, that as a rule
local control can only avail us temporarily, for so long as the enemy has a
sufficient fleet anywhere, it is theoretically in his power to overthrow our
control of any special sea area.
It amounts indeed to little more than a rhetorical expression, used to
emphasise the high mobility of fleets as contrasted with that of armies and
the absence of physical obstacles to restrict that mobility. That this vital
feature of naval warfare should be consecrated in a maxim is well, but when
it is caricatured into a doctrine, as it sometimes is, that you cannot move a
battalion oversea till you have entirely overthrown your enemy's fleet, it
deserves gibbeting. It would be as wise to hold that in war you must never
risk anything.

It would seem to have been the evil influence of this travestied maxim
which had much to do with the cramped and timorous strategy of the
Americans in their late war with Spain. They had ample naval force to
secure such a local and temporary command of the Gulf of Mexico as to
have justified them at once in throwing all the troops they had ready into
Cuba to support the insurgents, in accordance with their war plan. They had
also sufficient strength to ensure that the communications with the
expeditionary force could not be interrupted permanently. And yet, because
the Spaniards had an undefeated fleet at sea somewhere, they hesitated, and
were nearly lost. The Japanese had no such illusions. Without having struck
a naval blow of any kind, and with a hostile fleet actually within the theatre
of operations, they started their essential military movement oversea,
content that though they might not be able to secure the control of the line
of passage, they were in a position to deny effective control to the enemy.
Our own history is full of such operations. There are cases in plenty where
the results promised by a successful military blow oversea, before
permanent command had been obtained, were great enough to justify a risk
which, like the Japanese, we knew how to minimise by judicious use of our
favourable geographical position, and of a certain system of protection,
which must be dealt with later.
For the purpose, then, of framing a plan of war or campaign, it must be
taken that command may exist in various states or degrees, each of which
has its special possibilities and limitations. It may be general or local, and it
may be permanent or temporary. General command may be permanent or
temporary, but mere local command, except in very favourable
geographical conditions, should scarcely ever be regarded as more than
temporary, since normally it is always liable to interruption from other
theatres so long as the enemy possesses an effective naval force.
Finally, it has to be noted that even permanent general command can never
in practice be absolute. No degree of naval superiority can ensure our
communications against sporadic attack from detached cruisers, or even
raiding squadrons if they be boldly led and are prepared to risk destruction.
Even after Hawke's decisive victory at Quiberon had completed the
overthrow of the enemy's sea forces, a British transport was captured
between Cork and Portsmouth, and an Indiaman in sight of the Lizard,
while Wellington's complaints in the Peninsula of the insecurity of his

communications are well known.9 By general and permanent control we do
not mean that the enemy can do nothing, but that he cannot interfere with
our maritime trade and oversea operations so seriously as to affect the issue
of the war, and that he cannot carry on his own trade and operations except
at such risk and hazard as to remove them from the field of practical
strategy. In other words, it means that the enemy can no longer attack our
lines of passage and communication effectively, and that he cannot use or
defend his own.
To complete our equipment for appreciating any situation for which
operations have to be designed, it is necessary to remember that when the
command is in dispute the general conditions may give a stable or an
unstable equilibrium. It may be that the power of neither side preponderates
to any appreciable extent. It may also be that the preponderance is with
ourselves, or it may be that it lies with the enemy. Such preponderance of
course will not depend entirely on actual relative strength, either physical or
moral, but will be influenced by the inter-relation of naval positions and the
comparative convenience of their situation in regard to the object of the war
or campaign. By naval positions we mean, firstly, naval bases and,
secondly, the terminals of the greater lines of communication or trade-
routes and the focal areas where they tend to converge, as at Finisterre,
Gibraltar, Suez, the Cape, Singapore, and many others.
Upon the degree and distribution of this preponderance will depend in a
general way the extent to which our plans will be governed by the idea of
defence or offence. Generally speaking, it will be to the advantage of the
preponderating side to seek a decision as quickly as possible in order to
terminate the state of dispute. Conversely, the weaker side will as a rule
seek to avoid or postpone a decision in hope of being able by minor
operations, the chances of war, or the development of fresh strength, to turn
the balance in its favour. Such was the line which France adopted frequently
in her wars with us, sometimes legitimately, but sometimes to such an
excess as seriously to demoralise her fleet. Her experience has led to a hasty
deduction that the defensive at sea for even a weaker Power is an unmixed
evil. Such a conclusion is foreign to the fundamental principles of war. It is
idle to exclude the use of an expectant attitude because in itself it cannot
lead to final success, and because if used to excess it ends in demoralisation
and the loss of will to attack. The misconception appears to have arisen

from insistence on the drawbacks of defence by writers seeking to persuade
their country to prepare in time of peace sufficient naval strength to justify
offence from the outset.
Having now determined the fundamental principles which underlie the idea
of Command of the Sea, we are in a position to consider the manner in
which fleets are constituted in order to fit them for their task.

CHAPTER TWO

THEORY OF THE
MEANS—THE
CONSTITUTION OF
FLEETS

In all eras of naval warfare fighting ships have exhibited a tendency to
differentiate into groups in accordance with the primary function each class
was designed to serve. These groupings or classifications are what is meant
by the constitution of a fleet. A threefold differentiation into battleships,
cruisers, and flotilla has so long dominated naval thought that we have
come to regard it as normal, and even essential. It may be so, but such a
classification has been by no means constant. Other ideas of fleet
constitution have not only existed, but have stood the test of war for long
periods, and it is unscientific and unsafe to ignore such facts if we wish to
arrive at sound doctrine.
The truth is, that the classes of ships which constitute a fleet are, or ought to
be, the expression in material of the strategical and tactical ideas that
prevail at any given time, and consequently they have varied not only with
the ideas, but also with the material in vogue. It may also be said more
broadly that they have varied with the theory of war, by which more or less
consciously naval thought was dominated. It is true that few ages have
formulated a theory of war, or even been clearly aware of its influence; but
nevertheless such theories have always existed, and even in their most
nebulous and intangible shapes seem to have exerted an ascertainable
influence on the constitution of fleets.
Going back to the dawn of modern times, we note that at the opening of the
sixteenth century, when galley warfare reached its culmination, the
constitution was threefold, bearing a superficial analogy to that which we
have come to regard as normal. There were the galeasses and heavy galleys
corresponding to our battleships, light galleys corresponding to our cruisers,
while the flotilla was represented by the small "frigates," "brigantines," and

similar craft, which had no slave gang for propulsion, but were rowed by
the fighting crew. Such armed sailing ships as then existed were regarded as
auxiliaries, and formed a category apart, as fireships and bomb-vessels did
in the sailing period, and as mine-layers do now. But the parallel must not
be overstrained. The distinction of function between the two classes of
galleys was not so strongly marked as that between the lighter craft and the
galleys; that is to say, the scientific differentiation between battleships and
cruisers had not yet been so firmly developed as it was destined to become
in later times, and the smaller galleys habitually took their place in the
fighting line.
With the rise of the sailing vessel as the typical ship-of-war an entirely new
constitution made its appearance. The dominating classification became
twofold. It was a classification into vessels of subservient movement using
sails, and vessels of free movement using oars. It was on these lines that our
true Royal Navy was first organised by Henry the Eighth, an expert who, in
the science of war, was one of the most advanced masters in Europe. In this
constitution there appears even less conception than in that of the galley
period of a radical distinction between battleships and cruisers. As Henry's
fleet was originally designed, practically the whole of the battleships were
sailing vessels, though it is true that when the French brought up galleys
from the Mediterranean, he gave some of the smartest of them oars. The
constitution was in fact one of battleships and flotilla. Of cruisers there
were none as we understand them. Fleet scouting was done by the "Row-
barges" and newly introduced "Pinnaces" of the flotilla, while as for
commerce protection, merchant vessels had usually to look after
themselves, the larger ones being regularly armed for their own defence.
The influence of this twofold constitution continued long after the
conditions of its origin had passed away. In ever-lessening degree indeed it
may be said to have lasted for two hundred years. During the Dutch wars of
the seventeenth century, which finally established the dominant status of the
sailing warship, practically all true sailing vessels—that is, vessels that had
no auxiliary oar propulsion—took station in the line. The "Frigates" of that
time differed not at all from the "Great Ship" in their functions, but only in
their design. By the beginning of the eighteenth century, however, the old
tendency to a threefold organisation began to reassert itself, but it was not

till the middle of the century that the process of development can be
regarded as complete.
Down to the end of the War of the Austrian Succession—a period which is
usually deemed to be one of conspicuous depression in the naval art—the
classification of our larger sailing vessels was purely arbitrary. The "Rates"
(which had been introduced during the Dutch wars) bore no relation to any
philosophical conception of the complex duties of a fleet. In the first rate
were 100-gun ships; in the second, 90-gun ships—all three-deckers. So far
the system of rating was sound enough, but when we come to the third rate
we find it includes 80-gun ships, which were also of three decks, while the
bulk of the rest were 70-gun two-deckers. The fourth rate was also
composed of two-decked ships—weak battle-units of 60 and 50 guns—and
this was far the largest class. All these four rates were classed as ships-of-
the-line. Below them came the fifth rates, which, though they were used as
cruisers, had no distinct class name. They differed indeed only in degree
from the ship-of-the-line, being all cramped two-deckers of 44 and 40 guns,
and they must be regarded, in so far as they expressed any logical idea of
naval warfare, as the forerunners of the "Intermediate" class, represented in
the succeeding epochs by 50-gun ships, and in our own time by armoured
cruisers. The only true cruiser is found in the sixth rate, which comprised
small and weakly armed 20-gun ships, and between them and the "Forties"
there was nothing. Below them, but again without any clear differentiation,
came the unrated sloops representing the flotilla.
In such a system of rating there is no logical distinction either between large
and small battleships or between battleships and cruisers, or between
cruisers and flotilla. The only marked break in the gradual descent is that
between the 40-gun two-deckers and the 20-gun cruisers. As these latter
vessels as well as the sloops used sweeps for auxiliary propulsion, we are
forced to conclude that the only basis of the classification was that adopted
by Henry the Eighth, which, sound as it was in his time, had long ceased to
have any real relation to the actuality of naval war.
It was not till Anson's memorable administration that a scientific system of
rating was re-established and the fleet at last assumed the logical
constitution which it retained up to our own time. In the first two rates
appear the fleet flagship class, three-deckers of 100 and 90 guns

respectively. All smaller three-deckers are eliminated. In the next two rates
we have the rank and file of the battle-line, two-deckers of increased size-
namely, seventy-fours in the third rate, and sixty-fours in the fourth. Here,
however, is a slight break in the perfection of the system, for the fourth rate
also included 50-gun ships of two decks, which, during the progress of the
Seven Years' War, ceased to be regarded as ships-of-the-line. War
experience was eliminating small battleships, and therewith it called for a
type intermediate between battleships and cruisers, with whose functions
we shall have to deal directly. In practice these units soon formed a rate by
themselves, into which, by the same tendency, 60-gun ships were destined
to sink half a century later.
But most pregnant of all Anson's reforms was the introduction of the true
cruiser, no longer a small battleship, but a vessel specialised for its logical
functions, and distinct in design both from the battle rates and the flotilla.
Both 40-gun and 20-gun types were abolished, and in their place appear two
cruiser rates, and the fifth consisting of 32-gun true frigates, and the sixth of
28-gun frigates, both completely divorced from any battle function. Finally,
after a very distinct gap, came the unrated sloops and smaller craft, which
formed the flotilla for coastwise and inshore work, despatch service, and
kindred duties.
The reforms of the great First Lord amounted in fact to a clearly
apprehended threefold constitution, in which the various groups were
frankly specialised in accordance with the functions each was expected to
perform. Specialisation, it will be observed, is the note of the process of
development. We have no longer an endeavour to adapt the fleet to its
multifarious duties by multiplying a comparatively weak nature of fighting-
ship, which could act in the line and yet be had in sufficient numbers to
protect commerce, but which was not well fitted for either service. Instead
we note a definite recognition of the principle that battleships should be as
powerful as possible, and that in order to permit of their due development
they must be relieved of their cruising functions by a class of vessel
specially adapted for the purpose. The question we have to consider is, was
this specialisation, which has asserted itself down to our own times, in the
true line of development? Was it, in fact, a right expression of the needs
which are indicated by the theory of naval war?

By the theory of naval war it must be reiterated we mean nothing but an
enunciation of the fundamental principles which underlie all naval war.
Those principles, if we have determined them correctly, should be found
giving shape not only to strategy and tactics, but also to material, whatever
method and means of naval warfare may be in use at any given time.
Conversely, if we find strategy, tactics, or organisation exhibiting a
tendency to reproduce the same forms under widely differing conditions of
method and material, we should be able to show that those forms bear a
constant and definite relation to the principles which our theory endeavours
to express.
In the case of Anson's threefold organisation, the relation is not far to seek,
though it has become obscured by two maxims. The one is, that "the
command of the sea depends upon battleships," and the other, that "cruisers
are the eyes of the fleet." It is the inherent evil of maxims that they tend to
get stretched beyond their original meaning. Both of these express a truth,
but neither expresses the whole truth. On no theory of naval warfare can we
expect to command the sea with battleships, nor, on the communication
theory, can we regard the primary function of cruisers as being to scout for
a battle-fleet. It is perfectly true that the control depends ultimately on the
battle-fleet if control is disputed by a hostile battle-fleet, as it usually is. It is
also true that, so far as is necessary to enable the battle-fleet to secure the
control, we have to furnish it with eyes from our cruiser force. But it does
not follow that this is the primary function of cruisers. The truth is, we have
to withdraw them from their primary function in order to do work for the
battle-fleet which it cannot do for itself.
Well established as is the "Eyes of the fleet" maxim, it would be very
difficult to show that scouting was ever regarded as the primary function of
cruisers by the highest authorities. In Nelson's practice at least their
paramount function was to exercise the control which he was securing with
his battle-squadron. Nothing is more familiar in naval history than his
incessant cry from the Mediterranean for more cruisers, but the significance
of that cry has become obscured. It was not that his cruisers were not
numerous in proportion to his battleships—they were usually nearly double
in number—but it was rather that he was so deeply convinced of their true
function, that he used them to exercise control to an extent which
sometimes reduced his fleet cruisers below the limit of bare necessity. The

result on a memorable occasion was the escape of the enemy's battle-fleet,
but the further result is equally important. It was that the escape of that fleet
did not deprive him of the control which he was charged to maintain. His
judgment may have been at fault, but the strategical distribution of his force
was consistent throughout the whole period of his Mediterranean command.
Judged by his record, no man ever grasped more clearly than Nelson that
the object of naval warfare was to control communications, and if he found
that he had not a sufficient number of cruisers to exercise that control and to
furnish eyes for his battle-fleet as well, it was the battle-fleet that was made
to suffer, and surely this is at least the logical view. Had the French been
ready to risk settling the question of the control in a fleet action, it would
have been different. He would then have been right to sacrifice the exercise
of control for the time in order to make sure that the action should take
place and end decisively in his favour. But he knew they were not ready to
take such a risk, and he refused to permit a purely defensive attitude on the
part of the enemy to delude him from the special function with which he
had been charged.
If the object of naval warfare is to control communications, then the
fundamental requirement is the means of exercising that control. Logically,
therefore, if the enemy holds back from battle decision, we must relegate
the battle-fleet to a secondary position, for cruisers are the means of
exercising control; the battle-fleet is but the means of preventing their being
interfered with in their work. Put it to the test of actual practice. In no case
can we exercise control by battleships alone. Their specialisation has
rendered them unfit for the work, and has made them too costly ever to be
numerous enough. Even, therefore, if our enemy had no battle-fleet we
could not make control effective with battleships alone. We should still
require cruisers specialised for the work and in sufficient numbers to cover
the necessary ground. But the converse is not true. We could exercise
control with cruisers alone if the enemy had no battle-fleet to interfere with
them.
If, then, we seek a formula that will express the practical results of our
theory, it would take some such shape as this. On cruisers depends our
exercise of control; on the battle-fleet depends the security of control. That
is the logical sequence of ideas, and it shows us that the current maxim is
really the conclusion of a logical argument in which the initial steps must

not be ignored. The maxim that the command of the sea depends on the
battle-fleet is then perfectly sound so long as it is taken to include all the
other facts on which it hangs. The true function of the battle-fleet is to
protect cruisers and flotilla at their special work. The best means of doing
this is of course to destroy the enemy's power of interference. The doctrine
of destroying the enemy's armed forces as the paramount object here
reasserts itself, and reasserts itself so strongly as to permit for most practical
purposes the rough generalisation that the command depends upon the
battle-fleet.
Of what practical use then, it may be asked, is all this hairsplitting? Why
not leave untainted the conviction that our first and foremost business is to
crush the enemy's battle-fleet, and that to this end our whole effort should
be concentrated? The answer is to point to Nelson's dilemma. It was a
dilemma which, in the golden age of naval warfare, every admiral at sea
had had to solve for himself, and it was always one of the most difficult
details of every naval war plan. If we seek to ensure the effective action of
the battle-fleet by giving it a large proportion of cruisers, by so much do we
weaken the actual and continuous exercise of control. If we seek to make
that control effective by devoting to the service a large proportion of
cruisers, by so much do we prejudice our chance of getting contact with and
defeating the enemy's battle-fleet, which is the only means of perfecting
control.
The correct solution of the dilemma will of course depend upon the
conditions of each case—mainly upon the relative strength and activity of
the hostile battle-fleet and our enemy's probable intentions. But no matter
how completely we have tabulated all the relevant facts, we can never hope
to come to a sound conclusion upon them without a just appreciation of all
the elements which go to give command, and without the power of gauging
their relative importance. This, and this alone, will ultimately settle the vital
question of what proportion of our cruiser force it is right to devote to the
battle-fleet.
If the doctrine of cruiser control be correct, then every cruiser attached to
the battle-fleet is one withdrawn from its true function. Such withdrawals
are inevitable. A squadron of battleships is an imperfect organism unable to
do its work without cruiser assistance, and since the performance of its

work is essential to cruiser freedom, some cruisers must be sacrificed. But
in what proportion? If we confine ourselves to the view that command
depends on the battle-fleet, then we shall attach to it such a number as its
commander may deem necessary to make contact with the enemy
absolutely certain and to surround himself with an impenetrable screen. If
we knew the enemy was as anxious for a decision as ourselves, such a
course might be justified. But the normal condition is that if we desire a
decision it is because we have definite hopes of success, and consequently
the enemy will probably seek to avoid one on our terms. In practice this
means that if we have perfected our arrangements for the destruction of his
main fleet he will refuse to expose it till he sees a more favourable
opportunity. And what will be the result? He remains on the defensive, and
theoretically all the ensuing period of inaction tends to fall into his scale.
Without stirring from port his fleet is doing its work. The more closely he
induces us to concentrate our cruiser force in face of his battle-fleet, the
more he frees the sea for the circulation of his own trade, and the more he
exposes ours to cruiser raids.
Experience, then, and theory alike dictate that as a general principle cruisers
should be regarded as primarily concerned with the active occupation of
communications, and that withdrawals for fleet purposes should be reduced
to the furthest margin of reasonable risk. What that margin should be can
only be decided on the circumstances of each case as it arises, and by the
personal characteristics of the officers who are responsible. Nelson's
practice was to reduce fleet cruisers lower than perhaps any other
commander. So small indeed was the margin of efficiency he left, that in the
campaign already cited, when his judgment was ripest, one stroke of ill-luck
—a chance betrayal of his position by a neutral—availed to deprive him of
the decision he sought, and to let the enemy's fleet escape.
We arrive, then, at this general conclusion. The object of naval warfare is to
control maritime communications. In order to exercise that control
effectively we must have a numerous class of vessels specially adapted for
pursuit. But their power of exercising control is in proportion to our degree
of command, that is, to our power of preventing their operations being
interfered with by the enemy. Their own power of resistance is in inverse
proportion to their power of exercising control; that is to say, the more
numerous and better adapted they are for preying on commerce and

transports, the weaker will be their individual fighting power. We cannot
give them as a whole the power of resisting disturbance without at the same
time reducing their power of exercising control. The accepted solution of
the difficulty during the great period of Anson's school was to provide them
with a covering force of battle units specially adapted for fighting. But here
arises a correlative difficulty. In so far as we give our battle units fighting
power we deny them scouting power, and scouting is essential to their
effective operation. The battle-fleet must have eyes. Now, vessels adapted
for control of communications are also well adapted for "eyes." It becomes
the practice, therefore, to withdraw from control operations a sufficient
number of units to enable the battle-fleet to cover effectively the operations
of those that remain.
Such were the broad principles on which the inevitable dilemma always had
to be solved, and on which Anson's organisation was based. They flow
naturally from the communication theory of maritime war, and it was this
theory which then dominated naval thought, as is apparent from the
technical use of such phrases as "lines of passage and communication." The
war plans of the great strategists from Anson and Barham can always be
resolved into these simple elements, and where we find the Admiralty grip
of them loosened, we have the confusion and quite unnecessary failures of
the War of American Independence. In that mismanaged contest the cardinal
mistake was that we suffered the enemy's battle-fleets to get upon and
occupy the vital lines of "passage and communication" without first
bringing them to action, an error partly due to the unreadiness of a weak
administration, and partly to an insufficient allocation of cruisers to secure
contact at the right places.
So far, then, the principles on which our naval supremacy was built up are
clear. For the enemies with whom we had to deal Anson's system was
admirably conceived. Both Spain and France held the communication
theory so strongly, that they were content to count as success the power of
continually disturbing our control without any real attempt to secure it for
themselves. To defeat such a policy Anson's constitution and the strategy it
connoted were thoroughly well adapted and easy to work. But it by no
means follows that his doctrine is the last word. Even in his own time
complications had begun to develop which tended to confuse the precision
of his system. By the culminating year of Trafalgar there were indications

that it was getting worn out, while the new methods and material used by
the Americans in 1812 made a serious rent in it. The disturbances then
inaugurated have continued to develop, and it is necessary to consider how
seriously they have confused the problem of fleet constitution.
Firstly, there is the general recognition, always patent to ourselves, that by
far the most drastic, economical, and effective way of securing control is to
destroy the enemy's means of interfering with it. In our own service this
"overthrow" idea always tended to assert itself so strongly, that occasionally
the means became for a time more important than the end; that is to say,
circumstances were such that on occasions it was considered advisable to
sacrifice the exercise of control for a time in order quickly and permanently
to deprive the enemy of all means of interference. When there was
reasonable hope of the enemy risking a decision this consideration tended to
override all others; but when, as in Nelson's case in the Mediterranean, the
hope was small, the exercise of control tended to take the paramount place.
The second complexity arose from the fact that however strong might be
our battleship cover, it is impossible for it absolutely to secure cruiser
control from disturbance by sporadic attack. Isolated heavy ships, taking
advantage of the chances of the sea, could elude even the strictest blockade,
and one such ship, if she succeeded in getting upon a line of
communication, might paralyse the operations of a number of weaker units.
They must either run or concentrate, and in either case the control was
broken. If it were a squadron of heavy ships that caused the disturbance, the
practice was to detach against it a division of the covering battle-fleet. But
it was obviously highly inconvenient and contrary to the whole idea on
which the constitution of the fleet was based to allow every slight danger to
cruiser control to loosen the cohesion of the main fleet.
It was necessary, then, to give cruiser lines some power of resistance. This
necessity once admitted, there seemed no point at which you could stop
increasing the fighting power of your cruisers, and sooner or later, unless
some means of checking the process were found, the distinction between
cruisers and battleships would practically disappear. Such a means was
found in what may be called the "Intermediate" ship. Frigates did indeed
continue to increase in size and fighting power throughout the remainder of
the sailing era, but it was not only in this manner that the power of

resistance was gained. The evil results of the movement were checked by
the introduction of a supporting ship, midway between frigates and true
ships-of-the-line. Sometimes classed as a battleship, and taking her place in
the line, the 50-gun ship came to be essentially a type for stiffening cruiser
squadrons. They most commonly appear as the flagships of cruiser
commodores, or stationed in terminal waters or at focal points where
sporadic raids were likely to fall and be most destructive. The strategical
effect of the presence of such a vessel in a cruiser line was to give the whole
line in some degree the strength of the intermediate ship; for any hostile
cruiser endeavouring to disturb the line was liable to have to deal with the
supporting ship, while if a frigate and a 50-gun ship got together they were
a match even for a small ship-of-the-line.
In sailing days, of course, this power of the supporting ship was weak
owing to the imperfection of the means of distant communication between
ships at sea and the non-existence of such means beyond extreme range of
vision. But as wireless telegraphy develops it is not unreasonable to expect
that the strategic value of the supporting or intermediate ship will be found
greater than it ever was in sailing days, and that for dealing with sporadic
disturbance the tendency will be for a cruiser line to approximate more and
more in power of resistance to that of its strongest unit.
For fleet service a cruiser's power of resistance was hardly less valuable; for
though we speak of fleet cruisers as the eyes of the fleet, their purpose is
almost equally to blindfold the enemy. Their duty is not only to disclose the
movements of the enemy, but also to act as a screen to conceal our own.
The point was specially well marked in the blockades, where the old 50-gun
ships are almost always found with the inshore cruiser squadron, preventing
that squadron being forced by inquisitive frigates. Important as this power
of resistance in the screen was in the old days, it is tenfold more important
now, and the consequent difficulty of keeping cruisers distinct from
battleships is greater than ever. The reason for this is best considered under
the third and most serious cause of complexity.
The third cause is the acquisition by the flotilla of battle power. It is a
feature of naval warfare that is entirely new.10 For all practical purposes it
was unknown until the full development of the mobile torpedo. It is true
that the fireship as originally conceived was regarded as having something

of the same power. During the Dutch wars—the heyday of its vogue—its
assigned power was on some occasions actually realised, as in the burning
of Lord Sandwich's flagship at the battle of Solebay, and the destruction of
the Spanish-Dutch fleet at Palermo by Duquesne. But as the "nimbleness"
of great-ships increased with the ripening of seamanship and naval
architecture, the fireship as a battle weapon became almost negligible,
while a fleet at anchor was found to be thoroughly defensible by its own
picket-boats. Towards the middle of the eighteenth century indeed the
occasions on which the fireship could be used for its special purpose was
regarded as highly exceptional, and though the type was retained till the end
of the century, its normal functions differed not at all from those of the rest
of the flotilla of which it then formed part.
Those functions, as we have seen, expressed the cruising idea in its purest
sense. It was numbers and mobility that determined flotilla types rather than
armament or capacity for sea-endurance. Their primary purpose was to
control communications in home and colonial waters against weakly armed
privateers. The type which these duties determined fitted them adequately
for the secondary purpose of inshore and despatch work with a fleet. It was,
moreover, on the ubiquity which their numbers gave them, and on their
power of dealing with unarmed or lightly armed vessels, that we relied for
our first line of defence against invasion. These latter duties were of course
exceptional, and the Navy List did not carry as a rule sufficient numbers for
the purpose. But a special value of the class was that it was capable of rapid
and almost indefinite expansion from the mercantile marine. Anything that
could carry a gun had its use, and during the period of the Napoleonic threat
the defence flotilla rose all told to considerably over a thousand units.
Formidable and effective as was a flotilla of this type for the ends it was
designed to serve, it obviously in no way affected the security of a battle-
fleet. But so soon as the flotilla acquired battle power the whole situation
was changed, and the old principles of cruiser design and distribution were
torn to shreds. The battle-fleet became a more imperfect organism than ever.
Formerly it was only its offensive power that required supplementing. The
new condition meant that unaided it could no longer ensure its own defence.
It now required screening, not only from observation, but also from flotilla
attack. The theoretical weakness of an arrested offensive received a
practical and concrete illustration to a degree that war had scarcely ever

known. Our most dearly cherished strategical traditions were shaken to the
bottom. The "proper place" for our battle-fleet had always been "on the
enemy's coasts," and now that was precisely where the enemy would be
best pleased to see it. What was to be done? So splendid a tradition could
not lightly be laid aside, but the attempt to preserve it involved us still
deeper in heresy. The vital, most difficult, and most absorbing problem has
become not how to increase the power of a battle-fleet for attack, which is a
comparatively simple matter, but how to defend it. As the offensive power
of the flotilla developed, the problem pressed with an almost bewildering
intensity. With every increase in the speed and sea-keeping power of
torpedo craft, the problem of the screen grew more exacting. To keep the
hostile flotilla out of night range the screen must be flung out wider and
wider, and this meant more and more cruisers withdrawn from their primary
function. And not only this. The screen must not only be far flung, but it
must be made as far as possible impenetrable. In other words, its own
power of resistance must be increased all along the line. Whole squadrons
of armoured cruisers had to be attached to battle-fleets to support the
weaker members of the screen. The crying need for this type of ship set up a
rapid movement for increasing their fighting power, and with it fell with
equal rapidity the economic possibility of giving the cruiser class its
essential attribute of numbers.
As an inevitable result we find ourselves involved in an effort to restore to
the flotilla some of its old cruiser capacity, by endowing it with gun
armament, higher sea-keeping power, and facilities for distant
communication, all at the cost of specialisation and of greater economic
strain. Still judged by past experience, some means of increasing numbers
in the cruising types is essential, nor is it clear how it is possible to secure
that essential in the ranks of the true cruiser. No point has been found at
which it was possible to stop the tendency of this class of vessel to increase
in size and cost, or to recall it to the strategical position it used to occupy.
So insecure is the battle-squadron, so imperfect as a self-contained weapon
has it become, that its need has overridden the old order of things, and the
primary function of the cruising ship inclines to be no longer the exercise of
control under cover of the battle-fleet. The battle-fleet now demands
protection by the cruising ship, and what the battle-fleet needs is held to be
the first necessity.

Judged by the old naval practice, it is an anomalous position to have
reached. But the whole naval art has suffered a revolution beyond all
previous experience, and it is possible the old practice is no longer a safe
guide. Driven by the same necessities, every naval Power is following the
same course. It may be right, it may be wrong; no one at least but the
ignorant or hasty will venture to pass categorical judgment. The best we can
do is to endeavour to realise the situation to which, in spite of all
misgivings, we have been forced, and to determine its relations to the
developments of the past.
It is undoubtedly a difficult task. As we have seen, there have prevailed in
the constitution of fleets at various times several methods of expressing the
necessities of naval war. The present system differs from them all. On the
one hand, we have the fact that the latest developments of cruiser power
have finally obliterated all logical distinction between cruisers and
battleships, and we thus find ourselves hand in hand with the fleet
constitution of the old Dutch wars. On the other, however, we have
armoured cruisers organised in squadrons and attached to battle-fleets not
only for strategical purposes, but also with as yet undeveloped tactical
functions in battle. Here we come close to the latest development of the
sailing era, when "Advanced" or "Light" squadrons began to appear in the
organisation of battle-fleets.
The system arose towards the end of the eighteenth century in the
Mediterranean, where the conditions of control called for so wide a
dispersal of cruisers and so great a number of them, that it was almost
imperative for a battle-squadron in that sea to do much of its own scouting.
It was certainly for this purpose that the fastest and lightest ships-of-the-line
were formed into a separate unit, and the first designation it received was
that of "Observation Squadron." It remained for Nelson to endeavour to
endow it with a tactical function, but his idea was never realised either by
himself or any of his successors.
Side by side with this new element in the organisation of a battle-fleet,
which perhaps is best designated as a "Light Division," we have another
significant fact. Not only was it not always composed entirely of ships-of-
the-line, especially in the French service, but in 1805, the year of the full
development, we have Sir Richard Strachan using the heavy frigates

attached to his battle-squadron as a "Light Division," and giving them a
definite tactical function. The collapse of the French Navy put a stop to
further developments of either idea. Whither they would have led we cannot
tell. But it is impossible to shut our eyes to the indication of a growing
tendency towards the system that exists at present. It is difficult at least to
ignore the fact that both Nelson and Strachan in that culminating year found
the actuality of war calling for something for which there was then no
provision in the constitution of the fleet, but which it does contain to-day.
What Nelson felt for was a battleship of cruiser speed. What Strachan
desired was a cruiser fit to take a tactical part in a fleet action. We have
them both, but with what result? Anson's specialisation of types has almost
disappeared, and our present fleet constitution is scarcely to be
distinguished from that of the seventeenth century. We retain the three-fold
nomenclature, but the system itself has really gone. Battleships grade into
armoured cruisers, armoured cruisers into protected cruisers. We can
scarcely detect any real distinction except a twofold one between vessels
whose primary armament is the gun and vessels whose primary armament is
the torpedo. But even here the existence of a type of cruiser designed to act
with flotillas blurs the outline, while, as we have seen, the larger units of the
flotilla are grading up to cruiser level.
We are thus face to face with a situation which has its closest counterpart in
the structureless fleets of the seventeenth century. That naval thought
should have so nearly retraced its steps in the course of two centuries is
curious enough, but it is still more striking when we consider how widely
the underlying causes differ in each case. The pressure which has forced the
present situation is due most obviously to two causes. One is the excessive
development of the "intermediate" ship originally devised for purposes of
commerce protection, and dictated by a menace which the experience of the
American War had taught us to respect. The other is the introduction of the
torpedo, and the consequent vulnerability of battle-squadrons that are not
securely screened. Nothing of the kind had any influence on the fleet
constitution of the seventeenth century. But if we seek deeper, there is a less
obvious consideration which for what it is worth is too striking to be
ignored.
It has been suggested above that the constitution of fleets appears to have
some more or less recognisable relation to the prevalent theory of war.

Now, amongst all our uncertainty we can assert with confidence that the
theory which holds the field at the present day bears the closest possible
resemblance to that which dominated the soldier-admirals of the Dutch war.
It was the "Overthrow" theory, the firm faith in the decisive action as the
key of all strategical problems. They carried it to sea with them from the
battlefields of the New Model Army, and the Dutch met them squarely. In
the first war at least their commerce had to give place to the exigencies of
throwing into the battle everything that could affect the issue. It is not of
course pretended that this attitude was dictated by any clearly conceived
theory of absolute war. It was due rather to the fact that, owing to the
relative geographical conditions, all attempts to guard trade
communications were useless without the command of the home waters in
the North Sea, and the truth received a clinching moral emphasis from the
British claim to the actual dominion of the Narrow Seas. It was, in fact, a
war which resembled rather the continental conditions of territorial
conquest than the naval procedure that characterised our rivalry with
France.
Is it then possible, however much we may resist the conclusion in loyalty to
the eighteenth-century tradition, that the rise of a new naval Power in the
room of Holland must bring us back to the drastic, if crude, methods of the
Dutch wars, and force us to tread under foot the nicer ingenuity of Anson's
system? Is it this which has tempted us to mistrust any type of vessel which
cannot be flung into the battle? The recurrence of a formidable rival in the
North Sea was certainly not the first cause of the reaction. It began before
that menace arose. Still it has undoubtedly forced the pace, and even if it be
not a cause, it may well be a justification.

CHAPTER THREE

THEORY OF THE
METHOD—CONCENTRATION
AND DISPERSAL OF
FORCE

From the point of view of the method by which its ends are obtained,
strategy is often described as the art of assembling the utmost force at the
right time and place; and this method is called "Concentration."
At first sight the term seems simple and expressive enough, but on analysis
it will be found to include several distinct ideas, to all of which the term is
applied indifferently. The result is a source of some confusion, even to the
most lucid writers. "The word concentration," says one of the most recent of
them, "evokes the idea of a grouping of forces. We believe, in fact, that we
cannot make war without grouping ships into squadrons and squadrons into
fleets."11 Here in one sentence the word hovers between the formation of
fleets and their strategical distribution. Similar looseness will embarrass the
student at every turn. At one time he will find the word used to express the
antithesis of division or dispersal of force; at another, to express strategic
deployment, which implies division to a greater or less extent. He will find
it used of the process of assembling a force, as well as of the state of a force
when the process is complete. The truth is that the term, which is one of the
most common and most necessary in strategical discussion, has never
acquired a very precise meaning, and this lack of precision is one of the
commonest causes of conflicting opinion and questionable judgments. No
strategical term indeed calls more urgently for a clear determination of the
ideas for which it stands.
Military phraseology, from which the word is taken, employs
"concentration" in three senses. It is used for assembling the units of an
army after they have been mobilised. In this sense, concentration is mainly
an administrative process; logically, it means the complement of the process
of mobilisation, whereby the army realises its war organisation and

becomes ready to take the field. In a second sense it is used for the process
of moving the army when formed, or in process of formation, to the
localities from which operations can best begin. This is a true strategical
stage, and it culminates in what is known as strategic deployment. Finally, it
is used for the ultimate stage when the army so deployed is closed up upon
a definite line of operations in immediate readiness for tactical deployment
—gathered up, that is, to deal a concentrated blow.
Well as this terminology appears to serve on land, where the processes tend
to overlap, something more exact is required if we try to extend it to the sea.
Such extension magnifies the error at every step, and clear thinking
becomes difficult. Even if we set aside the first meaning, that is, the final
stage of mobilisation, we have still to deal with the two others which, in a
great measure, are mutually contradictory. The essential distinction of
strategic deployment, which contemplates dispersal with a view to a choice
of combinations, is flexibility and free movement. The characteristic of an
army massed for a blow is rigidity and restricted mobility. In the one sense
of concentration we contemplate a disposal of force which will conceal our
intention from the enemy and will permit us to adapt our movements to the
plan of operations he develops. In the other, strategic concealment is at an
end. We have made our choice, and are committed to a definite operation.
Clearly, then, if we would apply the principles of land concentration to
naval warfare it is desirable to settle which of the two phases of an
operation we mean by the term.
Which meaning, then, is most closely connected with the ordinary use of
the word? The dictionaries define concentration as "the state of being
brought to a common point or centre," and this coincides very exactly with
the stage of a war plan which intervenes between the completion of
mobilisation and the final massing or deployment for battle. It is an
incomplete and continuing act. Its ultimate consequence is the mass. It is a
method of securing mass at the right time and place. As we have seen, the
essence of the state of strategic deployment to which it leads is flexibility.
In war the choice of time and place will always be influenced by the
enemy's dispositions and movements, or by our desire to deal him an
unexpected blow. The merit of concentration, then, in this sense, is its
power of permitting us to form our mass in time at one of the greatest
number of different points where mass may be required.

It is for this stage that the more recent text-books incline to specialise
concentration—qualifying it as "strategic concentration." But even that term
scarcely meets the case, for the succeeding process of gathering up the army
into a position for tactical deployment is also a strategical concentration.
Some further specialisation is required. The analytical difference between
the two processes is that the first is an operation of major strategy and the
other of minor, and if they are to be fully expressed, we have to weight
ourselves with the terms "major and minor strategic concentration."
Such cumbrous terminology is too forbidding to use. It serves only to mark
that the middle stage differs logically from the third as much as it does from
the first. In practice it comes to this. If we are going to use concentration in
its natural sense, we must regard it as something that comes after complete
mobilisation and stops short of the formation of mass.
In naval warfare at least this distinction between concentration and mass is
essential to clear appreciation. It leads us to conclusions that are of the first
importance. For instance, when once the mass is formed, concealment and
flexibility are at an end. The further, therefore, from the formation of the
ultimate mass we can stop the process of concentration the better designed
it will be. The less we are committed to any particular mass, and the less we
indicate what and where our mass is to be, the more formidable our
concentration. To concentration, therefore, the idea of division is as
essential as the idea of connection. It is this view of the process which, at
least for naval warfare, a weighty critical authority has most strongly
emphasised. "Such," he says, "is concentration reasonably understood—not
huddled together like a drove of sheep, but distributed with a regard to a
common purpose, and linked together by the effectual energy of a single
will."12 Vessels in a state of concentration he compares to a fan that opens
and shuts. In this view concentration connotes not a homogeneous body, but
a compound organism controlled from a common centre, and elastic enough
to permit it to cover a wide field without sacrificing the mutual support of
its parts.
If, then, we exclude the meaning of mere assembling and the meaning of
the mass, we have left a signification which expresses coherent disposal
about a strategical centre, and this it will be seen gives for naval warfare
just the working definition that we want as the counterpart of strategic

deployment on land. The object of a naval concentration like that of
strategic deployment will be to cover the widest possible area, and to
preserve at the same time elastic cohesion, so as to secure rapid
condensations of any two or more of the parts of the organism, and in any
part of the area to be covered, at the will of the controlling mind; and above
all, a sure and rapid condensation of the whole at the strategical centre.
Concentration of this nature, moreover, will be the expression of a war plan
which, while solidly based on an ultimate central mass, still preserves the
faculty of delivering or meeting minor attacks in any direction. It will
permit us to exercise control of the sea while we await and work for the
opportunity of a decision which shall permanently secure control, and it
will permit this without prejudicing our ability of bringing the utmost force
to bear when the moment for the decision arrives. Concentration, in fact,
implies a continual conflict between cohesion and reach, and for practical
purposes it is the right adjustment of those two tensions—ever shifting in
force—which constitutes the greater part of practical strategy.
In naval warfare this concentration stage has a peculiar significance in the
development of a campaign, and at sea it is more clearly detached than
ashore. Owing to the vast size of modern armies, and the restricted nature of
their lines of movement, no less than their lower intrinsic mobility as
compared with fleets, the processes of assembly, concentration, and
forming the battle mass tend to grade into one another without any
demarcation of practical value. An army frequently reaches the stage of
strategic deployment direct from the mobilisation bases of its units, and on
famous occasions its only real concentration has taken place on the
battlefield. In Continental warfare, then, there is less difficulty in using the
term to cover all three processes. Their tendency is always to overlap. But
at sea, where communications are free and unrestricted by obstacles, and
where mobility is high, they are susceptible of sharper differentiation. The
normal course is for a fleet to assemble at a naval port; thence by a distinct
movement it proceeds to the strategical centre and reaches out in divisions
as required. The concentration about that centre may be very far from a
mass, and the final formation of the mass will bear no resemblance to either
of the previous movements, and will be quite distinct.

But free as a fleet is from the special fetters of an army, there always exist
at sea peculiar conditions of friction which clog its freedom of disposition.
One source of this friction is commerce protection. However much our war
plan may press for close concentration, the need of commerce protection
will always be calling for dispersal. The other source is the peculiar
freedom and secrecy of movements at sea. As the sea knows no roads to
limit or indicate our own lines of operation, so it tells little about those of
the enemy. The most distant and widely dispersed points must be kept in
view as possible objectives of the enemy. When we add to this that two or
more fleets can act in conjunction from widely separated bases with far
greater certainty than is possible for armies, it is obvious that the variety of
combinations is much higher at sea than on land, and variety of
combination is in constant opposition to the central mass.
It follows that so long as the enemy's fleet is divided, and thereby retains
various possibilities of either concentrated or sporadic action, our
distribution will be dictated by the need of being able to deal with a variety
of combinations and to protect a variety of objectives. Our concentrations
must therefore be kept as open and flexible as possible. History accordingly
shows us that the riper and fresher our experience and the surer our grip of
war, the looser were our concentrations. The idea of massing, as a virtue in
itself, is bred in peace and not in war. It indicates the debilitating idea that
in war we must seek rather to avoid than to inflict defeat. True, advocates of
the mass entrench themselves in the plausible conception that their aim is to
inflict crushing defeats. But this too is an idea of peace. War has proved to
the hilt that victories have not only to be won, but worked for. They must be
worked for by bold strategical combinations, which as a rule entail at least
apparent dispersal. They can only be achieved by taking risks, and the
greatest and most effective of these is division.
The effect of prolonged peace has been to make "concentration" a kind of
shibboleth, so that the division of a fleet tends almost to be regarded as a
sure mark of bad leadership. Critics have come to lose sight of the old war
experience, that without division no strategical combinations are possible.
In truth they must be founded on division. Division is bad only when it is
pushed beyond the limits of well-knit deployment. It is theoretically wrong
to place a section of the fleet in such a position that it may be prevented
from falling back on its strategical centre when it is encountered by a

superior force. Such retreats of course can never be made certain; they will
always depend in some measure on the skill and resource of the opposing
commanders, and on the chances of weather: but risks must be taken. If we
risk nothing, we shall seldom perform anything. The great leader is the man
who can measure rightly to what breadth of deployment he can stretch his
concentration. This power of bold and sure adjustment between cohesion
and reach is indeed a supreme test of that judgment which in the conduct of
war takes the place of strategical theory.
In British naval history examples of faulty division are hard to find. The
case most commonly cited is an early one. It occurred in 1666 during the
second Dutch war. Monk and Rupert were in command of the main fleet,
which from its mobilisation bases in the Thames and at Spithead had
concentrated in the Downs. There they were awaiting De Ruyter's putting to
sea in a position from which they could deal with him whether his object
was an attack on the Thames or to join hands with the French. In this
position a rumour reached them that the Toulon squadron was on its way to
the Channel to co-operate with the Dutch. Upon this false intelligence the
fleet was divided, and Rupert went back to Portsmouth to cover that
position in case it might be the French objective. De Ruyter at once put to
sea with a fleet greatly superior to Monk's division. Monk, however, taking
advantage of thick weather that had supervened, surprised him at anchor,
and believing he had a sufficient tactical advantage attacked him
impetuously. Meanwhile the real situation became known. There was no
French fleet, and Rupert was recalled. He succeeded in rejoining Monk
after his action with De Ruyter had lasted three days. In the course of it
Monk had been very severely handled and forced to retreat to the Thames,
and it was generally believed that it was only the belated arrival of Rupert
that saved us from a real disaster.
The strategy in this case is usually condemned out of hand and made to bear
the entire blame of the reverse. Monk, who as a soldier had proved himself
one of the finest strategists of the time, is held to have blundered from sheer
ignorance of elementary principles. It is assumed that he should have kept
his fleet massed; but his critics fail to observe that at least in the opinion of
the time this would not have met the case. Had he kept the whole to deal
with De Ruyter, it is probable that De Ruyter would not have put to sea, and
it is certain Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight would have lain open to the

French had they come. If he had moved his mass to deal with the French, he
would have exposed the Thames to De Ruyter. It was a situation that could
not be solved by a simple application of what the French call the masse
centrale. The only way to secure both places from attack was to divide the
fleet, just as in 1801 Nelson in the same theatre was compelled to divide his
defence force. In neither case was division a fault, because it was a
necessity. The fault in Monk's and Rupert's case was that they extended
their reach with no proper provision to preserve cohesion. Close cruiser
connection should have been maintained between the two divisions, and
Monk should not have engaged deeply till he felt Rupert at his elbow. This
we are told was the opinion of most of his flag-officers. They held that he
should not have fought when he did. His correct course, on Kempenfelt's
principle, would have been to hang on De Ruyter so as to prevent his doing
anything, and to have slowly fallen back, drawing the Dutch after him till
his loosened concentration was closed up again. If De Ruyter had refused to
follow him through the Straits, there would have been plenty of time to
mass the fleet. If De Ruyter had followed, he could have been fought in a
position from which there would have been no escape. The fault, in fact,
was not strategical, but rather one of tactical judgment. Monk over-
estimated the advantage of his surprise and the relative fighting values of
the two fleets, and believed he saw his way to victory single-handed. The
danger of division is being surprised and forced to fight in inferiority. This
was not Monk's case. He was not surprised, and he could easily have
avoided action had he so desired. To judge such a case simply by using
concentration as a touchstone can only tend to set up such questionable
habits of thought as have condemned the more famous division which
occurred in the crisis of the campaign of 1805, and with which we must
deal later.
Apart from the general danger of using either words or maxims in this way,
it is obviously specially unwise in the case of concentration and division.
The current rule is that it is bad to divide unless you have a great
superiority; yet there have been numerous occasions when, being at war
with an inferior enemy, we have found our chief embarrassment in the fact
that he kept his fleet divided, and was able thereby to set up something like
a deadlock. The main object of our naval operations would then be to break
it down. To force an inferior enemy to concentrate is indeed the almost

necessary preliminary to securing one of those crushing victories at which
we must always aim, but which so seldom are obtained. It is by forcing the
enemy to attempt to concentrate that we get our opportunity by sagacious
dispersal of crushing his divisions in detail. It is by inducing him to mass
that we simplify our problem and compel him to choose between leaving to
us the exercise of command and putting it to the decision of a great action.
Advocates of close concentration will reply that that is true enough. We do
often seek to force our enemy to concentrate, but that does not show that
concentration is sometimes a disadvantage, for we ourselves must
concentrate closely to force a similar concentration on the enemy. The
maxim, indeed, has become current that concentration begets concentration,
but it is not too much to say that it is a maxim which history flatly
contradicts. If the enemy is willing to hazard all on a battle, it is true. But if
we are too superior, or our concentration too well arranged for him to hope
for victory, then our concentration has almost always had the effect of
forcing him to disperse for sporadic action. So certain was this result, that in
our old wars, in which we were usually superior, we always adopted the
loosest possible concentrations in order to prevent sporadic action. True, the
tendency of the French to adopt this mode of warfare is usually set down to
some constitutional ineptitude that is outside strategical theory, but this
view is due rather to the irritation which the method caused us, than to
sober reasoning. For a comparatively weak belligerent sporadic action was
better than nothing, and the only other alternative was for him to play into
our hands by hazarding the decision which it was our paramount interest to
obtain. Sporadic action alone could never give our enemy command of the
sea, but it could do us injury and embarrass our plans, and there was always
hope it might so much loosen our concentration as to give him a fair chance
of obtaining a series of successful minor decisions.
Take, now, the leading case of 1805. In that campaign our distribution was
very wide, and was based on several concentrations. The first had its centre
in the Downs, and extended not only athwart the invading army's line of
passage, but also over the whole North Sea, so as to prevent interference
with our trade or our system of coast defence either from the Dutch in the
Texel or from French squadrons arriving north-about. The second, which
was known as the Western Squadron, had its centre off Ushant, and was
spread over the whole Bay of Biscay by means of advanced squadrons

before Ferrol and Rochefort. With a further squadron off the coast of
Ireland, it was able also to reach far out into the Atlantic in order to receive
our trade. It kept guard, in fact, not only over the French naval ports, but
over the approaches to the Channel, where were the home terminals of the
great southern and western trade-routes. A third concentration was in the
Mediterranean, whose centre under Nelson was at Sardinia. It had outlying
sub-centres at Malta and Gibraltar, and covered the whole ground from
Cape St. Vincent outside the Straits to Toulon, Trieste, and the Dardanelles.
When war broke out with Spain in 1804, it was considered advisable to
divide this command, and Spanish waters outside the Straits were held by a
fourth concentration, whose centre was off Cadiz, and whose northern limit
was Cape Finisterre, where it joined the Ushant concentration. For reasons
which were personal rather than strategical this arrangement was not
continued long, nor indeed after a few months was there the same need for
it, for the Toulon squadron had changed its base to Cadiz. By this
comprehensive system the whole of the European seas were controlled both
for military and trade purposes. In the distant terminal areas, like the East
and West Indies, there were nucleus concentrations with the necessary
connective machinery permanently established, and to render them
effective, provision was made by which the various European squadrons
could throw off detachments to bring up their force to any strength which
the movements of the enemy might render necessary.
Wide as was this distribution, and great as its reach, a high degree of
cohesion was maintained not only between the parts of each concentration,
but between the several concentrations themselves. By means of a minor
cruiser centre at the Channel Islands, the Downs and Ushant concentrations
could rapidly cohere. Similarly the Cadiz concentration was linked up with
that of Ushant at Finisterre, and but for personal friction and repulsion, the
cohesion between the Mediterranean and Cadiz concentrations would have
been equally strong. Finally, there was a masterly provision made for all the
concentrations to condense into one great mass at the crucial point off
Ushant before by any calculable chance a hostile mass could gather there.
For Napoleon's best admirals, "who knew the craft of the sea," the British
fleet thus disposed was in a state of concentration that nothing but a stroke
of luck beyond the limit of sober calculation could break. Decrès and Bruix
had no doubt of it, and the knowledge overpowered Villeneuve when the

crisis came. After he had carried the concentration which Napoleon had
planned so far as to have united three divisions in Ferrol, he knew that the
outlying sections of our Western Squadron had disappeared from before
Ferrol and Rochefort. In his eyes, as well as those of the British Admiralty,
this squadron, in spite of its dispersal in the Bay of Biscay, had always been
in a state of concentration. It was not this which caused his heart to fail. It
was the news that Nelson had reappeared at Gibraltar, and had been seen
steering northward. It meant for him that the whole of his enemy's European
fleet was in a state of concentration. "Their concentration of force," he
afterwards wrote, "was at the moment more serious than in any previous
disposition, and such that they were in a position to meet in superiority the
combined forces of Brest and Ferrol," and for that reason, he explained, he
had given up the game as lost. But to Napoleon's unpractised eye it was
impossible to see what it was he had to deal with. Measuring the elasticity
of the British naval distribution by the comparatively cumbrous and
restricted mobility of armies, he saw it as a rash and unwarlike dispersal. Its
looseness seemed to indicate so great a tenderness for the distant objectives
that lay open to his scattered squadrons, that he believed by a show of
sporadic action he could further disperse our fleet, and then by a close
concentration crush the essential part in detail. It was a clear case of the
enemy's dispersal forcing us to adopt the loosest concentration, and of our
comparative dispersal tempting the enemy to concentrate and hazard a
decision. It cannot be said we forced the fatal move upon him intentionally.
It was rather the operation of strategical law set in motion by our bold
distribution. We were determined that his threat of invasion, formidable as it
was, should not force upon us so close a concentration as to leave our
widespread interests open to his attack. Neither can it be said that our first
aim was to prevent his attempting to concentrate. Every one of his naval
ports was watched by a squadron, but it was recognised that this would not
prevent concentration. The escape of one division might well break the
chain. But that consideration made no difference. The distribution of our
squadrons before his naval ports was essential for preventing sporadic
action. Their distribution was dictated sufficiently by the defence of
commerce and of colonial and allied territory, by our need, that is, to
exercise a general command even if we could not destroy the enemy's force.

The whole of Nelson's correspondence for this period shows that his main
object was the protection of our Mediterranean trade and of Neapolitan and
Turkish territory. When Villeneuve escaped him, his irritation was caused
not by the prospect of a French concentration, which had no anxieties for
him, for he knew counter-concentrations were provided for. It was caused
rather by his having lost the opportunity which the attempt to concentrate
had placed within his reach. He followed Villeneuve to the West Indies, not
to prevent concentration, but, firstly, to protect the local trade and Jamaica,
and secondly, in hope of another chance of dealing the blow he had missed.
Lord Barham took precisely the same view. When on news of Villeneuve's
return from the West Indies he moved out the three divisions of the Western
Squadron, that is, the Ushant concentration, to meet him, he expressly
stated, not that his object was to prevent concentration, but that it was to
deter the French from attempting sporadic action. "The interception of the
fleet in question," he wrote, "on its return to Europe would be a greater
object than any I know. It would damp all future expeditions, and would
show to Europe that it might be advisable to relax in the blockading system
occasionally for the express purpose of putting them in our hands at a
convenient opportunity."
Indeed we had no reason for preventing the enemy's concentration. It was
our best chance of solving effectually the situation we have to confront. Our
true policy was to secure permanent command by a great naval decision. So
long as the enemy remained divided, no such decision could be expected. It
was not, in fact, till he attempted his concentration, and its last stage had
been reached, that the situation was in our hands. The intricate problem
with which we had been struggling was simplified down to closing up our
own concentration to the strategical centre off Ushant. But at the last stage
the enemy could not face the formidable position we held. His
concentration was stopped. Villeneuve fell back on Cadiz, and the problem
began to assume for us something of its former intricacy. So long as we
held the mass off Ushant which our great concentration had produced, we
were safe from invasion. But that was not enough. It left the seas open to
sporadic action from Spanish ports. There were convoys from the East and
West Indies at hand, and there was our expedition in the Mediterranean in
jeopardy, and another on the point of sailing from Cork. Neither Barham at
the Admiralty nor Cornwallis in command off Ushant hesitated an hour. By

a simultaneous induction they both decided the mass must be divided. The
concentration must be opened out again, and it was done. Napoleon called
the move an insigne betise, but it was the move that beat him, and must
have beaten him, whatever the skill of his admirals, for the two squadrons
never lost touch. He found himself caught in a situation from which there
was nothing to hope. His fleet was neither concentrated for a decisive blow
nor spread for sporadic action. He had merely simplified his enemy's
problem. Our hold was surer than ever, and in a desperate attempt to
extricate himself he was forced to expose his fleet to the final decision we
required.
The whole campaign serves well to show what was understood by
concentration at the end of the great naval wars. To Lord Barham and the
able admirals who interpreted his plans it meant the possibility of massing
at the right time and place. It meant, in close analogy to strategic
deployment on land, the disposal of squadrons about a strategical centre
from which fleets could condense for massed action in any required
direction, and upon which they could fall back when unduly pressed. In this
case the ultimate centre was the narrows of the Channel, where Napoleon's
army lay ready to cross, but there was no massing there. So crude a
distribution would have meant a purely defensive attitude. It would have
meant waiting to be struck instead of seeking to strike, and such an attitude
was arch-heresy to our old masters of war.
So far we have only considered concentration as applied to wars in which
we have a preponderance of naval force, but the principles are at least
equally valid when a coalition places us in inferiority. The leading case is
the home campaign of 1782. It was strictly on defensive lines. Our
information was that France and Spain intended to end the war with a great
combined effort against our West Indian islands, and particularly Jamaica. It
was recognised that the way to meet the threat was to concentrate for
offensive action in the Caribbean Sea everything that was not absolutely
needed for home defence. Instead, therefore, of trying to be strong enough
to attempt the offensive in both areas, it was decided to make sure of the
area that was most critical. To do this the home fleet had to be reduced so
low relatively to what the enemy had in European waters that offence was
out of the question.

While Rodney took the offensive area, Lord Howe was given the other. His
task was to prevent the coalition obtaining such a command of home waters
as would place our trade and coasts at their mercy, and it was not likely to
prove a light one. We knew that the enemy's plan was to combine their
attack on the West Indies with an attempt to control the North Sea, and
possibly the Straits of Dover, with a Dutch squadron of twelve to fifteen of
the line, while a combined Franco-Spanish fleet of at least forty sail would
occupy the mouth of the Channel. It was also possible that these two forces
would endeavour to form a junction. In any case the object of the joint
operations would be to paralyse our trade and annoy our coasts, and thereby
force us to neglect the West Indian area and the two Spanish objectives,
Minorca and Gibraltar. All told we had only about thirty of the line on the
home station, and though a large proportion of these were three-deckers, a
good many could not be ready for sea till the summer.
Inferior as was the available force, there was no thought of a purely passive
defence. It would not meet the case. Something must be done to interfere
with the offensive operations of the allies in the West Indies and against
Gibraltar, or they would attain the object of their home campaign. It was
resolved to effect this by minor counterstrokes on their line of
communications to the utmost limit of our defensive reach. It would mean a
considerable stretch of our concentration, but we were determined to do
what we could to prevent reinforcements from reaching the West Indies
from Brest, to intercept French trade as occasion offered, and, finally, at
almost any risk to relieve Gibraltar.
In these conditions the defensive concentration was based on a central mass
or reserve at Spithead, a squadron in the Downs to watch the Texel for the
safety of the North Sea trade, and another to the westward to watch Brest
and interrupt its transatlantic communications. Kempenfelt in command of
the latter squadron had just shown what could be done by his great exploit
of capturing Guichen's convoy of military and naval stores for the West
Indies. Early in the spring he was relieved by Barrington, who sailed on
April 5th to resume the Ushant position. His instructions were not to fight a
superior enemy unless in favourable circumstances, but to retire on
Spithead. He was away three weeks, and returned with a French East India
convoy with troops and stores, and two of the ships of-the-line which
formed its escort.

Up to this time there had been no immediate sign of the great movement
from the south. The Franco-Spanish fleet which had assembled at Cadiz
was occupied ineffectually in trying to stop small reliefs reaching Gibraltar
and in covering their own homeward-bound trade. The Dutch, however,
were becoming active, and the season was approaching for our Baltic trade
to come home. Ross in the North Sea had but four of the line to watch the
Texel, and was in no position to deal with the danger. Accordingly early in
May the weight of the home concentration was thrown into the North Sea.
On the 10th Howe sailed with Barrington and the bulk of the fleet to join
Ross in the Downs, while Kempenfelt again took the Ushant position. Only
about half the Brest Squadron had gone down to join the Spaniards at
Cadiz, and he was told his first duty was to intercept the rest if it put to sea,
but, as in Barrington's instructions, if he met a superior squadron he was to
retire up Channel under the English coast and join hands with Howe. In
spite of the fact that influenza was now raging in the fleet, he succeeded in
holding the French inactive. Howe with the same difficulty to face was
equally successful. The Dutch had put to sea, but returned immediately they
knew of his movement, and cruising off the Texel, he held them there, and
kept complete command of the North Sea till our Baltic trade was safe
home.
By the end of May it was done, and as our intelligence indicated that the
great movement from Cadiz was at last about to begin, Howe, to whom a
certain discretion had been left, decided it was time to shift the weight to his
other wing and close on Kempenfelt. The Government, however, seemed to
think that he ought to be able to use his position for offensive operations
against Dutch trade, but in the admiral's opinion this was to lose hold of the
design and sacrifice cohesion too much to reach. He informed them that he
had not deemed it advisable to make detachments from his squadron against
the trade, "not knowing how suddenly there might be a call, for the greater
part of it at least, to the westward." In accordance, therefore, with his
general instructions he left with Ross a strong squadron of nine of the line,
sufficient to hold in check, and even "to take and destroy," the
comparatively weak ships of the Dutch, and with the rest returned to the
westward.13 His intention was to proceed with all possible expedition to
join Kempenfelt on the coast of France, but this, owing to the ravages of the

influenza, he was unable to do. Kempenfelt was forced to come in, and on
June 5th the junction was made at Spithead.
For three weeks, so severe was the epidemic, they could not move. Then
came news that the Cadiz fleet under Langara had sailed the day Howe had
reached Spithead, and he resolved to make a dash with every ship fit to put
to sea to cut it off from Brest. He was too late. Before he could get into
position the junction between Langara and the Brest squadron was made,
and in their full force the allies had occupied the mouth of the Channel.
With the addition of the Brest ships the combined fleet numbered forty of
the line, while all Howe could muster was twenty-two, but amongst them
were seven three-deckers and three eighties, and he would soon be
reinforced. Three of Ross's smallest ships were recalled, and five others
were nearly ready, but for these Howe could not wait. The homeward-
bound Jamaica convoy was at hand, and at all hazards it must be saved.
What was to be done? So soon as he sighted the enemy he realised that a
successful action was out of the question. Early in the morning of July 12th,
"being fifteen leagues S.S.E. from Scilly," Langara with thirty-six of the
line was seen to the westward. "As soon," wrote Howe, "as their force had
been ascertained, I thought proper to avoid coming to battle with them as
then circumstanced, and therefore steered to the north to pass between
Scilly and the Land's End. My purpose therein was to get to the westward of
the enemy, both for protecting the Jamaica convoy and to gain the
advantage of situation for bringing them to action which the difference in
our numbers renders desirable."
By a most brilliant effort of seamanship the dangerous movement was
effected safely that night, and it proved an entire success. Till Howe was
met with and defeated, the allies would not venture into the Channel, and
his unprecedented feat had effectually thrown them off. Assuming
apparently that he must have passed round their rear to seaward, they
sought him to the southward, and there for a month beat up and down in
ineffective search. Meanwhile Howe, sending his cruisers ahead to the
convoy's rendezvous off the south-west coast of Iceland, had taken his
whole fleet about two hundred miles west of the Skelligs to meet it.
Northerly winds prevented his reaching the right latitude in time, but it
mattered little. The convoy passed in between him and the south of Ireland,

and as the enemy had taken a cast down to Ushant, it was able to enter the
Channel in safety without sighting an enemy's sail. Ignorant of what had
happened, Howe cruised for a week practising the ships "in connected
movements so particularly necessary on the present occasion." Then with
his fleet in fine condition to carry out preventive tactics in accordance with
Kempenfelt's well-known exposition,14 he returned to seek the enemy to the
eastward, in order to try to draw them from their station at Scilly and open
the Channel. On his way he learnt the convoy had passed in, and with this
anxiety off his mind he bore up for the Lizard, where his reinforcements
were awaiting him. There he found the Channel was free. From lack of
supplies the enemy had been forced to retire to port, and he returned to
Spithead to make preparations for the relief of Gibraltar. While this work
was going on, the North Sea squadron was again strengthened that it might
resume the blockade of the Texel and cover the arrival of the autumn
convoys from the Baltic. It was done with complete success. Not a single
ship fell into the enemy's hands, and the campaign, and indeed the war,
ended by Howe taking the mass of his force down to Gibraltar and
performing his remarkable feat of relieving it in the face of the Spanish
squadron. For the power and reach of a well-designed concentration there
can be no finer example.
If, now, we seek from the above and similar examples for principles to
serve as a guide between concentration and division we shall find, firstly,
this one. The degree of division we shall require is in proportion to the
number of naval ports from which the enemy can act against our maritime
interests and to the extent of coastline along which they are spread. It is a
principle which springs from the soul of our old tradition that we must
always seek, not merely to prevent the enemy striking at our heart, but also
to strike him the moment he attempts to do anything. We must make of his
every attempt an opportunity for a counterstroke. The distribution this aim
entailed varied greatly with different enemies. In our wars with France, and
particularly when Spain and Holland were in alliance with her, the number
of the ports to be dealt with was very considerable and their distribution
very wide. In our wars with the Dutch alone, on the other hand, the number
and distribution were comparatively small, and in this case our
concentration was always close.

This measure of distribution, however, will never stand alone.
Concentration will not depend solely upon the number and position of the
enemy's naval ports. It will be modified by the extent to which the lines of
operation starting from those ports traverse our own home waters. The
reason is plain. Whatever the enemy opposed to us, and whatever the nature
of the war, we must always keep a fleet at home. In any circumstances it is
essential for the defence of our home trade terminals, and it is essential as a
central reserve from which divisions can be thrown off to reinforce distant
terminals and to seize opportunities for counterstrokes. It is "the
mainspring," as Lord Barham put it, "from which all offensive operations
must proceed." This squadron, then, being permanent and fixed as the
foundation of our whole system, it is clear that if, as in the case of the
French wars, the enemy's lines of operation do not traverse our home
waters, close concentration upon it will not serve our turn. If, on the other
hand, as in the case of the Dutch wars, the lines do traverse home waters, a
home concentration is all that is required. Our division will then be
measured by the amount of our surplus strength, and by the extent to which
we feel able to detach squadrons for offensive action against the enemy's
distant maritime interests without prejudicing our hold on the home
terminals of his lines of operation and our power of striking directly he
moves. These remarks apply, of course, to the main fleet operations. If such
an enemy has distant colonial bases from which he can annoy our trade,
minor concentrations must naturally be arranged in those areas.
Next we have to note that where the enemy's squadrons are widely
distributed in numerous bases, we cannot always simplify the problem by
leaving some of them open so as to entice him to concentrate and reduce the
number of ports to be watched. For if we do this, we leave the unwatched
squadrons free for sporadic action. Unless we are sure he intends to
concentrate with a view to a decisive action, our only means of simplifying
the situation is to watch every port closely enough to interfere effectually
with sporadic action. Then, sporadic action being denied him, the enemy
must either do nothing or concentrate.
The next principle is flexibility. Concentration should be so arranged that
any two parts may freely cohere, and that all parts may quickly condense
into a mass at any point in the area of concentration. The object of holding
back from forming the mass is to deny the enemy knowledge of our actual

distribution or its intention at any given moment, and at the same time to
ensure that it will be adjusted to meet any dangerous movement that is open
to him. Further than this our aim should be not merely to prevent any part
being overpowered by a superior force, but to regard every detached
squadron as a trap to lure the enemy to destruction. The ideal concentration,
in short, is an appearance of weakness that covers a reality of strength.

PART THREE

CONDUCT
OF
NAVAL WAR

CHAPTER ONE

INTRODUCTORY

I. INHERENT DIFFERENCES IN THE
CONDITIONS OF WAR ON LAND AND ON SEA

Before attempting to apply the foregoing general principles in a definite
manner to the conduct of naval war, it is necessary to clear the ground of
certain obstacles to right judgment. The gradual elucidation of the theory of
war, it must be remembered, has been almost entirely the work of soldiers,
but so admirable is the work they have done, and so philosophical the
method they have adopted, that a very natural tendency has arisen to
assume that their broad-based conclusions are of universal application. That
the leading lines which they have charted are in a certain sense those which
must govern all strategy no one will deny. They are the real pioneers, and
their methods must be in the main our methods, but what we have to
remember is that the country we have to travel is radically different from
that in which they acquired their skill.
A moment's consideration will reveal how far-reaching the differences are.
Let us ask ourselves what are the main ideas around which all the military
lore turns. It may be taken broadly that the general principles are three in
number. Firstly, there is the idea of concentration of force, that is, the idea
of overthrowing the enemy's main strength by bringing to bear upon it the
utmost accumulation of weight and energy within your means; secondly,
there is the idea that strategy is mainly a question of definite lines of
communication; and thirdly, there is the idea of concentration of effort,
which means keeping a single eye on the force you wish to overthrow
without regard to ulterior objects. Now if we examine the conditions which
give these principles so firm a footing on land, we shall find that in all three
cases they differ at sea, and differ materially.
Take the first, which, in spite of all the deductions we have to make from it
in the case of limited wars, is the dominating one. The pithy maxim which
expresses its essence is that our primary objective is the enemy's main

force. In current naval literature the maxim is applied to the sea in some
such form as this: "The primary object of our battle-fleet is to seek out and
destroy that of the enemy." On the surface nothing could look sounder, but
what are the conditions which underlie the one and the other?
The practical value of the military maxim is based upon the fact that in land
warfare it is always theoretically possible to strike at your enemy's army,
that is, if you have the strength and spirit to overcome the obstacles and
face the risks. But at sea this is not so. In naval warfare we have a far-
reaching fact which is entirely unknown on land. It is simply this—that it is
possible for your enemy to remove his fleet from the board altogether. He
may withdraw it into a defended port, where it is absolutely out of your
reach without the assistance of an army. No amount of naval force, and no
amount of offensive spirit, can avail you. The result is that in naval warfare
an embarrassing dilemma tends to assert itself. If you are in a superiority
that justifies a vigorous offensive and prompts you to seek out your enemy
with a view to a decision, the chances are you will find him in a position
where you cannot touch him. Your offence is arrested, and you find yourself
in what, at least theoretically, is the weakest general position known to war.
This was one of our earliest discoveries in strategy. It followed indeed
immediately and inevitably upon our discovery that the most drastic way of
making war was to concentrate every effort on the enemy's armed forces. In
dealing with the theory of war in general a caveat has already been entered
against the too common assumption that this method was an invention of
Napoleon's or Frederick's, or that it was a foreign importation at all. In the
view at least of our own military historians the idea was born in our Civil
Wars with Cromwell and the New Model Army. It was the conspicuous
feature that distinguished our Civil War from all previous wars of modern
times. So astonishing was its success—as foreign observers remarked—that
it was naturally applied by our soldier-admirals at sea so soon as war broke
out with the Dutch. Whatever may be the claims of the Cromwellian
soldiers to have invented for land warfare what is regarded abroad as the
chief characteristic of the Napoleonic method, it is beyond doubt that they
deserve the credit of it at sea. All three Dutch wars had a commercial
object, and yet after the first campaign the general idea never was to make
the enemy's commerce a primary objective. That place was occupied
throughout by their battle-fleets, and under Monk and Rupert at least those

objectives were pursued with a singleness of purpose and a persistent
vehemence that was entirely Napoleonic.
But in the later stages of the struggle, when we began to gain a
preponderance, it was found that the method ceased to work. The attempt to
seek the enemy with a view to a decisive action was again and again
frustrated by his retiring to his own coasts, where either we could not reach
him or his facilities for retreat made a decisive result impossible. He
assumed, in fact, a defensive attitude with which we were powerless to deal,
and in the true spirit of defence he sprang out from time to time to deal us a
counterstroke as he saw his opportunity.
It was soon perceived that the only way of dealing with this attitude was to
adopt some means of forcing the enemy to sea and compelling him to
expose himself to the decision we sought. The most cogent means at hand
was to threaten his commerce. Instead, therefore, of attempting to seek out
his fleet directly, our own would sit upon the fairway of his homeward-
bound trade, either on the Dogger Bank or elsewhere, thereby setting up a
situation which it was hoped would cost him either his trade or his battle-
fleet, or possibly both. Thus in spite of the fact that with our increasing
preponderance our preoccupation with the idea of battle decision had
become stronger than ever, we found ourselves forced to fall back upon
subsidiary operations of an ulterior strategical character. It is a curious
paradox, but it is one that seems inherent in the special feature of naval war,
which permits the armed force to be removed from the board altogether.
The second distinguishing characteristic of naval warfare which relates to
the communication idea is not so well marked, but it is scarcely less
important. It will be recalled that this characteristic is concerned with lines
of communication in so far as they tend to determine lines of operation. It is
a simple question of roads and obstacles. In land warfare we can determine
with some precision the limits and direction of our enemy's possible
movements. We know that they must be determined mainly by roads and
obstacles. But afloat neither roads nor obstacles exist. There is nothing of
the kind on the face of the sea to assist us in locating him and determining
his movements. True it is that in sailing days his movements were to some
extent limited by prevailing winds and by the elimination of impossible
courses, but with steam even these determinants have gone, and there is

practically nothing to limit the freedom of his movement except the
exigencies of fuel. Consequently in seeking to strike our enemy the liability
to miss him is much greater at sea than on land, and the chances of being
eluded by the enemy whom we are seeking to bring to battle become so
serious a check upon our offensive action as to compel us to handle the
maxim of "Seeking out the enemy's fleet" with caution.
The difficulty obtruded itself from the moment the idea was born. It may be
traced back—so far at least as modern warfare is concerned—to Sir Francis
Drake's famous appreciation in the year of the Armada. This memorable
despatch was written when an acute difference of opinion had arisen as to
whether it were better to hold our fleet back in home waters or to send it
forward to the coast of Spain. The enemy's objective was very uncertain.
We could not tell whether the blow was to fall in the Channel or Ireland or
Scotland, and the situation was complicated by a Spanish army of invasion
ready to cross from the Flemish coast, and the possibility of combined
action by the Guises from France. Drake was for solving the problem by
taking station off the Armada's port of departure, and fully aware of the risk
such a move entailed, he fortified his purely strategical reasons with moral
considerations of the highest moment. But the Government was
unconvinced, not as is usually assumed out of sheer pusillanimity and lack
of strategical insight, but because the chances of Drake's missing contact
were too great if the Armada should sail before our own fleet could get into
position.
Our third elementary principle is the idea of concentration of effort, and the
third characteristic of naval warfare which clashes with it is that over and
above the duty of winning battles, fleets are charged with the duty of
protecting commerce. In land warfare, at least since laying waste an
undefended part of your enemy's country ceased to be a recognised
strategical operation, there is no corresponding deflection of purely military
operations. It is idle for purists to tell us that the deflection of commerce
protection should not be permitted to turn us from our main purpose. We
have to do with the hard facts of war, and experience tells us that for
economic reasons alone, apart from the pressure of public opinion, no one
has ever found it possible to ignore the deflection entirely. So vital indeed is
financial vigour in war, that more often than not the maintenance of the
flow of trade has been felt as a paramount consideration. Even in the best

days of our Dutch wars, when the whole plan was based on ignoring the
enemy's commerce as an objective, we found ourselves at times forced to
protect our own trade with seriously disturbing results.
Nor is it more profitable to declare that the only sound way to protect your
commerce is to destroy the enemy's fleet. As an enunciation of a principle it
is a truism—no one would dispute it. As a canon of practical strategy, it is
untrue; for here our first deflection again asserts itself. What are you to do if
the enemy refuses to permit you to destroy his fleets? You cannot leave
your trade exposed to squadronal or cruiser raids while you await your
opportunity, and the more you concentrate your force and efforts to secure
the desired decision, the more you will expose your trade to sporadic attack.
The result is that you are not always free to adopt the plan which is best
calculated to bring your enemy to a decision. You may find yourself
compelled to occupy, not the best positions, but those which will give a fair
chance of getting contact in favourable conditions, and at the same time
afford reasonable cover for your trade. Hence the maxim that the enemy's
coast should be our frontier. It is not a purely military maxim like that for
seeking out the enemy's fleet, though the two are often used as though they
were interchangeable. Our usual positions on the enemy's coast were
dictated quite as much by the exigencies of commerce protection as by
primary strategical reasons. To maintain a rigorous watch close off the
enemy's ports was never the likeliest way to bring him to decisive action—
we have Nelson's well-known declaration on the point—but it was the best
way, and often the only way, to keep the sea clear for the passage of our
own trade and for the operations of our cruisers against that of the enemy.
For the present these all-important points need not be elaborated further. As
we proceed to deal with the methods of naval warfare they will gather force
and lucidity. Enough has been said to mark the shoals and warn us that,
admirably constructed as is the craft which the military strategists have
provided for our use, we must be careful with our navigation.
But before proceeding further it is necessary to simplify what lies before us
by endeavouring to group the complex variety of naval operations into
manageable shape.

II. TYPICAL FORMS OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

In the conduct of naval war all operations will be found to relate to two
broad classes of object. The one is to obtain or dispute the command of the
sea, and the other to exercise such control of communications as we have,
whether the complete command has been secured or not.
It was on the logical and practical distinction between these two kinds of
naval object, as we have seen, that the constitution of fleets was based in
the fulness of the sailing period, when maritime wars were nearly incessant
and were shaping the existing distribution of power in the world. During
that period at any rate the dual conception lay at the root of naval methods
and naval policy, and as it is also the logical outcome of the theory of war,
we may safely take it as the basis of our analysis of the conduct of naval
operations.
Practically, of course, we can seldom assert categorically that any operation
of war has but one clearly defined object. A battle-squadron whose primary
function was to secure command was often so placed as to enable it to
exercise control; and, vice versa, cruiser lines intended primarily to exercise
control upon the trade routes were regarded as outposts of the battle-fleet to
give it warning of the movements of hostile squadrons. Thus Cornwallis
during his blockade of Brest had sometimes to loosen his hold in order to
cover the arrival of convoys against raiding squadrons; and thus also when
Nelson was asked by Lord Barham for his views on cruiser patrol lines, he
expressed himself as follows: "Ships on this service would not only prevent
the depredations of privateers, but be in the way to watch any squadron of
the enemy should they pass on their track.... Therefore intelligence will be
quickly conveyed, and the enemy never, I think, lost sight of."15
Instructions in this sense were issued by Lord Barham to the commodores
concerned. In both cases, it will be seen, the two classes of operation
overlapped. Still for purposes of analysis the distinction holds good, and is
valuable for obtaining a clear view of the field.
Take, first, the methods of securing command, by which we mean putting it
out of the enemy's power to use effectually the common communications or
materially to interfere with our use of them. We find the means employed
were two: decision by battle, and blockade. Of the two, the first was the less
frequently attainable, but it was the one the British service always preferred.
It was only natural that it should be so, seeing that our normal position was

one of preponderance over our enemy, and so long as the policy of
preponderance is maintained, the chances are the preference will also be
maintained.
But further than this, the idea seems to be rooted in the oldest traditions of
the Royal Navy. As we have seen, the conviction of the sea service that war
is primarily a question of battles, and that battles once joined on anything
like equal terms must be pressed to the last gasp, is one that has had nothing
to learn from more recent continental discoveries. The Cromwellian
admirals handed down to us the memory of battles lasting three, and even
four, days. Their creed is enshrined in the robust article of war under which
Byng and Calder were condemned; and in the apotheosis of Nelson the
service has deified the battle idea.

It is true there were periods when the idea seemed to have lost its colour,
but nevertheless it is so firmly embedded in the British conception of naval
warfare, that there would be nothing left to say but for the unavoidable
modification with which we have to temper the doctrine of overthrow. "Use
that means," said its best-known advocate, "when you can and when you
must." Devoutly as we may hold the battle faith, it is not always possible or
wise to act upon it. If we are strong, we press to the issue of battle when we
can. If we are weak, we do not accept the issue unless we must. If
circumstances are advantageous to us, we are not always able to effect a
decision; and if they are disadvantageous, we are not always obliged to
fight. Hence we find the apparently simple doctrine of the battle was almost
always entangled in two of the most difficult problems that beset our old
admirals. The most thorny questions they had to decide were these. In the
normal case of strength, it was not how to defeat the enemy, but how to
bring him to action; and in casual cases of temporary weakness, it was not
how to sell your life dearly, but how to maintain the fleet actively on the
defensive so as at once to deny the enemy the decision he sought and to
prevent his attaining his ulterior object.
From these considerations it follows that we are able to group all naval
operations in some such way as this. Firstly, on the only assumption we can
permit ourselves, namely, that we start with a preponderance of force or
advantage, we adopt methods for securing command. These methods, again,
fall under two heads. Firstly, there are operations for securing a decision by
battle, under which head, as has been explained, we shall be chiefly
concerned with methods of bringing an unwilling enemy to action, and with
the value to that end of the maxim of "Seeking out the enemy's fleet."
Secondly, there are the operations which become necessary when no
decision is obtainable and our war plan demands the immediate control of
communications. Under this head it will be convenient to treat all forms of
blockade, whether military or commercial, although, as we shall see, certain
forms of military, and even commercial, blockade are primarily concerned
with forcing the enemy to a decision.
Our second main group covers operations to which we have to resort when
our relative strength is not adequate for either class of operations to secure
command. In these conditions we have to content ourselves with

endeavouring to hold the command in dispute; that is, we endeavour by
active defensive operations to prevent the enemy either securing or
exercising control for the objects he has in view. Such are the operations
which are connoted by the true conception of "A fleet in being." Under this
head also should fall those new forms of minor counter-attack which have
entered the field of strategy since the introduction of the mobile torpedo and
offensive mining.
In the third main group we have to deal with the methods of exercising
control of passage and communication. These operations vary in character
according to the several purposes for which the control is desired, and they
will be found to take one of three general forms. Firstly, the control of the
lines of passage of an invading army; secondly, the control of trade routes
and trade terminals for the attack and defence of commerce; and thirdly, the
control of passage and communication for our own oversea expeditions, and
the control of their objective area for the active support of their operations.
For clearness we may summarise the whole in tabulated analysis, thus:—

1. Methods of securing command:
(a) By obtaining a decision.
(b) By blockade.
2. Methods of disputing command:
(a) Principle of "the fleet in being."
(b) Minor counter-attacks.
3. Methods of exercising command:
(a) Defence against invasion.
(b) Attack and defence of commerce.
(c) Attack, defence, and support of military expeditions.

CHAPTER TWO

METHODS OF
SECURING COMMAND

I. ON OBTAINING A DECISION

Whatever the nature of the war in which we are engaged, whether it be
limited or unlimited, permanent and general command of the sea is the
condition of ultimate success. The only way of securing such a command
by naval means is to obtain a decision by battle against the enemy's fleet.
Sooner or later it must be done, and the sooner the better. That was the old
British creed. It is still our creed, and needs no labouring. No one will
dispute it, no one will care even to discuss it, and we pass with confidence
to the conclusion that the first business of our fleet is to seek out the
enemy's fleet and destroy it.
No maxim can so well embody the British spirit of making war upon the
sea, and nothing must be permitted to breathe on that spirit. To examine its
claim to be the logical conclusion of our theory of war will even be held
dangerous, yet nothing is so dangerous in the study of war as to permit
maxims to become a substitute for judgment. Let us examine its credentials,
and as a first step put it to the test of the two most modern instances.
Both of them, it must be noted, were instances of Limited War, the most
usual form of our own activities, and indeed the only one to which our war
organisation, with its essential preponderance of the naval element, has ever
been really adapted. The first instance is the Spanish-American War, and the
second that between Russia and Japan.
In the former case the Americans took up arms in order to liberate Cuba
from Spanish domination—a strictly limited object. There is no evidence
that the nature of the war was ever clearly formulated by either side, but in
just conformity with the general political conditions the American war plan
aimed at opening with a movement to secure the territorial object. At the
earliest possible moment they intended to establish themselves in the west

of Cuba in support of the Colonial insurgents. Everything depended on the
initiative being seized with decision and rapidity. Its moral and physical
importance justified the utmost risk, and such was the conformation of the
sea which the American army had to pass, that a strictly defensive or
covering attitude with their fleet could reduce the risk almost to security.
Yet so unwisely dominated were the Americans by recently rediscovered
maxims, that when on the eve of executing the vital movement they heard a
Spanish squadron was crossing the Atlantic, their own covering force was
diverted from its defensive position and sent away to "seek out the enemy's
fleet and destroy it."
Puerto Rico was the most obvious point at which to seek it, and thither
Admiral Sampson was permitted to go, regardless of the elementary truth
that in such cases what is obvious to you is also usually obvious to your
enemy. The result was that not only did the Americans fail to get contact,
but they also uncovered their own army's line of passage and paralysed the
initial movement. In the end it was only pure chance that permitted them to
retrieve the mistake they had made. Had the Spanish squadron put into a
Cuban port in railway communication with the main Royalist army, such as
Cienfuegos or Havana, instead of hurrying into Santiago, the whole
campaign must have been lost. "It appears now," wrote Admiral Mahan, in
his Lessons of the War with Spain, "not only that the eastward voyage of our
Havana division was unfortunate, but it should have been seen beforehand
to be a mistake, because inconsistent with a well and generally accepted
principle of war, the non-observance of which was not commanded by the
conditions. The principle is that which condemns eccentric movements. By
the disregard of rule in this case we uncovered both Havana and
Cienfuegos, which it was our object to close to the enemy's division."
Whether or not we regard Admiral Mahan's exposition of the error as
penetrating to the real principle that was violated, the movement was in fact
not only eccentric, but unnecessary. Had the Americans been content to
keep their fleet concentrated in its true defensive position, not only would
they have covered their army's line of passage and their blockade of the
territorial objective, but they would have had a far better chance of bringing
the Spaniards to action. The Spaniards were bound to come to them or
remain outside the theatre of operations where they could in no way affect
the issue of the war except adversely to themselves by sapping the spirit of

their own Cuban garrison. It is a clear case of the letter killing the spirit, of
an attractive maxim being permitted to shut the door upon judgment.
Strategical offence in this case was not the best defence. "Seeking out the
enemy's fleet" was almost bound to end in a blow in the air, which not only
would fail to gain any offensive result, but would sacrifice the main
defensive plank in the American war plan upon which their offensive relied
for success. To stigmatise such a movement as merely eccentric is to pass
very lenient censure.
In the Russo-Japanese War we have a converse case, in which judgment
kept the aphorism silent. It is true that during the earlier stage of the naval
operations the Japanese did in a sense seek out the enemy's fleet, in so far as
they advanced their base close to Port Arthur; but this was done, not with
any fixed intention of destroying the Russian fleet—there was small hope of
that at sea—but rather because by no other means could they cover the
army's lines of passage, which it was the function of the fleet to secure, the
true offensive operations being on land. Never except once, under express
orders from Tokio, did either Admiral Togo or Admiral Kamimura press
offensive movements in such a way as to jeopardise the preventive duty
with which the war plan charged them. Still less in the later stage, when
everything depended on the destruction of the Baltic fleet, did Admiral
Togo "seek it out." He was content, as the Americans should have been
content, to have set up such a situation that the enemy must come and break
it down if they were to affect the issue of the war. So he waited on the
defensive, assured his enemy must come to him, and thereby he rendered it,
as certain as war can be, that when the moment for the tactical offensive
came his blow should be sure and sudden, in overwhelming strength of
concentration, and decisive beyond all precedent.
Clearly, then, the maxim of "seeking out" for all its moral exhilaration, for
all its value as an expression of high and sound naval spirit, must not be
permitted to displace well-reasoned judgment. Trusty servant as it is, it will
make a bad master, as the Americans found to their serious jeopardy. Yet we
feel instinctively that it expresses, as no other aphorism does, the secret of
British success at sea. We cannot do without it; we cannot do with it in its
nakedness. Let us endeavour to clothe it with its real meaning, with the true
principles that it connotes. Let us endeavour to determine the stuff that it is
made of, and for this purpose there is no better way than to trace its gradual

growth from the days when it was born of the crude and virile instinct of the
earliest masters.
The germ is to be found in the despatch already mentioned which Drake
wrote from Plymouth at the end of March in 1588. His arguments were not
purely naval, for it was a combined problem, a problem of defence against
invasion, that had to be solved. What he wished to persuade the
Government was, that the kernel of the situation was not so much Parma's
army of invasion in Flanders, as the fleet that was preparing in Spain to
clear its passage. The Government appeared to be acting on the opposite
view. Howard with the bulk of the fleet was at the base in the Medway
within supporting distance of the light squadron that was blockading the
Flemish ports in concert with the Dutch. Drake himself with another light
squadron had been sent to the westward with some indeterminate idea of his
serving as an observation squadron, or being used in the mediaeval fashion
for an eccentric counterstroke. Being invited to give his opinion on this
disposition, he pronounced it vicious. In his eyes, what was demanded was
an offensive movement against the enemy's main fleet. "If there may be
such a stay or stop made," he urged, "by any means of this fleet in Spain, so
that they may not come through the seas as conquerors, then shall the
Prince of Parma have such a check thereby as were meet." What he had in
his mind is clearly not so much a decision in the open as an interruption of
the enemy's incomplete mobilisation, such as he had so brilliantly effected
the previous year. For later on he says that "Next under God's mighty
protection the advantage of time and place will be the only and chief means
for our good, wherein I most humbly beseech your good lordships to
persevere as you have begun, for with fifty sail of shipping we shall do
more upon their own coast than a great many more will do here at home;
and the sooner we are gone, the better we shall be able to impeach them."
He does not say "destroy." "Impeach" meant "to prevent."
Clearly, then, what he had in his mind was a repetition of the previous
year's strategy, whereby he had been able to break up the Spanish
mobilisation and "impeach" the Armada from sailing. He did not even ask
for a concentration of the whole fleet for the purpose, but only that his own
squadron should be reinforced as was thought convenient. The actual
reasons he gave for his advice were purely moral—that is, he dwelt on the
enheartening effect of striking the first blow, and attacking instead of

waiting to be attacked. The nation, he urged, "will be persuaded that the
Lord will put into Her Majesty and her people courage and boldness not to
fear invasion, but to seek God's enemies and Her Majesty's where they may
be found."
Here is the germ of the maxim. The consequence of his despatch was a
summons to attend the Council. The conference was followed, not by the
half measure, which was all he had ventured to advise in his despatch, but
by something that embodied a fuller expression of his general idea, and
closely resembled what was to be consecrated as our regular disposition in
such cases. The whole of the main fleet, except the squadron watching the
Flemish coast, was massed to the westward to cover the blockade of
Parma's transports, but the position assigned to it was inside the Channel
instead of outside, which tactically was bad, for it was almost certain to
give the Armada the weather gage. No movement to the coast of Spain was
permitted—not necessarily, be it remembered, out of pusillanimity or
failure to grasp Drake's idea, but for fear that, as in the recent American
case, a forward movement was likely to result in a blow in the air, and to
uncover the vital position without bringing the enemy to action.
When, however, the sailing of the Armada was so long delayed Drake's
importunity was renewed, with that of Howard and all his colleagues to
back it. It brought eventually the desired permission. The fleet sailed for
Coruña, where it was known the Armada, after an abortive start from
Lisbon, had been driven by bad weather, and something like what the
Government feared happened. Before it could reach its destination it met
southerly gales, its offensive power was exhausted, and it had to return to
Plymouth impotent for immediate action as the Armada finally sailed.
When the Spaniards appeared it was still in port refitting and victualling. It
was only by an unprecedented feat of seamanship that the situation was
saved, and Howard was able to gain the orthodox position to seaward of his
enemy.
So far, then, the Government's cautious clinging to a general defensive
attitude, instead of seeking out the enemy's fleet, was justified, but it must
be remembered that Drake from the first had insisted it was a question of
time as well as place. If he had been permitted to make the movement when
he first proposed it, there is good reason to believe that the final stages of

the Spanish mobilisation could not have been carried out that year; that is to
say, the various divisions of the Armada could not have been assembled into
a fleet. But information as to its condition was at the time very uncertain,
and in view of the negotiations that were on foot, there were, moreover,
high political reasons for our not taking too drastic an offensive if a
reasonable alternative existed.
The principles, then, which we distil from this, the original case of "seeking
out," are, firstly, the moral value of seizing the initiative, and, secondly, the
importance of striking before the enemy's mobilisation is complete. The
idea of overthrow by a great fleet action is not present, unless we find it in a
not clearly formulated idea of the Elizabethan admirals of striking a fleet
when it is demoralised, as the Armada was by its first rebuff, or
immediately on its leaving port before it had settled down.
In our next naval struggle with the Dutch in the latter half of the
seventeenth century the principle of overthrow, as we have seen, became
fully developed. It was the keynote of the strategy which was evolved, and
the conditions which forced it to recognition also emphasised the principles
of seeking out and destroying. It was a case of a purely naval struggle, in
which there were no military considerations to deflect naval strategy. It was,
moreover, a question of narrow seas, and the risk of missing contact which
had cramped the Elizabethans in their oceanic theatre was a negligible
factor. Yet fresh objections to using the "seeking out" maxim as a strategical
panacea soon declared themselves.
The first war opened without any trace of the new principle. The first
campaign was concerned in the old fashion entirely with the attack and
defence of trade, and such indecisive actions as occurred were merely
incidental to the process. No one appears to have realised the fallacy of
such method except, perhaps, Tromp. The general instructions he received
were that "the first and principal object was to do all possible harm to the
English," and to that end "he was given a fleet in order to sail to the damage
and offence of the English fleet, and also to give convoy to the west."
Seeing at once the incompatibility of the two functions, he asked for more
definite instructions. What, for instance, was he to do if he found a chance
of blockading the main English fleet at its base? Was he to devote himself
to the blockade and "leave the whole fleet of merchantmen to be a prey to a

squadron of fast-sailing frigates," or was he to continue his escort duty?
Full as he was of desire to deal with the enemy's main fleet, he was
perplexed with the practical difficulty—too often forgotten—that the mere
domination of the enemy's battle strength does not solve the problem of
control of the sea. No fresh instructions were forthcoming to clear his
perplexity, and he could only protest again. "I could wish," he wrote, "to be
so fortunate as to have only one of these two duties—to seek out the enemy,
or to give convoy, for to do both is attended with great difficulties."
The indecisive campaign which naturally resulted from this lack of
strategical grip and concentration of effort came to an end with Tromp's
partial defeat of Blake off Dungeness on 30th November 1652. Though
charged in spite of his protests with a vast convoy, the Dutch admiral had
sent it back to Ostend when he found Blake was in the Downs, and then,
free from all preoccupation, he had gone to seek out his enemy.
It was the effect which this unexpected blow had upon the strong military
insight of the Cromwellian Government that led to those famous reforms
which made this winter so memorable a landmark in British naval history.
Monk, the most finished professional soldier in the English service, and
Deane, another general, were joined in the command with Blake, and with
their coming was breathed into the sea service the high military spirit of the
New Model Army. To that winter we owe not only the Articles of War,
which made discipline possible, and the first attempt to formulate Fighting
Instructions, in which a regular tactical system was conceived, but also two
other conceptions that go to make up the modern idea of naval warfare. One
was the conviction that war upon the sea meant operations against the
enemy's armed fleets in order to destroy his power of naval resistance as
distinguished from operations by way of reprisal against his trade; and the
other, that such warfare required for its effective use a fleet of State-owned
ships specialised for war, with as little assistance as possible from private-
owned ships. It was not unnatural that all four ideas should have taken
shape together, so closely are they related. The end connotes the means.
Discipline, fleet tactics, and a navy of warships were indispensable for
making war in the modern sense of the term.
The results were seen in the three great actions of the following spring, the
first under the three Generals, and the other two under Monk alone. In the

last, he carried the new ideas so far as to forbid taking possession of
disabled vessels, that nothing might check the work of destruction. All were
to be sunk with as much tenderness for human life as destruction would
permit. In like manner the second war was characterised by three great
naval actions, one of which, after Monk had resumed command, lasted no
less than four days. The new doctrine was indeed carried to exaggeration.
So entirely was naval thought centred on the action of the battle-fleets, that
no provision was made for an adequate exercise of control. In our own case
at least, massing for offensive action was pressed so far that no thought was
given to sustaining it by reliefs. Consequently our offensive power suffered
periods of exhaustion when the fleet had to return to its base, and the Dutch
were left sufficient freedom not only to secure their own trade, but to strike
severely at ours. Their counterstrokes culminated in the famous attack upon
Sheerness and Chatham. That such an opportunity was allowed them can be
traced directly to an exaggeration of the new doctrine. In the belief of the
British Government the "St. James's Fight"—the last of the three actions—
had settled the question of command. Negotiations for peace were opened,
and they were content to reap the fruit of the great battles in preying on
Dutch trade. Having done its work, as was believed, the bulk of the battle-
fleet for financial reasons was laid up, and the Dutch seized the opportunity
to demonstrate the limitations of the abused doctrine. The lesson is one we
have never forgotten, but its value is half lost if we attribute the disaster to
lack of grasp of the battle-fleet doctrine rather than to an exaggeration of its
possibilities.
The truth is, that we had not obtained a victory sufficiently decisive to
destroy the enemy's fleet. The most valuable lesson of the war was that such
victories required working for, and particularly in cases where the
belligerents face each other from either side of a narrow sea. In such
conditions it was proved that owing to the facility of retreat and the
restricted possibilities of pursuit a complete decision is not to be looked for
without very special strategical preparation. The new doctrine in fact gave
that new direction to strategy which has been already referred to. It was no
longer a question of whether to make the enemy's trade or his fleet the
primary objective, but of how to get contact with his fleet in such a way as
to lead to decisive action. Merely to seek him out on his own coasts was to
ensure that no decisive action would take place. Measures had to be taken

to force him to sea away from his own bases. The favourite device was to
substitute organised strategical operations against his trade in place of the
old sporadic attacks; that is, the fleet took a position calculated to stop his
trade altogether, not on his own coasts, but far to sea in the main fairway.
The operations failed for lack of provision for enabling the fleet by
systematic relief to retain its position, but nevertheless it was the germ of
the system which afterwards, under riper organisation, was to prove so
effective, and to produce such actions as the "Glorious First of June."
In the third war, after this device had failed again and again, a new one was
tried. It was Charles the Second's own conception. His idea was to use the
threat of a military expedition. Some 15,000 men in transports were brought
to Yarmouth in the hope that the Dutch would come out to bar their passage
across the open North Sea, and would thus permit our fleet to cut in behind
them. There was, however, no proper coordination of the two forces, and
the project failed.
This method of securing a decision was not lost sight of; Anson tried to use
it in the Seven Years' War. For two years every attempt to seek out the
enemy's fleet had led to nothing but the exhaustion of our own. But when
Pitt began his raids on the French coast, Anson, who had little faith in their
value for military purposes, thought he saw in them definite naval
possibilities. Accordingly when, in 1758, he was placed in command of the
Channel Fleet to cover the expedition against St. Malo, he raised the
blockade of Brest, and took up a position near the Isle of Batz between the
enemy's main fleet and the army's line of passage. The Brest fleet, however,
was in no condition to move, and again there was no result. It was not till
1805 that there was any clear case of the device succeeding, and then it was
not used deliberately. It was a joint Anglo-Russian expedition in the
Mediterranean that forced from Napoleon his reckless order for Villeneuve
to put to sea from Cadiz, and so solved the problem out of which Nelson
had seen no issue. Lissa may be taken as an analogous case. But there the
Italians, treating the territorial attack as a real attack instead of as a
strategical device, suffered themselves to be surprised by the Austrian fleet
and defeated.
This instance serves well to introduce the important fact, that although our
own military expeditions have seldom succeeded in leading to a naval

decision, the converse was almost always true. The attempt of the enemy to
use his army against our territory has been the most fertile source of our
great naval victories. The knowledge that our enemy intends to invade these
shores, or to make some serious expedition against our oversea dominions
or interests, should always be welcomed. Unless History belie herself, we
know that such attempts are the surest means of securing what we want. We
have the memories of La Hogue, Quiberon, and the Nile to assure us that
sooner or later they must lead to a naval decision, and the chance of a real
decision is all we can ask of the Fortune of War.
Enough has now been said to show that "seeking out the enemy's fleet" is
not in itself sufficient to secure such a decision. What the maxim really
means is that we should endeavour from the first to secure contact in the
best position for bringing about a complete decision in our favour, and as
soon as the other parts of our war plan, military or political, will permit. If
the main offensive is military, as it was in the Japanese and American cases,
then if possible the effort to secure such control must be subordinated to the
movement of the army, otherwise we give the defensive precedence of the
offensive. If, however, the military offensive cannot be ensured until the
naval defensive is perfected, as will be the case if the enemy brings a fleet
up to our army's line of passage, then our first move must be to secure naval
contact.
The vice of the opposite method of procedure is obvious. If we assume the
maxim that the first duty of our fleet is to seek out the enemy wherever he
may be, it means in its nakedness that we merely conform to the enemy's
dispositions and movements. It is open to him to lead us wherever he likes.
It was one of the fallacies that underlay all Napoleon's naval combinations,
that he believed that our hard-bitten admirals would behave in this guileless
manner. But nothing was further from their cunning. There is a typical order
of Cornwallis's which serves well to mark their attitude. It was one he gave
to Admiral Cotton, his second in command, in July 1804 on handing over to
his charge the Western Squadron off Ushant: "If the French put to sea," he
says, "without any of your vessels seeing them, do not follow them, unless
you are absolutely sure of the course they have taken. If you leave the
entrance of the Channel without protection, the enemy might profit by it,
and assist the invasion which threatens His Majesty's dominions, the
protection of which is your principal object."

It is indeed a common belief that Nelson never permitted himself but a
single purpose, the pursuit of the enemy's fleet, and that, ignoring the
caution which Cornwallis impressed upon Cotton, he fell into the simple
trap. But it has to be noted that he never suffered himself to be led in pursuit
of a fleet away from the position he had been charged to maintain, unless
and until he had made that position secure behind him. His famous chase to
the West Indies is the case which has led to most misconception on the
point from an insufficient regard to the surrounding circumstances. Nelson
did not pursue Villeneuve with the sole, or even the primary, object of
bringing him to action. His dominant object was to save Jamaica from
capture. If it had only been a question of getting contact, he would certainly
have felt in a surer position by waiting for Villeneuve's return off St.
Vincent or closing in to the strategical centre off Ushant. Further, it must be
observed that Nelson by his pursuit did not uncover what it was his duty to
defend. The Mediterranean position was rendered quite secure before he
ventured on his eccentric movement. Finally, we have the important fact
that though the moral effect of Nelson's implacable persistence and rapidity
was of priceless value, it is impossible to show that as a mere strategical
movement it had any influence on the course of the campaign. His
appearance in the West Indies may have saved one or two small islands
from ransom and a good deal of trade from capture. It may also have
hastened Villeneuve's return by a few days, but that was not to our
advantage. Had he returned even a week later there would have been no
need to raise the Rochefort blockade. Barham would have had enough ships
at his command to preserve the whole of his blockades, as he had intended
to do till the Curieux's news of Villeneuve's precipitate return forced his
hand before he was ready.
If we desire a typical example of the way the old masters used the doctrine
of seeking out, it is to be found, not in Nelson's magnificent chase, but in
the restrained boldness of Barham's orders to Cornwallis and Calder. Their
instructions for seeking out Villeneuve were to move out on his two
possible lines of approach for such a time and such a distance as would
make decisive action almost certain, and at the same time, if contact were
missed, would ensure the preservation of the vital defensive positions.
Barham was far too astute to play into Napoleon's hands, and by blindly
following his enemy's lead to be jockeyed into sacrificing the position

which his enemy wished to secure. If our maxim be suffered to usurp the
place of instructed judgment, the almost inevitable result will be that it will
lead us into just the kind of mistake which Barham avoided.

II. BLOCKADE

Under the term blockade we include operations which vary widely in
character and in strategical intention. In the first place, blockade may be
either naval or commercial. By naval blockade we seek either to prevent an
enemy's armed force leaving port, or to make certain it shall be brought to
action before it can carry out the ulterior purpose for which it puts to sea.
That armed force may be purely naval, or it may consist wholly or in part of
a military expedition. If it be purely naval, then our blockade is a method of
securing command. If it be purely military, it is a method of exercising
command, and as such will be dealt with when we come to consider
defence against invasion. But in so far as military expeditions are normally
accompanied by a naval escort, operations to prevent their sailing are not
purely concerned with the exercise of command. Naval blockade, therefore,
may be regarded for practical purposes as a method of securing command
and as a function of battle-squadrons. Commercial blockade, on the other
hand, is essentially a method of exercising command, and is mainly an
affair of cruisers. Its immediate object is to stop the flow of the enemy's
sea-borne trade, whether carried in his own or neutral bottoms, by denying
him the use of trade communications.
From the point of view of the conduct of war, therefore, we have two well-
defined categories of blockade, naval and commercial. But our
classification must go further; for naval blockade itself is equally varied in
intention, and must be subdivided. Strictly speaking, the term implies a
desire to close the blockaded port and to prevent the enemy putting to sea.
But this was not always the intention. As often as not our wish was that he
should put to sea that we might bring him to action, and in order to do this,
before he could effect his purpose, we had to watch the port with a fleet
more or less closely. For this operation there was no special name. Widely
as it differed in object from the other, it was also usually called blockade,
and Nelson's protest against the consequent confusion of thought is well
known. "It is not my intention," he said, "to close-watch Toulon"; and

again, "My system is the very contrary of blockading. Every opportunity
has been offered the enemy to put to sea." It is desirable, therefore, to adopt
terms to distinguish the two forms. "Close" and "open" express the
antithesis suggested by Nelson's letter, and the two terms serve well enough
to mark the characteristic feature of each operation. Close blockade, it is
true, as formerly conceived, is generally regarded as no longer practicable;
but the antithetical ideas, which the two forms of blockade connote, can
never be eliminated from strategical consideration. It must always be with
the relations of these two forms, whatever shape they may take in future,
that the strategy of naval blockade is chiefly concerned.
With regard to commercial blockade, in strict analysis it should be
eliminated from an inquiry that concerns methods of securing command
and postponed to that section of exercising command which deals with the
attack and defence of trade. It is, however, necessary to treat certain of its
aspects in conjunction with naval blockade for two reasons: one, that as a
rule naval blockade is indissolubly united to a subordinate commercial
blockade; and the other, that the commercial form, though its immediate
object is the exercise of control, has almost invariably an ulterior object
which is concerned with securing control; that is to say, while its immediate
object was to keep the enemy's commercial ports closed, its ulterior object
was to force his fleet to sea.
Commercial blockade, therefore, has an intimate relation with naval
blockade in its open form. We adopt that form when we wish his fleet to put
to sea, and commercial blockade is usually the most effective means we
have of forcing upon him the movement we leave him free to attempt. By
closing his commercial ports we exercise the highest power of injuring him
which the command of the sea can give us. We choke the flow of his
national activity afloat in the same way that military occupation of his
territory chokes it ashore. He must, therefore, either tamely submit to the
worst which a naval defeat can inflict upon him, or he must fight to release
himself. He may see fit to choose the one course or the other, but in any
case we can do no more by naval means alone to force our will upon him.
In the long run a rigorous and uninterrupted blockade is almost sure to
exhaust him before it exhausts us, but the end will be far and costly. As a
rule, therefore, we have found that where we had a substantial

predominance our enemy preferred to submit to commercial blockade in
hope that by the chances of war or the development of fresh force he might
later on be in a better position to come out into the open. That he should
come out and stake the issue in battle was nearly always our wish, and it
was obvious that too rigorous a naval blockade was not the way to achieve
the desired end, or to reap the strategical result which we might expect from
paralysing his commerce. Consequently where the desire for a decision at
sea was not crossed by higher military considerations, as in the case of
imminent invasion, or where we ourselves had an important expedition in
hand, it was to our interest to incline the enemy's mind towards the bolder
choice.
The means was to tempt him with a prospect of success, either by leading
him to believe the blockading force was smaller than it was, or by removing
it to such a distance as would induce him to attempt to evade it, or both. A
leading case of such an open blockade was Nelson's disposition of his fleet
off Cadiz when he was seeking to bring Villeneuve to action in 1805. But
merely to leave a port open does not fulfil the idea of open blockade, and in
this case to opportunity and temptation Nelson added the pressure of a
commercial blockade of the adjacent ports in hope of starving Villeneuve
into the necessity of taking to the sea.
Finally, in a general comparison of the two forms, we have to observe that
close blockade is characteristically a method of securing local and
temporary command. Its dominating purpose will usually be to prevent the
enemy's fleet acting in a certain area and for a certain purpose. Whereas
open blockade, in that it aims at the destruction of an enemy's naval force,
is a definite step towards securing permanent command.
Enough has now been said to show that the question of choice between
close and open blockade is one of extreme complexity. Our naval literature,
it is true, presents the old masters as divided into two schools on the
subject, implying that one was in favour of the close form always, and the
other of the open form. We are even led to believe that the choice depended
on the military spirit of the officer concerned. If his military spirit was high,
he chose the close and more exacting form; if it were low, he was content
with the open and less exacting form. True, we are told that men of the
latter school based their objections to close blockade on the excessive wear

and tear of a fleet that it involved, but it is too often suggested that this
attitude was no more than a mask for a defective spirit. Seldom if ever are
we invited to compare their decisions with the attendant strategical
intention, with the risks which the conditions justified, or with the
expenditure of energy which the desired result could legitimately demand.
Yet all these considerations must enter into the choice, and on closer
examination of the leading cases it will be found that they bear a striking
and almost constant relation to the nature of the blockade employed.
In considering open blockade, three postulates must be kept in mind.
Firstly, since our object is to get the enemy to sea, our position must be such
as will give him an opportunity of doing so. Secondly, since we desire
contact for a decisive battle, that position must be no further away from his
port than is compatible with bringing him to action before he can effect his
purpose. Thirdly, there is the idea of economy—that is, the idea of adopting
the method which is least exhausting to our fleet, and which will best
preserve its battle fitness. It is on the last point that the greatest difference
of opinion has existed. A close blockade always tended to exhaust a fleet,
and always must do so. But, on the other hand, it was contended that the
exhaustion is compensated by the high temper and moral domination which
the maintenance of a close blockade produces in a good fleet, whereas the
comparative ease of distant and secure watch tended to deterioration.
Before considering these opposed views, one warning is necessary. It is
usually assumed that the alternative to close blockade is watching the
enemy from one of our own ports, but this is not essential. What is required
is an interior and, if possible, a secret position which will render contact
certain; and with modern developments in the means of distant
communication, such a position is usually better found at sea than in port. A
watching position can in fact be obtained free from the strain of dangerous
navigation and incessant liability to attack without sacrifice of sea training.
With this very practical point in mind, we may proceed to test the merits of
the two forms on abstract principles.
It was always obvious that a close naval blockade was one of the weakest
and least desirable forms of war. Here again when we say "weakest" we do
not mean "least effective," but that it was exhausting, and that it tended to
occupy a force greater than that against which it was acting. This was not
because a blockading fleet, tempered and toughened by its watch, and with

great advantage of tactical position, could not be counted on to engage
successfully a raw fleet of equal force issuing from port, but because in
order to maintain its active efficiency it required large reserves for its relief.
So severe was the wear and tear both to men and ships, that even the most
strenuous exponents of the system considered that at least a fifth of the
force should always be refitting, and in every case two admirals were
employed to relieve one another. In 1794 one of the highest authorities in
the service considered that to maintain an effective close blockade of Brest
two complete sets of flag-officers were necessary, and that no less than one-
fourth of the squadron should always be in port.16
Now these weaknesses, being inherent in close blockade, necessarily
affected the appreciation of its value. The weight of the objection tended of
course to decrease as seamanship, material, or organisation improved, but it
was always a factor. It is true also that it seems to have had more weight
with some men than with others, but it will appear equally true, if we
endeavour to trace the movement of opinion on the subject, that it was far
from being the sole determinant.
It was in the Seven Years' War under Anson's administration that continuous
and close blockade was first used systematically, but it was Hawke who
originated it. In the first three campaigns the old system of watching Brest
from a British western port had been in vogue, but it had twice failed to
prevent a French concentration in the vital Canadian theatre. In the spring
of 1759 Hawke was in command of the Channel Fleet with the usual
instructions for watching, but being directed to stand over and look into
Brest, he intimated his intention, unless he received orders to the contrary,
to remain off the port instead of returning to Torbay. His reason was that he
had found there a squadron which he believed was intended for the West
Indies, and he considered it better to prevent its sailing than to let it put to
sea and try to catch it. In other words, he argued that none of the usual
western watching ports afforded a position interior to the usual French route
from Brest to the West Indies.
Since rumours of invasion were in the air, it was obviously the better course
to deal with the enemy's squadrons in home waters and avoid dispersal of
the fleet in seeking them out. In spite of extraordinarily bad weather,
therefore, he was permitted to act as he advised. With Boscawen as relief,

the new form of blockade was kept up thenceforward, and with entire
success. But it must be noted that this success was rather due to the fact that
the French made no further effort to cross the Atlantic, than to the fact that
the blockade was maintained with sufficient strictness to prevent their doing
so. In certain states of weather our fleet was forced to raise the blockade
and run to Torbay or Plymouth. Such temporary reversions to the open form
nearly always afforded an opportunity for the French to get away to the
southward with two or three days' start. Against any attempt, however, to
get to the east or the north in order to dispute command of the Channel or
other home waters the system was thoroughly efficient, and was unaffected
by the intervals of the open form.
It may have been these considerations which in the War of American
Independence induced so fine an officer as Howe to be strongly in favour of
a reversion to the old system. The vital theatre was then again across the
Atlantic, and there was no serious preparation for invasion. It should also be
borne in mind in judging Howe against Hawke, that in the Seven Years' War
we had such a preponderance at sea as permitted ample reserves to nourish
a close blockade, whereas in the latter war we were numerically inferior to
the hostile coalition. Since it was impossible to prevent the French reaching
the West Indies and North America if they so determined, our policy was to
follow them with equal fleets and reduce the home force as low as that
policy demanded and as was consistent with a reasonable degree of safety.
The force required might well be inferior to the enemy, since it was certain
that all attempts upon the Channel would be made with an unwieldy and ill-
knit force composed of Spanish and French units.
In Howe's opinion this particular situation was not to be solved by
attempting to close Brest, and nothing can be more misleading than to
stretch such an opinion beyond the circumstances it was intended to meet.
He did not consider it was in his power to close the port. The enemy, he
held, could always be in readiness to escape after a gale of wind by which
the blockading squadron would be drawn off or dispersed, the ships much
damaged, and the enemy enheartened. "An enemy," he said, "is not to be
restrained from putting to sea by a station taken off their port with a barely
superior squadron." The experience of 1805 appears to contradict him. Then
a barely superior squadron did succeed in preventing Ganteaume's exit, but
though the squadron actually employed was barely superior, it had ample

fleet reserves to sustain its numbers in efficiency. It was, moreover, only for
a short time that it had to deal with any real effort to escape. After May
20th, Ganteaume was forbidden to put to sea. There were certainly several
occasions during that famous blockade when he could have escaped to the
southward had Napoleon wished it.
This case, then, cannot be taken to condemn Howe's judgment. His special
function in the war plan was, with a force reduced to defensive strength, to
prevent the enemy obtaining command of our home waters. It was certainly
not his duty to undertake operations to which his force was not equal. His
first duty was to keep it in being for its paramount purpose. To this end he
decided on open blockade based on a general reserve at Spithead or St.
Helen's, where he could husband the ships and train his recruits, while at the
same time he protected our trade and communications and harassed those of
the enemy. Kempenfelt, than whom there was no warmer advocate of
activity, entirely approved the policy at least for the winter months, and in
his case no one will be found to suggest that the idea was prompted by lack
of spirit or love of ease. So far as the summer was concerned there was
really little difference of opinion as to whether the fleet should be kept at
sea or not, for sea-training during summer more than compensated for the
exhaustion of material likely to be caused by intermittent spells of bad
weather. Even for the winter the two policies came to much the same thing.
Thus in Hawke's blockade at the end of 1759, during the critical month
from mid-October to mid-November, he was unable to keep his station for
nearly half the time, and when he did get contact with Conflans it was from
Torbay and not Ushant. Still it may be doubted if without the confidence
bred of his stormy vigil the battle of Quiberon would have been fought as it
was.
With all this experience fresh in his mind Kempenfelt frankly advocated
keeping the fleet in port for the winter. "Suppose," he wrote from Torbay in
November 1779, "the enemy should put to sea with their fleet (that is, from
Brest)—a thing much to be wished for by us—let us act wisely and keep
ours in port. Leave them to the mercy of long nights and hard gales. They
will do more in favour of you than your fleet can." Far better he thought to
devote the winter to preparing the fleet for the next campaign so as to have
"the advantage of being the first in the field." "Let us," he concluded, "keep
a stout squadron to the westward ready to attend the motions of the enemy. I

don't mean to keep them at sea, disabling themselves in buffeting the winds,
but at Torbay ready to act as intelligence may suggest."17 It will be seen,
therefore, that the conclusion that close blockade was always the best
means of rendering the fleet most efficient for the function it had to perform
must not be accepted too hastily. The reasons which induced Howe and
Kempenfelt to prefer open blockade were mainly based on this very
consideration. Having in mind the whole of the surrounding conditions, in
their highly experienced opinion careful preparation in the winter and
tactical evolutions in the summer were the surest road to battle fitness in the
force available.
On the other hand, we have the fact that during the War of American
Independence the open system was not very successful. But before
condemning it out of hand, it must be remembered that the causes of failure
were not all inherent in the system. In the first place, the need of relieving
Gibraltar from time to time prevented the Western Squadron devoting itself
entirely to its watch. In the next place, owing to defective administration the
winters were not devoted with sufficient energy to preparing the fleet to be
first in the field in the spring. Finally, we have to recognise that the lack of
success was due not so much to permitting the French to cross the Atlantic,
as to the failure to deal faithfully with them when contact was obtained at
their destination. Obviously there is nothing to be said for the policy of
"seeking out" as against that of preventing exit unless you are determined
when you find to destroy or to be destroyed. It was here that Rodney and
his fellows were found wanting. The system failed from defective execution
quite as much as from defective design.
In the next war Howe was still in the ascendant and in command of the
Channel fleet. He retained his system. Leaving Brest open he forced the
French by operating against their trade to put to sea, and he was rewarded
with the battle of the First of June. No attempt was made to maintain a close
blockade during the following winter. The French were allowed to sail, and
their disastrous cruise of January 1795 fully justified Kempenfelt's
anticipations. So great was the damage done that they abandoned all idea of
using their fleet as a whole. Howe's system was continued, but no longer
with entirely successful results. In 1796 the French were able to make
descents upon Ireland, and Howe in consequence has come in for the
severest castigations. His method is contemptuously contrasted with that

which St. Vincent adopted four years later, without any regard to the
situation each admiral had to meet, and again on the assumption that the
closing of Brest would have solved the one problem as well as it did the
other.
In 1796 we were not on the defensive as we were in 1800. The French fleet
had been practically destroyed. No invasion threatened. With a view to
forcing peace our policy was directed to offensive action against French
trade and territory in order by general pressure to back our overtures for a
settlement. The policy may have been mistaken, but that is not the question.
The question is, whether or not the strategy fitted the policy. We were also,
it must be remembered, at war with Holland and expecting war with Spain,
an eventuality which forced us to keep an eye on the defence of Portugal. In
these circumstances nothing was further from our desire than to keep what
was left of the Brest fleet in port. Our hope was by our offensive action
against French maritime interests to force it to expose itself for their
defence. To devote the fleet to the closing of Brest was to cripple it for
offensive action and to play the enemy's game. The actual disposition of the
home fleet was designed so as to preserve its offensive activity, and at the
same time to ensure superiority in any part of the home waters in which the
enemy might attempt a counterstroke. It was distributed in three active
squadrons, one in the North Sea, one before Brest, and one cruising to the
westward, with a strong reserve at Portsmouth. It is the location of the
reserve that has been most lightly ridiculed, on the hasty assumption that it
was merely the reserve of the squadron before Brest; whereas in truth it was
a general reserve designed to act in the North Sea or wherever else it might
be needed. At the same time it served as a training and depot squadron for
increasing our power at sea in view of the probable addition of the Spanish
fleet to Napoleon's naval force. To have exhausted our fleet merely to
prevent raids leaving Brest which might equally well leave the Texel or
Dunkirk was just what the enemy would have desired. The disposition was
in fact a good example of concentration—that is, disposal about a
strategical centre to preserve flexibility for offence without risking
defensive needs, and yet it is by the most ardent advocates of concentration
and the offensive that Howe's dispositions at this time have been most
roundly condemned.

In the end the disposition did fail to prevent the landing of part of the force
intended for Ireland, but it made the venture so difficult that it had to be
deferred till mid-winter, and then the weather which rendered evasion
possible broke up the expedition and denied it all chance of serious success.
It was, in fact, another example of the working of Kempenfelt's rule
concerning winter weather. So far as naval defence can go, the disposition
was all that was required. The Irish expedition was seen leaving Brest by
our inshore cruiser squadron. It was reported to Colpoys, who had the
battle-squadron outside, and it was only a dense fog that enabled it to
escape. It was, in fact, nothing more than the evasion of a small raiding
force—an eventuality against which no naval defence can provide certain
guarantee, especially in winter.
It was under wholly different conditions that at the end of 1800 Hawke's
system was revived. St. Vincent's succession to the control of the fleet
coincided with Napoleon's definite assumption of the control of the
destinies of France. Our great duel with him had begun. The measures he
was taking made it obvious we were once more facing the old life and death
struggle for naval supremacy; we were openly threatened with invasion, and
we had a distinct preponderance at sea. In short, we have to recognize the
fact that the methods of the Seven Years' War were revived when the
problems and factors of that war were renewed. As those problems grew
more intense, as they did after the Peace of Amiens, and the threat of
invasion became really formidable, so did the rigour of the close blockade
increase. Under Cornwallis and Gardner it was maintained in such a way as
to deny, so far as human effort could go, all possibility of exit without
fighting. In spite of the importance of dealing with the enemy's squadrons in
detail no risks were taken to bring Ganteaume to decisive action. Our first
necessity was absolute local command. The acuteness of the invasion crisis
demanded that the Brest fleet should be kept in port, and every time
Ganteaume showed a foot the British admiral flew at him and drove him
back. Once only during the continuation of the crisis was the rigour of this
attitude relaxed, and that was to deal with what for the moment was the
higher object. It was to meet Villeneuve on his return from the West Indies,
but even then so nicely was the relaxation calculated, that Ganteaume was
given no time to take advantage of it.

The analogy between the conditions of the blockade which St. Vincent
inaugurated and those of the Seven Years' War becomes all the more
significant when we note that while Cornwallis and Gardner in home waters
were pressing close blockade to its utmost limit of rigour, Nelson in the
Mediterranean was not using it at all. Yet with him also the chief concern
was to prevent an invasion. His main function, as he and his Government
saw it, was to prevent a descent from Southern France upon Neapolitan or
Levantine territory. Why, then, did he not employ close blockade? It is
usually assumed that it was because of his overpowering desire to bring the
Toulon squadron to action. Occasional expressions in his letters give colour
to such a view, but his dispositions show clearly that his desire to bring the
fleet to action was kept in scientific subordination to the defensive duty
with which he was charged. Close blockade was the most effectual means
of securing this end, but in his case one of the conditions, which we have
found always accompanying successful close blockade, was absent. He had
no such preponderance of force as would enable him to nourish it up to the
point of perfect continuity. In the circumstances the close form was too
weak or exhausting for him to use with the force at his disposal.
If this case be not considered conclusive as to Nelson's views, we have a
perfectly clear endorsement from his pen in 1801. It is a particularly strong
testimony, for he was at the time actually charged with defence against the
invasion of England. With several cruiser squadrons he had to prevent the
enemy's force issuing from a number of ports extending from Flushing to
Dieppe, and he was directing the operations from the Downs. On the
approach of winter he was impressed with the inexpediency of attempting
to continue a close blockade, and wrote to the Admiralty as follows: "I am
of opinion, and submit to their Lordships' better judgment, that care should
be taken to keep our squadrons compact and in good order ... under
Dungeness to be their principal station.... In fine weather our squadrons to
go out and show themselves, but never to risk either being crippled or
drawn into the North Sea; thus we shall always be sure of an effective force,
ready to act as occasion calls for it."18
The case of course is not entirely in point, for it concerns the question of
direct resistance to invasion and not to securing general command. Its value
is that it gives Nelson's views on the broad question of balancing the risks

—that is, the risk of relaxing close watch against the risk of destroying the
efficiency of the ships by maintaining it too rigorously.
With Nelson holding this view, it is not surprising to find that as late as
1804 naval opinion was not quite settled on the relative advantages of close
and open blockade even in the case of threatened invasion. Just a year
before Trafalgar was fought, Cornwallis pressed the Admiralty for more
strength to enable him to keep his blockade efficient. Lord Melville, who at
this time had Barham at his elbow, replied recommending the "policy of
relaxing the strictness of blockade, formerly resorted to." He protested the
means available were insufficient for "sustaining the necessary extent of
naval force, if your ships are to be torn to pieces by an eternal conflict with
the elements during the tempestuous months of winter."19 Melville was
craving for a decisive action to end the insupportable strain. "Allow me to
remind you," he added, "that the occasions when we have been able to bring
our enemy to battle and our fleets to victory have generally been when we
were at a distance from the blockading station." In the end, as we know,
Cornwallis had his way, and the verdict of history has been to approve the
decision for its moral effect alone. Such conflicts must always arise. "War,"
as Wolfe said, "is an option of difficulties," and the choice must sway to the
one side or the other as the circumstances tend to develop the respective
advantages of each form. We can never say that close blockade is better
than open, or the reverse. It must always be a matter of judgment.
Are there, then, no principles which we can deduce from the old practice for
the strengthening of judgment? Certain broad lines of guidance at least are
to be traced. The main question will be, is it to our advantage, in regard to
all the strategical conditions, to keep the enemy in and get him to sea for a
decision? Presumably it will always be our policy to get a decision as soon
as possible. Still that desire may be overridden by the necessity or special
advantage of closely blockading one or more of his squadrons. This
situation may arise in two ways. Firstly, it may be essential to provide for
the local and temporary command of a certain theatre of operations, as
when an invasion threatens in that area, or when we wish to pass a military
expedition across it, or from special exigencies in regard to the attack or
defence of commerce. Secondly, even where we are seeking a great
decision, we may blockade one squadron closely in order to induce a
decision at the point most advantageous to ourselves; that is to say, we may

blockade one or more squadrons in order to induce the enemy to attempt
with one or more other squadrons to break that blockade. In this way we
may lead him either to expose himself to be struck in detail, or to
concentrate where we desire his concentration.
For any of these reasons we may decide that the best way of realising our
object is to use close blockade, but the matter does not end there. We have
still to consider whether close blockade is within the limit of the force we
have available, and whether it is the best method of developing the fullest
potentialities of that force. Close blockade being the more exhausting form
will require the greater strength; we cannot blockade closely for any length
of time without a force relatively superior; but if by open blockade of a
squadron we permit it to put to sea with contact assured, we know that,
even with a slightly inferior force, we can so deal with it as to prevent its
getting local control sufficient to break down our mobile flotilla defence or
to interfere seriously with our trade.
Finally, there is the question of risk. In the old days, before free movement
and wireless telegraphy, and before the flotilla had acquired battle power,
there was always to be faced the risk of not getting contact in time to
prevent mischief. This consideration was specially dominant where the
enemy had a squadron within or near the critical theatre of operations.
Therefore when the invasion threatened, our developed policy was to
blockade Brest closely at almost any sacrifice. There was always a vague
possibility that by evasion or chance of wind a squadron so close to the line
of invasion might get sufficient temporary command in the vital area before
it could be brought to action. It was a possibility that was never realised in
the Narrow Seas, and since mobility of fleets and means of distant
communication have so greatly increased in range and certainty, and since
the power of resistance in the flotilla has become so high, the risk is
probably much less than ever, and the field for open blockade is
consequently less restricted.
There is no need, however, to accept these principles as incontrovertible.
Even if we take the great blockade of 1803-5, which has most firmly
dominated thought on the subject ever since, it may be argued with some
plausibility that the situation could have been solved more quickly and
effectually by letting Ganteaume get out from Brest into the open, at least as

far as Admiral Togo was forced to permit the Russians to emerge from Port
Arthur, though his reasons for keeping them in were even stronger than ours
in 1805. But in any case, the whole trend of the evidence will admit no
doubt as to the inherent weakness of close blockade as a form of war. As
under modern developments the possibilities of open blockade have
increased, so the difficulties and dangers of close blockade have certainly
not decreased. It is also probable that certain advantages which in the
sailing era went far to compensate for its weakness have lost much of their
force. A sailing fleet cooped up in port not only rapidly lost its spirit, but,
being barred from sea-training, could not be kept in a condition of
efficiency, whereas the blockading fleet was quickly raised to the highest
temper by the stress of vigilance and danger that was its incessant portion.
So long as the strain did not pass the limit of human endurance, it was all to
the good. In the old days, with very moderate reliefs, the limit was never
reached, and the sacrifices that were made to those exhausting vigils were
rewarded twentyfold in exuberant confidence on the day of battle. Can we
expect the same compensation now? Will the balance of strength and
weakness remain as it used to be? In the face of the vast change of
conditions and the thinness of experience, it is to general principles we must
turn for the answer.
What, in fact, is the inherent weakness of close blockade? Strategical theory
will at once reply that it is an operation which involves "an arrest of the
offensive," a situation which is usually taken to exhibit every kind of
drawback. Close blockade is essentially an offensive operation, although its
object is usually negative; that is, it is a forward movement to prevent the
enemy carrying out some offensive operation either direct or by way of
counterstroke. So far the common tendency to confuse "Seeking out the
enemy's fleet" with "Making the enemy's coast your frontier" may be
condoned. But the two operations are widely different in that they have
different objectives. In "seeking out," our objective is the enemy's armed
force. In "making the enemy's coast our frontier," the objective is
inseparable from the ulterior object of the naval war. In this case the
objective is the common communications. By establishing a blockade we
operate offensively against those communications. We occupy them, and
then we can do no more. Our offensive is arrested; we cannot carry it on to
the destruction of the enemy's fleet. We have to wait in a defensive attitude,

holding the communications we have seized, till he chooses to attack in
order to break our hold; and during that period of arrest the advantage of
surprise—the all-important advantage in war—passes by a well recognised
rule to our enemy. We, in fact, are held upon the defensive, with none of the
material advantages of the defensive. The moral advantage of having taken
the initiative remains, but that is all. The advantage which we thus gain will
of course have the same kind of depressing effect upon the blockaded fleet
as it had of old, but scarcely in so high a degree. The degradation of a steam
fleet in port can scarcely be so rapid or debilitating as it was when nine-
tenths of seamanship lay in the smart handling of sails. For the blockading
fleet it is also true that the effects of weather, which formerly were the main
cause of wear and tear, can scarcely be so severe. But, on the other hand,
the physical strain to officers and men, and the difficulty of supply, will be
far greater, so long at least as coal is the chief fuel. The wind no longer sets
a measure on the enemy's movements. Vigilance close and unremitting
beyond all our predecessors knew is the portion of the blockaders to prevent
surprise. Furthermore, in the old days surprise meant at worst the enemy's
escape; now it may mean our own destruction by mine or torpedo. It is
unnecessary to labour the point. It is too obvious that a close blockade of
the old type exhibits under present conditions the defects of "arrested
offence" in so high a degree as practically to prohibit its use.
What, then, can be done? Must we rest content in all situations with Howe's
system, which riper experience condemned for cases of extreme necessity?
Cannot the old close blockade be given a modern form? Assuredly it can. In
old days the shoreward limit of the blockading fleet was just beyond the
range of the coast batteries, and this position it held continuously by means
of an inshore squadron. In these days of mobile defence that limit is by
analogy the night range of destroyers and the day range of submarines, that
is, half the distance they can traverse between dark and dawn or dawn and
dark respectively, unless within that limit a torpedo-proof base can be
established. A blockade of this nature will correspond in principle to a close
blockade of the old type; nor in practice, as was proved in the Japanese
blockade of Port Arthur, will its incidents be materially different. The
distance at which the battle-squadron must keep will seem at first sight to
deny it certainty of immediate contact—the essence of close blockade. But
in truth other new factors already noticed will reduce that distance

relatively. Quicker and more certain means of communication between the
admiral and his scouts, the absolute freedom of movement and the power of
delaying the enemy's actual exit by mining, may go far to bring things back
to their old relations. At Port Arthur they did so entirely. If then, as in that
case, our paramount object is to keep the enemy in, there seems still no
reason why we should not make our dispositions on the principle of close
blockade. Distances will be greater, but that is all.
Nor must it be forgotten that for a squadron to take station off a port in the
old manner is not the only means of close blockade. It may still effect its
purpose, at least temporarily, by supporting mining vessels or block ships
—"sinkers," as they used to be called. The latter expedient, it is true, had
little success in the latest experiments, but even in the Russo-Japanese War
its possibilities were by no means exhausted. We have therefore to conclude
that where the strategical conditions call obviously for close blockade, our
plan of operations will be modified in that direction with the means still at
our disposal.
If, however, our object is not so sharply defined, if in spite of our desire to
deny the enemy the sea we are ready to take risks in order to bring about a
decision, the case is not so clear. It will be observed that the looseness
which the new conditions force upon close blockade-increasing as they are
in intensity year by year-must tend more and more to approximate it in
practice to open blockade. The question will therefore present itself whether
it would not be more in accordance with the fundamental elements of
strength to adopt open blockade frankly for all purposes. We should thus
substitute a true defensive disposition for an arrested offence, and,
theoretically, that in itself is a great advantage. The practical benefits,
whatever the correlative drawbacks, are equally clear, nor are they less great
now than they appeared to Howe and Kempenfelt. We avoid exhaustion of
machinery, coal, and men, and this, at least for the necessary flotilla screen,
will be greater than anything that had to be faced in former days. We have
at least the opportunity of occupying a position secure from surprise, and of
keeping the fleet continually up to its highest striking energy. Finally,
assuming the geographical conditions give reasonable promise of contact, a
quick decision, which modern war demands with ever greater insistence, is
more probable. In such a disposition of course contact can rarely be made
certain. The enemy, whom the hypothesis of blockade assumes to be

anxious to avoid action, will always have a chance of evasion, but this will
always be so, even with the closest blockade now possible. We may even go
further and claim for open blockade that in favourable conditions it may
give the better chance of contact. For by adopting the principle of open
blockade we shall have, in accordance with the theory of defence, the
further advantages of being able the better to conceal our dispositions, and
consequently to lay traps for our enemy, such as that which Nelson prepared
for Villeneuve in the Gulf of Lyons in 1805.
The objection to such a course which appears to have the most weight with
current opinion is the moral one, which is inseparable from all deliberate
choices of the defensive. If the watching fleet remains in a home fortified
base, it may be assumed that the usual moral degradation will set in. But the
method does not entail the inglorious security of such a base. A sound
position may well be found at a spot such as Admiral Togo occupied while
waiting for the Baltic fleet, and in that case there was no observable
degradation of any kind. Nor is there much evidence that this objection
weighed materially with the opponents of Howe's view. Their objection was
of a purely physical kind. Open blockade left the enemy too much freedom
to raid our trade routes. The watching system might be sufficient to keep an
unwilling battle-fleet in port or to bring a more adventurous one to action,
but it could not control raiding squadrons. This was certainly Barham's
objection. "If," he wrote to Pitt in 1794, "the French should have any
intention of sending their fleet to sea with this easterly wind, and Lord
Howe continues at Torbay, our Mediterranean and Jamaica convoys are in a
very critical situation. Both fleets must by this time be drawing near the
Channel, and cannot enter it while the easterly wind holds." This danger
must always be with us, especially in narrow waters such as the North Sea.
In more open theatres the difficulty is not so obtrusive, for with sufficient
sea room trade may take naturally or by direction a course which our
watching dispositions will cover. Thus with Nelson in the case of Toulon,
his normal positions on the Sardinian coast covered effectually the flow of
our trade to the Levant and the Two Sicilies, which was all there was at the
time.
The truth is, that in endeavouring to decide between open and close
blockade we find ourselves confronted with those special difficulties which
so sharply distinguish naval warfare from warfare on land. We cannot

choose on purely naval considerations. In naval warfare, however great may
be our desire to concentrate our effort on the enemy's main forces, the
ulterior object will always obtrude itself. We must from the first do our best
to control sea communications, and since those communications are usually
common, we cannot refrain from occupying those of the enemy without at
the same time neglecting and exposing our own. Thus in the case of Brest a
close blockade was always desirable, and especially at convoy seasons,
because the great trade routes which passed within striking distance of the
port were all common, whereas in the region of Toulon the main lines were
not common except along the coasts of Africa and Southern Italy, and these
Nelson's open blockade amply secured.
The general conclusion, then, is that however high may be the purely naval
and strategical reasons for adopting open blockade as the best means of
securing a decision against the enemy's fleet, yet the inevitable intrusion of
the ulterior object in the form of trade protection or the security of military
expeditions will seldom leave us entirely free to use the open method. We
must be prepared, in fact, to find ourselves at least at times faced with the
necessity of using a form of blockade as nearly modelled on the old close
blockade as changed conditions will permit.

CHAPTER THREE

METHODS OF
DISPUTING COMMAND

I. DEFENSIVE FLEET OPERATIONS—"A FLEET IN
BEING"

In dealing with the theory of sea command, attention was called to the error
of assuming that if we are unable to win the command we therefore lose it.
It was pointed out that this proposition, which is too often implied in
strategical discussion, denies in effect that there can be such a thing as
strategical defensive at sea, and ignores the fact that the normal condition in
war is for the command to be in dispute. Theory and history are at one on
the point. Together they affirm that a Power too weak to win command by
offensive operations may yet succeed in holding the command in dispute by
assuming a general defensive attitude.
That such an attitude in itself cannot lead to any positive result at sea goes
without saying, but nevertheless even over prolonged periods it can prevent
an enemy securing positive results, and so give time for the other
belligerent to dominate the situation by securing his ends ashore.
It is seldom that we have been forced even for a time to adopt such an
attitude, but our enemies have done so frequently to our serious annoyance
and loss. In the Seven Years' War, for instance, the French by avoiding
offensive operations likely to lead to a decision, and confining themselves
to active defence, were able for five campaigns to prevent our reducing
Canada, which was the object of the war. Had they staked the issue on a
great fleet action in the first campaign, and had the result been against them,
we could certainly have achieved our object in half the time. In the end, of
course, they failed to prevent the conquest, but during all the time the
catastrophe was postponed France had abundant opportunity of gaining
offensively elsewhere territory which, as she at all events believed, would
have compelled us to give up our conquest at the peace.

Again, in our last great naval war Napoleon by avoiding general actions
was able to keep the command in dispute till by alliances and otherwise he
had gathered force which he deemed sufficient to warrant a return to the
offensive. Eventually that force proved unequal to the task, yet when it
failed and the command passed to his enemy, he had had time to
consolidate his power so far that the loss of his fleet seemed scarcely to
affect it, and for nine years more he was able to continue the struggle.
Such examples—and there are many of them—serve to show how serious a
matter is naval defence in the hands of a great military Power with other
means of offence. They tell us how difficult it is to deal with, and how
serious therefore for even the strongest naval Power is the need to give it
careful study.
And not for this reason only, but also because the strongest naval Power, if
faced with a coalition, may find it impossible to exert a drastic offensive
anywhere without temporarily reducing its force in certain areas to a point
relatively so low as to permit of nothing higher than the defensive. The
leading case of such a state of affairs, which we must further consider
presently, was our own position in the War of American Independence,
when, as we have seen, in order to secure an adequate concentration for
offence in the West Indies we were forced to reduce our home fleet to
defensive level.
What, then, do we mean by naval defence? To arrive at a right answer we
must first clear our mind of all confusing shadows cast by the accidents of
land defence. Both on land and at sea defence means of course taking
certain measures to defer a decision until military or political developments
so far redress the balance of strength that we are able to pass to the
offensive. In the operations of armies the most usual means employed are
the holding of positions and forcing our superior enemy to exhaust his
strength in attacking them. Consequently the idea of military defence is
dominated by the conception of entrenched positions and fortresses.
In naval warfare this is not so. At sea the main conception is avoiding
decisive action by strategical or tactical activity, so as to keep our fleet in
being till the situation develops in our favour. In the golden age of our navy
the keynote of naval defence was mobility, not rest. The idea was to dispute

the control by harassing operations, to exercise control at any place or at
any moment as we saw a chance, and to prevent the enemy exercising
control in spite of his superiority by continually occupying his attention.
The idea of mere resistance was hardly present at all. Everything was
counterattack, whether upon the enemy's force or his maritime
communications. On land, of course, such methods of defence are also well
known, but they belong much more to guerilla warfare than to regular
operations. In regular warfare with standing armies, however brilliantly
harassing operations and counter-attack are used, the fundamental
conception is the defended or defensible position.
Similarly at sea, although the essence of defence is mobility and an untiring
aggressive spirit rather than rest and resistance, yet there also defended and
defensible positions are not excluded. But they are only used in the last
resort. A fleet may retire temporarily into waters difficult of access, where it
can only be attacked at great risk, or into a fortified base, where it is
practically removed from the board and cannot be attacked at all by a fleet
alone. But the occasions on which such expedients can be used at sea are far
rarer than on land. Indeed except for the most temporary purposes they can
scarcely be regarded as admissible at sea, however great their value on land.
The reason is simple. A fleet withdrawing to such a position leaves open to
the enemy the ulterior object, which is the control of sea communications,
whereas on land an army in a good position may even for a prolonged
period cover the ulterior object, which is usually territory. An army in
position, moreover, is always doing something to exhaust its opponent and
redress the unfavourable balance, but a fleet in inactivity is too often
permitting the enemy to carry on operations which tend to exhaust the
resources of its own country.
For a maritime Power, then, a naval defensive means nothing but keeping
the fleet actively in being-not merely in existence, but in active and
vigorous life. No phrase can better express the full significance of the idea
than "A fleet in being," if it be rightly understood. Unfortunately it has
come to be restricted, by a misunderstanding of the circumstances in which
it was first invented, to one special class of defence. We speak of it as
though it were essentially a method of defence against invasion, and so miss
its fuller meaning. If, however, it be extended to express defence against
any kind of maritime attack, whether against territory or sea

communications, its broad truth will become apparent, and it will give us
the true conception of the idea as held in the British service.
The occasion on which it was first used was one that well exhibits the
special possibilities of a naval defensive. It was in the year 1690, when, in
alliance with the Dutch, we were at war with France, and though really
superior, had been caught in a situation which placed us temporarily at a
great disadvantage in home waters. The French by a surprising rapidity of
mobilisation and concentration had stolen a march on us before either our
mobilisation or our concentration was complete. King William, with the
best of the army, was in Ireland dealing with a French invasion in support of
James, and a squadron of seven sail under Sir Cloudesley Shovel had been
detached into the Irish Sea to guard his communications. Another squadron,
consisting of sixteen of the line, British and Dutch, had been sent to
Gibraltar under Admiral Killigrew to take down the trade and to keep an
eye on Chateaurenault, who with a slightly inferior squadron was at Toulon.
It was assumed he would probably make a push for Brest, where the French
main fleet was mobilising under the Comte de Tourville, and Killigrew had
orders to follow him if he got through the Straits. Chateaurenault did get
through; Killigrew failed to bring him to action, and instead of following
him immediately, he went into Cadiz to complete his arrangements for
forwarding his outward-bound convoy and escorting the one he was to
bring home. What of course he should have done, according to the practice
of more experienced times, was to have left this work to a cruiser
detachment, and failing contact with Chateaurenault, should have closed at
once to the strategical centre with his battle-squadron.
Meanwhile the home fleet, which Lord Torrington was to command, was
still unformed. It lay in three divisions, at the Downs, Portsmouth, and
Plymouth, while a considerable part of the promised Dutch contingent had
not made its appearance. It was a splendid chance for the French to seize
the command of the Channel before the concentration could take place and
to crush the British in detail. Accordingly, on June 13th, as soon as
Chateaurenault had arrived, Tourville put to sea with some seventy of the
line. The day before, however, Torrington, having hoisted his flag in the
Downs, had massed his two main divisions at Portsmouth, and by the time
Tourville appeared off the Isle of Wight he had with later arrivals, both
Dutch and British, about fifty-six of the line in St. Helen's Road. Not

knowing that the Toulon contingent had joined, he put to sea intending to
fight, but on discovering the great superiority of the French, he decided in
concert with his council of war to act on the defensive, and before offering
battle to endeavour to secure a concentration with Killigrew and Shovel and
the Plymouth division by getting to the westward. If he found this course
impossible without fighting an action, his plan was to retire before Tourville
"even to the Gunfleet," where amidst the shoals of the Thames estuary he
felt he would have a good chance of repelling an attack with success. There,
too, he counted on being reinforced not only by the ships still at Chatham,
but also possibly by ships from the westward which might steal along the
coast and join him "over the flats" by channels unknown to the French. To
fight as he was he considered to be only playing the enemy's game. "If we
are beaten," he said in communicating his plan to the Government, "they
being absolute masters of the sea will be at great liberty of doing many
things which they dare not do whilst we observe them and are in a
possibility of joining Admiral Killigrew and our ships to the westward."
It was a plan conceived on the best principles of defence—waiting till the
acquisition of fresh force justified a return to the offensive. It is further
interesting as a pure case of naval defence, with no ulterior object other
than control of home waters. In the minds of the Government there was no
apprehension of any definite attempt to invade across the Channel, but the
invasion of Ireland was in full progress, and all nourishment of it must be
stopped and our own communications kept free. There was, moreover,
serious anxiety lest the French should extend their operations to Scotland,
and there was Killigrew's homeward-bound convoy approaching. The
situation was one that obviously could not be solved effectually except by
winning a general command of the sea, but in Torrington's judgment it
could be rendered innocuous by holding the command in dispute. His
design, therefore, was to act upon the defensive and prevent the enemy
achieving any positive result until he was in a position to fight them with a
fair chance of victory. A temporary defensive he considered was the only
way to win the command, while to hazard a decision in inferior strength
was the best way to lose it.
Nothing could be in closer harmony with the principles of good strategy as
we understand them now. It was undoubtedly in advance of anything that
had been done up to that time, and it was little wonder if the Government,

as is usually said, failed to appreciate the design. Their rejection of it has
come in for very severe criticism. But it would seem that they
misunderstood rather than failed to appreciate. The Earl of Nottingham,
who was at the head of the Government, believed, as his reply to the
admiral clearly shows, that Torrington meant to retire to the Gunfleet at
once; whereas it is equally clear to us that the Gunfleet was to be his
extreme point, and that he did not mean to retire so far unless the French
forced him. The Minister failed, as others have done since, to grasp what
the admiral meant by "A fleet in being." He thought that in Torrington's
view a fleet safe in port and not in contact with the enemy was "in being,"
whereas Torrington had no such idea. As Nottingham conceived the
admiral's intention he saw that although it might preserve the fleet, it would
expose everything else to destruction; that is, he was oppressed with the
special characteristic of naval warfare which always permits action against
the ulterior object when the enemy denies you any chance of acting against
his armed force.
Under this misapprehension, which indeed was not justified by the words of
Torrington's despatch, he procured from the Queen an order in these terms:
"We apprehend," it ran, "the consequences of your retiring to the Gunfleet
to be so fatal, that we choose rather you should upon any advantage of the
wind give battle to the enemy than retreat farther than is necessary to get an
advantage upon the enemy." It was, however, left to his discretion to
proceed to the westward to complete his concentration that way, provided, it
said, "you by no means ever lose sight of the French fleet whereby they
may have opportunity of making attempts upon the shore or in the rivers of
Medway or Thames, or get away without fighting."
This order has been very hardly dealt with by modern critics, although it
clearly contemplates true preventive observation, and even, as the last
words suggest, the idea contained in Nelson's well-known saying, "that by
the time the enemy had beat our fleet soundly they would do us no more
harm this year." It is true that Nelson could rely on the proved superiority of
the British at that time unit for unit, but it is also true that Nottingham and
his colleagues in the Government had information which led them greatly to
underestimate Tourville's strength. This was evident on the face of
Nottingham's despatch which covered the order, so evident indeed that
Torrington might well perhaps have suspended the execution of an order so

obviously based on incorrect information. But knowing probably what
intrigues were going on against him at Court, he chose to regard it as a
peremptory command to engage whenever he found himself to windward.
Much as a more scientific view of naval strategy may admire Torrington's
conception, there seems no reason for losing temper over the Government's
plan. It was certainly one way of solving the problem, and seeing how large
were our reserves, a defeat need not have meant disaster. Still, it was
doubtless dictated by an inability to grasp, the strategical strength of
Torrington's novel plan, a plan which was not only safer, but was calculated
to achieve greater positive results in the end. The real fallacy of the
Government's plan was that although it had a specious appearance of a bold
offensive, it could have achieved nothing but a negative result. The most a
battle could have given in the circumstances could only have left the
command in dispute, and the worst would have given the enemy a positive
result, which must have gravely compromised William's campaign in
Ireland.
On these lines Torrington replied to the Government. Dealing with their
anxiety for the ships to the westward and the Mediterranean convoy, whose
danger was their expressed reason for forbidding him the Gunfleet, he
pointed out that they could not run much hazard if they took care of
themselves. For, as he repeated, "while we observe the French, they cannot
make any attempt on ships or shore without running great hazard, and if we
are beaten, all is exposed to their mercy." Thus without specially noticing
the Minister's misinterpretation of his despatch, he intimated that his
intention was observation, and not simple retreat.
By the time Torrington sent this reply he had been pressed back as far as
Beachy Head; it was no longer possible to get to the westward; and the
following day, finding himself to windward, he attacked. But still confirmed
in his idea of defence, and carrying it on to his tactics, he refused to give the
French the chance of a real decision, and disengaged as soon as a drop in
the wind permitted. So far he felt justified in interpreting orders which he
knew were founded on false information. He was sure, as he said in
justification of the way he fought the action, "that the Queen could not have
been prevailed with to sign an order for it, had not both our weakness and
the strength of the enemy been disguised to her."

So severely was his fleet crippled that he believed his plan could no longer
act. "What the consequences of this unfortunate battle may be," he wrote in
his Journal, "God Almighty only knows, but this I dare be positive in, had I
been left to my liberty I had prevented any attempt upon the land, and
secured the western ships, Killigrew, and the merchantmen." Actually in all
this he was successful. Slowly retiring eastward he drew the French after
him as far as Dover before he ran to the Nore; and Tourville was unable to
get back to the westward, till all the endangered ships were safe in
Plymouth. In spite of Torrington's being forced to fight an action at the
wrong time and place, his design had so far succeeded. Not only had he
prevented the French doing anything that could affect the issue of the war,
but he had completely foiled Tourville's plan of destroying the British fleet
in detail. That he had done, but retribution by passing to the offensive was
no longer in his power.
That Tourville or his Government was impressed with the efficacy of the
method was demonstrated the following year, when he in his turn found
himself in an inferiority that denied him hope of a successful battle
decision. During the summer he kept his fleet hovering off the mouth of the
Channel without giving the British admiral a chance of contact. His method,
however, differed from that of Torrington, and he only achieved his
negative object by keeping out of sight of his enemy altogether. In his
opinion, if a fleet remained at sea in close observation of an active enemy
an action could not be avoided. "If (the admiral)," he wrote in his
memorandum on the subject, "be ordered to keep the sea to try to amuse the
enemy and to let them know we are in a position to attack in case they
attempt a descent, I think it my duty to say that in that case we must make
up our mind to have to fight them in the end; for if they have really sought
an action, they will have been able to fight, seeing that it is impossible to
pirouette so long near a fleet without coming to grips."20 This is as much as
to say that a sure point of temporary retreat is necessary to "a fleet in
being," and this was an essential part of Torrington's idea.
In Torrington's and Tourville's time, when ships were unhandy and fleet
tactics in their infancy, the difficulty of avoiding action, when a determined
enemy had once got contact, were undoubtedly great, unless a port of
retreat was kept open. But as the art of naval warfare developed, the
possibilities of "a fleet in being" were regarded as much wider, at least in

the British service. It was nearly a hundred years before we were again
forced to use the same device on a large scale, and then it was believed that
superior speed and tactical precision were factors that could be counted on
to an almost unlimited extent. In the darkest days of the War of American
Independence we have a memorandum of the subject by Kempenfelt, which
not only gives the developed idea of "a fleet in being" and the high
aggressive spirit that is its essence, but also explains its value, not merely as
a defensive expedient, but as a means of permitting a drastic offensive even
when you are as a whole inferior. "When you know the enemy's designs,"
he says, "in order to do something effectual you must endeavour to be
superior to them in some part where they have designs to execute, and
where, if they succeed, they would most injure you. If your fleet is divided
as to be in all places inferior to the enemy, they will have a fair chance of
succeeding everywhere in their attempts. If a squadron cannot be formed
sufficient to face the enemy's at home, it would be more advantageous to let
your inferiority be still greater in order by it to gain the superiority
elsewhere."
"When inferior to the enemy, and you have only a squadron of observation
to watch and attend upon their motions, such a squadron should be
composed of two-decked ships only [that is, ships of the highest mobility]
as to assure it purpose. It must have the advantage of the enemy in sailing,
else under certain circumstances it will be liable to be forced to battle or to
give up some of its heavy sailers. It is highly necessary to have such a
flying squadron to hang on the enemy's large fleet, as it will prevent their
dividing into separate squadrons for intercepting your trade or spreading
their ships for a more extensive view. You will be at hand to profit from any
accidental separation or dispersion of their fleet from hard gales, fogs, or
other causes. You may intercept supplies, intelligence, &c, sent to them. In
fine, such a squadron will be a check and restraint upon their motions, and
prevent a good deal of the mischief they might otherwise do."
Three years before, when first called to be Chief of the Staff in the Channel,
he had emphasised the same points. "Much," he wrote in July 1779, "I may
say all, depends upon this fleet. 'Tis an inferior against a superior fleet.
Therefore the greatest skill and address is requisite to counteract the designs
of the enemy, to watch and seize the favourable opportunity for action, and
to catch the advantage of making the effort at some or other feeble part of

the enemy's line; or if such opportunities don't offer, to hover near the
enemy, keep him at bay, and prevent his attempting anything but at risk and
hazard; to command their attention, and oblige them to think of nothing but
being on their guard against your attack."21
It was on these lines the war was conducted. The West Indian area, in which
lay the enemy's principal object, was treated as the offensive theatre and the
home waters as the defensive. Inferior as was the Channel fleet to the home
fleet of the allies, its defensive operations proved adequate to prevent their
achieving any success. Nor was this all, for Kempenfelt was able to
demonstrate the positive side of his theory in the most brilliant and
convincing manner. In dealing with concentration we have seen how, in
command of such a flying squadron as he postulated, he was able off
Ushant to seize a favourable opportunity for action, which resulted in his
capturing a convoy of military stores essential to the French operations in
the West Indies under the nose of De Guichen with an escort of nearly twice
his force.
Nelson certainly shared Kempenfelt's views as to the possibilities of an
inferior fleet kept actively in being. "As to our fleet," he wrote from the
Mediterranean in 1796, "under such a commander-in-chief as Sir John
Jervis nobody has any fear ... We are now twenty-two sail of the line. The
combined fleet will not be above thirty-five.... I will venture my life Sir
John Jervis defeats them. I do not mean by a regular battle, but by the skill
of our admiral and the activity and spirit of our officers and seamen. This
country is the most favourable possible for that skill with an inferior fleet;
for the winds are so variable, that some one time in twenty-four hours you
must be able to attack a part of a large fleet, and the other will be becalmed
or have a contrary wind. Therefore I hope the Government will not be
alarmed for our safety."
Such a conception of the defensive may indeed be said to have become
current in the British service. It was part of the reasoning which in 1805,
after Villeneuve's escape from the Mediterranean, decided Sir John Orde to
fall back on Ushant instead of entering the Straits. "I dare believe," he
wrote, "Lord Nelson will be found in condition with his twelve of the line
and numerous frigates to act on the defensive without loss and even to hang

on to the skirts of the enemy's fleet should it attempt any material service,
especially when encumbered with troops."
In all this consideration of the potentialities of "a fleet in being" operating
defensively it must never be forgotten that we are dealing with its
possibilities in relation to a general command of the sea—to its general
power of holding such command in dispute, as Torrington used it. Its power
of preventing a particular operation, such as oversea invasion, is another
matter, which will always depend upon the local conditions. If the "fleet in
being" can be contained in such a way that it is impossible for it to reach the
invading line of passage, it will be no bar to invasion. In 1690, so far as
Torrington's fleet was concerned, the French, had they been so minded,
might have made a descent, say, at Portsmouth while Torrington was at the
Nore. But Torrington's fleet was not the only factor. His retreat forced
Tourville to leave behind him unfought the squadrons of Shovel and
Killigrew, and so far as commanding a line of invasion passage was
concerned Tourville was himself as well contained as Torrington. The
conditions of naval defence against invasion are in fact so complex
compared with those of general naval defence that they must be treated later
as a special branch of the subject.
The doctrine of the "Fleet in being" as formulated and practised by
Torrington and developed by Kempenfelt goes no further than this, that
where the enemy regards the general command of a sea area as necessary to
his offensive purposes, you may be able to prevent his gaining such
command by using your fleet defensively, refusing what Nelson called a
regular battle, and seizing every opportunity for a counterstroke. To use it as
it was used by the French in the case of Tourville's famous deterrent cruise,
where the whole object of the French was offensive and could not be
obtained except by offence, is quite another thing.
It is indeed difficult to understand the admiration with which his campagne
au large has been treated in France. He kept the sea off the mouth of the
Channel for fifty days in the summer of 1691, and for forty of those days
our Channel fleet was making no systematic effort to seek him out. He had
been sent to sea in hope of intercepting our great "Smyrna convoy," which
was then the backbone of our oversea trade. Russell with the British main
fleet simply took positions to cover its approach until it was safe, knowing

presumably that Tourville must come to him if he wished to accomplish his
purpose. When the convoy was safe Russell proceeded off Ushant, that is,
between the enemy and his base. Tourville's communications were thus cut,
his line of retreat threatened, and he seized the first opportunity to elude
Russell and to return into port. Beyond taking a few ships from one of the
West India convoys, he accomplished nothing. The central French offensive
in Ireland was broken at the battle of the Boyne, and the prestige of England
at sea was restored. It is true our trade suffered in the North Sea, but this
was not directly due to the concentration which Tourville's cruise forced
upon us, but rather to the failure of the Dutch—apparently by a
misunderstanding-to provide for an effective blockade of Dunkirk.
To British eyes it will seem that the heresy which was latent in Tourville's
instructions was a seed that choked all the finer aspirations of the French
navy. In 1691 the plan of his cruise may possibly be defended as
sufficiently aggressive, since, seeing how unstable was William's new
throne, a resounding blow at British trade, combined with an expected
victory in Ireland, might have been enough to upset it. But afterwards the
idea was stretched to occasions it would not fit. It seems to have bred a
belief that where the object of the war plainly depended on winning a real
command of the sea, that object could yet be attained by naval defensive
operations. Many times it is true a policy which had starved the navy of
France left no other course open to her seamen, and had they in their
inferiority attempted the offensive, the end must have been swifter if not
more certain. In criticising the maritime history of France we must be
careful to distinguish policy from strategy. It was not always the defensive
strategy that was bad, but the policy that condemned her admirals to
negative operations. Seeing that she was a continental Power with
continental aspirations, it was often a policy from which her military
exigencies permitted no escape. Nevertheless the policy was twice
accursed: it cursed her when she was weak, and cursed her when she was
strong. The prolonged use of the defensive bred a habit of mind which
seems to have rendered her incapable of striking hard when she had the
strength. In no other way at least can we account for the behaviour of so
high-spirited a nation when her chance of revenge came in the War of
American Independence.

It is here in its moral reactions lies the danger of the defensive, a danger so
insidious in its working as to tempt us never to utter the word. Yet with the
voice of Torrington, Kempenfelt, and Nelson in our ears, it would be folly
to ignore it for ourselves, and still more to ignore the exhausting strain its
use by our enemy may impose upon us. It must be studied, if for no other
reasons than to learn how to break it down. Nor will the study have danger,
if only we keep well in view the spirit of restless and vigilant counter-attack
which Kempenfelt and Nelson regarded as its essence. True, some of the
conditions which in the days of sails made for opportunity have passed
away, but many still remain. Shifts of wind and calms will no longer bring
them, but weather thick or violent can yet make seamanship, nimbleness,
and cohesion tell as it always did; and there is no reason to doubt that it is
still possible for hard sea-training to make "the activity and spirit of our
officers and seamen" give the results which Nelson so confidently expected.

II. MINOR COUNTER-ATTACKS

For the weaker of two belligerents minor-attack has always exercised a
certain fascination. Where a Power was so inferior in naval force that it
could scarcely count even on disputing command by fleet operations, there
remained a hope of reducing the relative inferiority by putting part of the
enemy's force out of action. Such hopes were rarely realised. In 1587 Drake
succeeded in stopping the Spanish invasion by such a counter-attack on the
Cadiz division of the Armada while it was still unmobilised. In 1667 the
Dutch achieved a similar success against our Chatham division when it was
demobilised and undefended, and thereby probably secured rather more
favourable terms of peace. But it cannot be said that the old wars present
any case where the ultimate question of command was seriously affected by
a minor counterattack.
The advent of the torpedo, however, has given the idea a new importance
that cannot be overlooked. The degree of that importance is at present
beyond calculation. There is at least no evidence that it would be very high
in normal conditions and between ordinarily efficient fleets. The
comparative success of the opening Japanese attack on the Port Arthur
squadron is the only case in point, and where only one case exists, it is
necessary to use extreme caution in estimating its significance. Before we

can deduce anything of permanent value we must consider very carefully
both its conditions and results.
To begin with, it was a new experience of a new class of weapon, and it by
no means follows that the success of a new expedient will be repeated with
anything like equal result. It will not be irrelevant again to recall the case of
fireships. At the outset of the sailing era in 1588, this device prepared the
way for a decisive success against a fleet in the open. In the succeeding
wars the new weapon found a prominent place in the organisation of sea-
going fleets, but its success was never repeated. Against ships in ill-
defended harbours it did occasionally produce good results, and during the
infancy of tactics its moral and even material effects in fleet actions were
frequently demonstrated. But as naval science developed and the limitations
of the weapon were more accurately measured, it was able to achieve less
and less, till in the eighteenth century it was regarded as almost negligible.
Even its moral effect was lost, and it ceased to be considered as a battle
unit.
Now, if we examine closely the Port Arthur case, we shall find it pointing to
the existence of certain inherent conditions not dissimilar from those which
discredited fireships as a decisive factor in war. In spite of the apparently
formidable nature of a surprise attack by torpedo the indications from the
one case in point are that these conditions make for greater power in the
defence than in the attack. The first condition relates to the difficulty of
locating the objective accurately. It is obvious that for this kind of operation
the most precise intelligence is essential, and of all intelligence the most
difficult to obtain in war is the distribution of an enemy's fleet from day to
day. The Japanese had fairly certain information that the bulk of the Port
Arthur squadron was lying in the outer anchorage, but it had been
constantly moving, and there was a report that three battleships had just
been detached from it. The report was false, but the result was that of the
five divisions of destroyers which the Japanese had available, two were
diverted against Dalny, where no enemy was found. Such uncertainty must
always exist, and in no circumstances is it likely to be less than where, as in
the Japanese case, the attack is made before declaration, and while the
ordinary channels of intelligence are still open.

Further, it is to be noted that in spite of the fact that relations for some
weeks had been highly strained, and a surprise torpedo attack was regarded
as probable, the Russians had taken no precautions to confuse their enemy.
It is obvious that measures to prevent accurate locating can, and should, be
taken in such cases. We may go further. From confusing the enemy by such
means it is but a step to lead him to a wrong conclusion, and to lay for him
a trap which may swallow up the bulk of his destroyer force in the first
hours of the war. It is to be feared, however, that the risks of such an
eventuality are so great in minor counter-attacks of this nature, that it will
probably be very difficult to tempt an inferior enemy to expose his flotilla
in this way.
This view receives emphasis from the second point which the Port Arthur
case serves to demonstrate, and that is the great power of even the flimsiest
defence against such attacks; in other words, the chances of success can
scarcely ever be great enough to justify the risk. Everything was in favour
of the Japanese. Orders had been issued in the Russian squadron for two or
three nights previously to prepare for a torpedo attack, but so low had
discipline fallen, that the orders were obeyed in a very perfunctory manner.
Guns were not loaded, their crews were not at quarters, nor were the nets
got out. The only real precaution taken was that two destroyers and no more
had been sent out as guard patrol, but even they were forbidden to fire on
anything they met until they had reported to the admiral or had themselves
been fired on. Defence against a surprise attack could scarcely have been
more feeble, and yet so high was the nervous tension in the attacking force,
that it proved stronger than could reasonably have been expected. The mere
existence of the patrol and the necessity of evading it threw the Japanese
approach into a confusion from which it was unable to recover entirely, and
the attack lost its essential momentum and cohesion. Again, defective as
were the arrangements in the squadron itself, and lax as were its training
and discipline, no torpedo hits were made, so far as we can judge, after the
Russian guns and searchlights got into play.
Such development of strength in the defence seems inherent in the
conditions of minor attack, and there appears to be no reason for expecting
better results for such attacks in normal cases. But in deducing principles
from the Port Arthur case, it must always be remembered that it was far
from normal. It was a blow before declaration, when the menace of strained

relations, though realised, had been almost entirely ignored by the Russians.
In such exceptional and almost incredible circumstances a minor attack
might always be counted on for a certain measure of success. To this we
have to add the fact that the Russian squadron was not ordinarily efficient,
but appears to have fallen into a lax condition such as could scarcely recur
in the case of any other naval Power.
Finally, we must ask what, with every condition abnormally in favour of the
attack, was the actual material result? Did it have any real influence on the
ultimate question of command? It is true that it so far swung the balance in
favour of the Japanese that they were able to exercise the local control long
enough to land their troops and isolate Port Arthur. But the Japanese plan
for securing ultimate command rested on their power of taking Port Arthur
by military operation and sustaining the siege from the sea. Yet in spite of
every condition of success the physical effect of the blow was so small, that
even without the help of an adequate dockyard the squadron recovered from
it and became potent again before the siege could even be formed. The
minor attacks which followed the first blow were all failures, and whether
delivered at the port or upon the squadron in the open had no appreciable
effect whatever.
At the same time it must be remembered that since that war the art of
torpedo warfare has developed very rapidly. Its range and offensive power
have increased in a higher ratio than the means of resisting it. Still those
means have advanced, and it is probable that a squadron in a naval port or
in a properly defended anchorage is not more easy to injure than it ever
was; while a squadron at sea, so long as it constantly shifts its position, still
remains very difficult to locate with sufficient precision for successful
minor attack.
The unproved value of submarines only deepens the mist which overhangs
the next naval war. From a strategical point of view we can say no more
than that we have to count with a new factor, which gives a new possibility
to minor counterattack. It is a possibility which on the whole tells in favour
of naval defence, a new card which, skilfully played in combination with
defensive fleet operations, may lend fresh importance to the "Fleet in
being." It may further be expected that whatever the effective possibilities
of minor operations may ultimately prove to be in regard to securing

command, the moral influence will be considerable, and at least at the
beginning of a future war will tend to deflect and hamper the major
operations and rob of their precision the lines which formerly led so frankly
to the issue by battle.
In the absence of a sufficient volume of experience it would be idle to go
further, particularly as torpedo attack, like fireship attack, depends for
success more than any other on the spirit and skill of officers and men. With
regard to the torpedo as the typical arm of mobile coastal defence, it is a
different matter. What has been said applies only to its power towards
securing command of the sea, and not to the exercise or to disputing the
exercise of command. This is a question which is concerned with defence
against invasion, and to that we must now turn.

CHAPTER FOUR

METHODS OF EXERCISING COMMAND

I. DEFENCE AGAINST INVASION

In methods of exercising command are included all operations not directly
concerned with securing command or with preventing its being secured by
the enemy. We engage in exercising command whenever we conduct
operations which are directed not against the enemy's battle-fleet, but to
using sea communications for our own purposes, or to interfering with the
enemy's use of them. Such operations, though logically of secondary
importance, have always occupied the larger part of naval warfare. Naval
warfare does not begin and end with the destruction of the enemy's battle-
fleet, nor even with breaking his cruiser power. Beyond all this there is the
actual work of preventing his passing an army across the sea and of
protecting the passage of our own military expeditions. There is also the
obstruction of his trade and the protection of our own. In all such operations
we are concerned with the exercise of command. We are using the sea, or
interfering with its use by the enemy; we are not endeavouring to secure the
use or to prevent the enemy from securing it. The two categories of
operation differ radically in conception and purpose, and strategically they
are on wholly different planes.
Logically, of course, operations for exercising command should follow
those for securing command; that is to say, that since the attainment of
command is the special object of naval warfare, and since that command
can only be obtained permanently by the destruction of the enemy's armed
forces afloat, it follows that in strictness no other objects should be allowed
to interfere with our concentration of effort on the supreme end of securing
command by destruction. War, however, is not conducted by logic, and the
order of proceeding which logic prescribes cannot always be adhered to in
practice. We have seen how, owing to the special conditions of naval
warfare, extraneous necessities intrude themselves which make it inevitable
that operations for exercising command should accompany as well as

follow operations for securing command. War being, as it is, a complex sum
of naval, military, political, financial, and moral factors, its actuality can
seldom offer to a naval staff a clean slate on which strategical problems can
be solved by well-turned syllogisms. The naval factor can never ignore the
others. From the outset one or more of them will always call for some act of
exercising command which will not wait for its turn in the logical
progression. To a greater or less extent in all ordinary cases both categories
of operation will have to be put in motion from the beginning.
Hence the importance of realising the distinction between the two generic
forms of naval activity. In the hurry and stress of war confusion between
them is easy. By keeping a firm grip upon the difference we can see at least
what we are doing. We can judge how far any given operation that may be
called for is a sacrifice of security to exercise, how far such a sacrifice may
be justified, and how far the one end may be made to serve the other. By
applying the distinction as a test much error may be avoided. The risk we
take may be great, but we shall be able to weigh it accurately against the
value of the end, and we shall take it with our eyes open and of set purpose.
Above all, it will enable the Staff to settle clearly for each squadronal
commander what is to be his primary objective, and what the object or
purpose of the operations entrusted to him. It is above all in this last
consideration, and particularly in the determination of the objective, that
lies the main practical value of the distinction.
This will become clear the moment we begin to consider defence against
invasion, which naturally takes the first place amongst operations for the
exercise of control. Of all the current assumptions, not one is so confusing
for the finer adjustments of strategy as that which affirms that the primary
objective of our fleet is always the enemy's fleet. Of the battle-fleet and its
attendant units it is of course true, so long at least as the enemy has a battle-
fleet in being. It is true, that is, of all operations for securing control, but of
operations for exercising control it is not true. In the case we have now to
consider-defence against invasion-the objective of the special operations is,
and always has been, the enemy's army. On this fundamental postulate our
plans for resisting invasion have always been constructed from the year of
the Armada to 1805.

In the old service tradition the point was perfectly well established.
Admirals' instructions constantly insist on the fact that the transports are the
"principal object." The whole disposition of the fleet during Hawke's
blockade in 1759 was based on keeping a firm hold on the transports in the
Morbihan, and when he sought to extend his operations against the
Rochefort squadron, he was sharply reminded by Anson that "the principal
object of attention at this time" was, firstly, "the interception of the
embarkations of the enemy at Morbihan," and secondly, "the keeping of the
ships of war from coming out of Brest." Similarly Commodore Warren in
1796, when he had the permanent frigate guard before Brest, issued orders
to his captains that in case of encountering enemy's transports under escort
they were "to run them down or destroy them in the most expeditious
manner possible previous to attacking the ships of war, but to preserve such
a situation as to effect that purpose when directed by signal." Lord Keith's
orders when watching Napoleon's flotilla were to the same effect.
"Directing your chief attention," they run, "to the destruction of the ships,
vessels, or boats having men, horses, or artillery on board (in preference to
that of the vessels by which they are protected), and in the strict execution
of this important duty losing sight entirely of the possibility of idle censure
for avoiding contact with an armed force, because the prevention of
debarkation is the object of primary importance to which every other
consideration must give way."22
In tactics, then, the idea was the same as in strategy. The army was the
primary objective round which all dispositions turned. In the French service
the strength and soundness of the British practice was understood at least by
the best men. When in 1805 Napoleon consulted Ganteaume as to the
possibility of the flotilla of transports effecting its passage by evasion, the
admiral told him it was impossible, since no weather could avail to relax the
British hold sufficiently. "In former wars," he said, "the English vigilance
was miraculous."
To this rule there was no exception, not even when circumstances rendered
it difficult to distinguish between the enemy's fleet and army as objectives.
This situation could occur in two ways. Firstly, when the invading army
was designed to sail with the battle-fleet, as in the case of Napoleon's
invasion of Egypt; and secondly, when, although the design was that the
two should operate on separate lines, our system of defence forced the fleet

to come up to the army's line of passage in order to clear it, as happened in
the case of the Armada and the French attempt of 1744.
In the latter case the invading army, whose objective was unknown, was at
Dunkirk, and a French fleet was coming up the Channel to cover the
passage. Sir John Norris, in command of the home fleet, was in the Downs.
Though his name is now almost forgotten, he was one of the great founders
of our naval tradition, and a strategist of the first order. In informing the
Government of his plan of operations, he said he intended to proceed with
his whole squadron off Dunkirk to prevent the transports sailing. "But," he
says, "if they should unfortunately get out and pass us in the night and go
northward, I intend to detach a superior force to endeavour to overtake and
destroy them; and with the remainder of my squadron either to fight the
French fleet now in the Channel, or observe them and cover the country as
our circumstances will admit of; or I shall pursue the embarkation with all
my strength." In this case there had been no time to organise a special
squadron or flotilla, in the usual way, to bar the line of passage, and the
battle-fleet had to be used for the purpose. This being so, Norris was not
going to allow the presence of an enemy's battle-fleet to entice him away
from his grip on the invading army, and so resolutely did he hold to the
principle, that he meant if the transports put to sea to direct his offensive
against them, while he merely contained the enemy's battle-fleet by
defensive observation.
In the Egyptian case there was no distinction between the two objectives at
all. Napoleon's expedition sailed in one mass. Yet in the handling of his
fleet Nelson preserved the essential idea. He organised it into three "sub-
squadrons," one of six sail and two of four each. "Two of these sub-
squadrons," says Berry, his flag-captain, "were to attack the ships of war,
while the third was to pursue the transports and to sink and destroy as many
as it could"; that is, he intended, in order to make sure of Napoleon's army,
to use no more than ten, and possibly only eight, of his own battleships
against the eleven of the enemy.
Many other examples could be given of British insistence on making the
enemy's army the primary objective and not his fleet in cases of invasion.
No point in the old tradition was more firmly established. Its value was of
course more strongly marked where the army and the fleet of the enemy

endeavoured to act on separate lines of operation; that is, where the army
took the real offensive line and the fleet the covering or preventive line, and
where consequently for our own fleet there was no confusion between the
two objectives. This was the normal case, and the reason it was so is simple
enough. It may be stated at once, since it serves to enunciate the general
principle upon which our traditional system of defence was based.
An invasion of Great Britain must always be an attempt over an
uncommanded sea. It may be that our fleet predominates or it may be that it
does not, but the command must always be in dispute. If we have gained
complete command, no invasion can take place, nor will it be attempted. If
we have lost it completely no invasion will be necessary, since, quite apart
from the threat of invasion, we must make peace on the best terms we can
get. Now, if the sea be uncommanded, there are obviously two ways in
which an invasion may be attempted. Firstly, the enemy may endeavour to
force it through our naval defence with transports and fleet in one mass.
This was the primitive idea on which the Spanish invasion of Philip the
Second was originally planned by his famous admiral, Santa-Cruz.
Ripening military science, however, was able to convince him of its
weakness. A mass of transports and warships is the most cumbrous and
vulnerable engine of war ever known. The weaker the naval defence of the
threatened country, the more devoutly will it pray the invader may use this
device. Where contact with the enemy's fleet is certain, and particularly in
narrow seas, as it was in this case, such a course will give the defender all
the chances he could desire, and success for the invader is inconceivable,
provided always we resolutely determine to make the army in its transports
our main objective, and are not to be induced to break our head against its
escort.
Where, however, contact is not certain, the invasion over an uncommanded
sea may succeed by evasion of the defender's battle-fleet, as it did in the
case of Napoleon's invasion of Egypt. But that operation belongs to an
entirely different category from that which we are now considering. None
of the factors on which the traditional system of British defence is based
were present. It was an operation over an open sea against a distant and
undetermined objective that had no naval defence of its own, whereas in our
own case the determining factors are permanent naval defence, an
approximately determined objective, and a narrow sea where evasion by

any force of invasion strength is impossible. Napoleon's exploit was in fact
nothing more than the evasion of an open blockade which had no naval
defence beyond it. The vital importance of these things will appear as we
proceed and note the characteristics which marked every attempt to invade
England. From such attempts we of course exclude the various descents
upon Ireland, which, not being of invasion strength, fall into another class,
to be dealt with hereafter.
Since the expedient of forcing an invasion by the strength of a powerful
battleship escort has always been rejected as an inadmissible operation, the
invader has had no choice but to adopt a separate line for his army, and
operate with his fleet in such a way as may promise to prevent the enemy
controlling that line. That, in short, is the problem of invasion over an
uncommanded sea. In spite of an unbroken record of failure scored at times
with naval disaster, continental strategists from Parma to Napoleon have
clung obstinately to the belief that there is a solution short of a complete
fleet decision. They have tried every conceivable expedient again and again.
They have tried it by simple surprise evasion and by evasion through
diversion or dispersal of our naval defence. They have tried it by seeking
local control through a local naval success prepared by surprise, or by
attempting to entice our fleet away from home waters to a sufficient extent
to give them temporarily local superiority. But the end has always been the
same. Try as they would, they were faced ultimately by one of two
alternatives—they must either defeat our covering battle-fleet in battle, or
they must close their own battle-fleet on the transports, and so set up the
very situation which it was their main design to avoid.
The truth is, that all attempts to invade England without command of the
sea have moved in a vicious circle, from which no escape was ever found.
No matter how ingenious or complex the enemy's design, a determined hold
on their army as the primary naval objective has always set up a process of
degradation which rendered the enterprise impracticable. Its stages are
distinct and recurrent, and may be expressed as it were diagrammatically as
follows:—
Two lines of operation having been decided on, the invading army is
gathered at a point as close as possible to the coast to be invaded; that is,
where the intervening sea is narrowest, and where the army's passage will

be exposed to interference for the shortest time. The covering fleet will
operate from a point as distant as convenient, so as to entice the enemy as
far as possible from the army's line of passage. The defender replies by
blockading the army's ports of departure with a flotilla of light vessels
capable of dealing with transports, or by establishing a mobile defence of
the threatened coasts which transports cannot break unaided, or more
probably he will combine both expedients. The first fallacy of the invasion
plan is then apparent. The narrower the sea, the easier it is to watch. Pure
evasion becomes impossible, and it is necessary to give the transports
sufficient armed strength by escort or otherwise to protect them against
flotilla attack. The defender at once stiffens his flotilla defence with cruisers
and intermediate ships, and the invader has to arrange for breaking the
barrier with a battle-squadron. So weak and disturbing a position is then set
up that the whole scheme begins to give way, if, that is, the defender has
clung stubbornly to the strategy we always used. Our battle-fleet refused to
seek out that of the invader. It has always held a position between the
invader's fleet and the blockaded invasion base, covering the blockade and
flotilla defence. To enable a battle-squadron to break our hold and to
reinforce the army escort, the invader must either force this covering
position by battle, or disturb it so effectively as to permit the reinforcing
squadron to evade it. But since ex hypothesi he is trying to invade without
securing the command by battle, he will first try to reinforce his transport
escort by evasion. At once he is faced with new difficulty. The
reinforcement entails dividing his fleet, and this is an expedient so vicious
and disturbing to morale, that no invader has ever been found to risk it. And
for this reason. To make evasion possible for the detached squadron, he
must bring up the rest of his force and engage the attention of the enemy's
fleet, and thus unless he is in very great superiority, and by hypothesis is not
—he runs the hazard of having his two divisions beaten in detail. This
method has sometimes been urged by Governments, but so loud have been
the protests both from the fleet and the army, that it has always been
dropped, and the invader finds himself at the end of the vicious circle.
Unable to reinforce his transport escort sufficiently without dividing his
battle-fleet, he is forced to bring his whole force up to the army or abandon
the attempt till command shall have been secured by battle.

Thus the traditional British system has never failed to bring about the
deadlock, and it will be observed it is founded on making the invading army
the primary objective. We keep a hold on it, firstly, by flotilla blockade and
defence stiffened as circumstances may dictate by higher units, and
secondly, by battle-fleet cover. It is on the flotilla hold that the whole
system is built up. It is the local danger to that hold which determines the
amount of stiffening the flotilla demands, and it is the security of that hold
which determines the position and action of the battle-fleet.
A few typical examples will serve to show how the system worked in
practice under all kinds of conditions. The first scientific attempt to work on
two lines of operation, as distinguished from the crude mass methods of the
Middle Ages, was the Spanish enterprise of 1588. Though internal support
from Catholic malcontents was expected, it was designed as a true invasion,
that is, a continuing operation for permanent conquest. Parma, the military
commander-in-chief, laid it down that the Spanish fleet would have not only
to protect his passage and support his landing, but also "to keep open his
communications for the flow of provisions and munition."

In advising the dual line of operation, Parma's original intention was to get
his army across by surprise. As always, however, it proved impossible to
conceal the design, and long before he was ready he found himself securely
blockaded by a Dutch flotilla supported by an English squadron. So firm
indeed was the English hold on the army, that for a time it was overdone.
The bulk of the English fleet was kept on the line of passage under Howard,
while Drake alone was sent to the westward. It was only under the great
sailor's importunity that the disposition, which was to become traditional,
was perfected, and the whole fleet, with the exception of the squadron
supporting the flotilla blockade, was massed in a covering position to the
westward. The normal situation was then set up, and it could only have one
result. Surprise was out of the question. Parma could not move till the
blockade was broken, nor in face of the covering fleet could the Spanish
fleet hope to break it by a sudden intrusion. The vague prospects the
Spaniards had conceived of keeping the English fleet away from the line of
passage by threatening a descent in the West Country or blockading it in a
western port would no longer do. No such expedient would release Parma,
and the Duke of Medina-Sidonia was ordered to proceed direct to Dunkirk
if possible without fighting, there to break the blockade and secure the
passage.
There was some idea in the King's mind that he would be able to do this
without a battle, but Parma and every seasoned Spanish sailor knew that the
English fleet would have to be totally defeated before the transports could
venture out of port. Such a battle was indeed inevitable, and the English
dispositions secured that the Spaniards would have to fight it under every
disadvantage which was inherent in the plan of dual lines of operation. The
English would secure certain contact at such a distance from the line of
passage as would permit prolonged harassing attacks in waters unfamiliar to
the enemy and close to their own sources of support and supply. No battle
to the death would be necessary until the Spaniards were herded into the
confined and narrow waters which the army's passage demanded, and where
both sections of the British fleet would be massed for the final struggle.
They must arrive there dispirited with indecisive actions and with the
terrors of unknown and difficult seas at the highest point. All this was no
matter of chance. It was inherent in the strategical and geographical
conditions. The English dispositions had taken every advantage of them,

and the result was that not only was the Spanish army unable even to move,
but the English advantages in the final battle were so great, that it was only
a lucky shift of wind that saved the Armada from being driven to total
destruction upon the Dutch banks.
In this case, of course, there had been ample time to make the necessary
dispositions. It will be well to follow it with an example in which surprise
came as near to being complete as it is possible to conceive, and where the
arrangements for defence had to be improvised on the spur of the moment.
A case in point was the French attempt of 1744. In that year everything was
in favour of the invader. England was undermined with Jacobite sedition;
Scotland was restless and threatening; the navy had sunk to what is
universally regarded as its worst for spirit, organisation, and command; and
the government was in the hands of the notorious "Drunken
Administration." For three years we had been making unsuccessful war
with Spain, and had been supporting Maria Theresa on the Continent
against France, with the result that our home defence was reduced to its
lowest ebb. The navy then numbered 183 sail—about equal to that of
France and Spain combined—but owing to the strain of the war in the
Mediterranean and Transatlantic stations only forty-three, including
eighteen of the line, were available for home waters. Even counting all
cruising ships "within call," as the phrase then was, the Government had
barely one-fourth of the fleet at hand to meet the crisis. With the land forces
it was little better. Considerably more than half the home army was abroad
with the King, who was assisting the Empress-Queen as Elector of Hanover.
Between France and England, however, there was no war. In the summer
the King won the battle of Dettingen; a formal alliance with Maria Theresa
followed in the autumn; France responded with a secret alliance with Spain;
and to prevent further British action on the Continent, she resolved to strike
a blow at London in combination with a Jacobite insurrection. It was to be a
"bolt from the blue" before declaration and in mid-winter, when the best
ships of the home fleet were laid up. The operation was planned on dual
lines, the army to start from Dunkirk, the covering fleet from Brest.
The surprise was admirably designed. The port of Dunkirk had been
destroyed under the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, and though the French had
been restoring it secretly for some time, it was still unfit to receive a fleet of

transports. In spite of the warnings of Sir John Norris, the senior admiral in
the service, the assembling of troops in its neighbourhood from the French
army in Flanders could only be taken for a movement into winter quarters,
and that no suspicion might be aroused the necessary transports were
secretly taken up in other ports under false charter-parties, and were only to
assemble off Dunkirk at the last moment. With equal skill the purpose of the
naval mobilisation at Brest was concealed. By false information cleverly
imparted to our spies and by parade of victualling for a long voyage, the
British Government was led to believe that the main fleet was intended to
join the Spaniards in the Mediterranean, while a detachment, which was
designed to escort the transports, was ostensibly equipped for a raid in the
West Indies.
So far as concealment was concerned the arrangement was perfect. Yet it
contained within it the fatal ingredient. The army was to strike in the
Thames at Tilbury; but complete as was the secrecy, Marshal Saxe, who
was to command, could not face the passage without escort. There were too
many privateers and armed merchantmen always in the river, besides
cruisers moving to and fro on commerce-protection duty. The division,
therefore, which we supposed to be for the West Indies was to be detached
from the Brest fleet after it entered the Channel and was to proceed to join
the transports off Dunkirk, while the Marquis de Roquefeuil with the main
fleet held what British ships might be ready in Portsmouth either by battle
or blockade.
Nothing could look simpler or more certain of success. The British
Government seemed quite asleep. The blow was timed for the first week in
January, and it was mid-December before they even began to watch Brest
with cruisers regularly. On these cruisers' reports measures were taken to
prepare an equal squadron for sea by the new year. By this time nearly
twenty of the line were ready or nearly so at the Nore, Portsmouth, and
Plymouth, and a press was ordered to man them. Owing to various causes
the French had now to postpone their venture. Finally it was not till
February 6th that Roquefeuil was seen to leave Brest with nineteen of the
line. The news reached London on the 12th, and next day Norris was
ordered to hoist his flag at Spithead. His instructions were "to take the most
effectual measures to prevent the making of any descent upon the
kingdoms." It was nothing but news that the young Pretender had left Rome

for France that led to this precaution. The Government had still no
suspicion of what was brewing at Dunkirk. It was not till the 20th that a
Dover smuggler brought over information which at last opened their eyes.
A day or two later the French transports were seen making for Dunkirk, and
were mistaken for the Brest fleet. Orders were consequently sent down to
Norris to follow them. In vain he protested at the interference. He knew the
French were still to the westward of him, but his orders were repeated, and
he had to go. Tiding it up-Channel against easterly winds, he reached the
Downs and joined the Nore Division there on the 28th. History usually
speaks of this false movement as the happy chance which saved the country
from invasion. But it was not so. Saxe had determined not to face the
Thames ships without escort. They were ample to destroy him had he done
so. In truth the move which the Government forced on Norris spoilt the
campaign and prevented his destroying the Brest fleet as well as stopping
the invasion.
Roquefeuil had just received his final orders off the Start. He was instructed
by all possible means to bring the main British fleet to action, or at least to
prevent further concentration, while he was also to detach the special
division of four of the line under Admiral Barraille to Dunkirk to escort the
transports. It was in fact the inevitable order, caused by our hold on the
army, to divide the fleet. Both officers as usual began to be upset, and as
with Medina-Sidonia, they decided to keep company till they reached the
Isle of Wight and remain there till they could get touch with Saxe and pilots
for the Dover Strait. They were beset with the nervousness that seems
inseparable from this form of operation. Roquefeuil explained to his
Government that it was impossible to tell what ships the enemy had passed
to the Downs, and that Barraille when he arrived off Dunkirk might well
find himself in inferiority. He ended in the usual way by urging that the
whole fleet must move in a body to the line of passage. On arriving off
Portsmouth, however, a reconnaissance in thick weather led him to believe
that the whole of Norris's fleet was still there, and he therefore detached
Barraille, who reached Dunkirk in safety.
Not knowing that Norris was in the Downs, Saxe began immediately to
embark his troops, but bad weather delayed the operation for three days,
and so saved the expedition, exposed as it was in the open roads, from

destruction by an attack which Norris was on the point of delivering with
his flotilla of fireships and bomb vessels.
The Brest squadron had an equally narrow escape. Saxe and his staff having
heard rumours of Norris's movement to the Downs had become seized with
the sea-sickness which always seems to afflict an army as it waits to face
the dangers of an uncommanded passage. They too wanted the whole fleet
to escort them, and orders had been sent to Roquefeuille to do as he had
suggested. All unconscious of Norris's presence in the Downs with a score
of the line more powerful than his own, he came on with the fifteen he had
still with his flag to close on Barraille. Norris was informed of his approach,
and it was now he wrote his admirable appreciation, already quoted, for
dealing with the situation.
"As I think it," he said, "of the greatest consequence to his Majesty's service
to prevent the landing of these troops in any part of the country, I have ...
determined to anchor without the sands of Dunkirk, where we shall be in
the fairest way for keeping them in." That is, he determined to keep hold of
the army regardless of the enemy's fleet, and as Saxe's objective was not
quite certain, he would do it by close blockade. "But if," he continued, "they
should unfortunately get out and pass in the night and go northward [that is,
for Scotland], I intend to detach a superior force to endeavour to overtake
and destroy them, and with the remainder of my squadron either fight the
French fleet now in the Channel, or observe them and cover the country as
our circumstances will admit of; or I shall pursue the embarkation [that is,
follow the transports] with all my strength." This meant he would treat the
enemy's army offensively and their fleet defensively, and his plan was
entirely approved by the King.
As to which of the two plans he would adopt, the inference is that his
choice would depend on the strength of the enemy, for it was reported the
Rochefort squadron had joined Roquefeuille. The doubt was quickly settled.
On the morrow he heard that Roquefeuille was at Dungeness with only
fifteen of the line. In a moment he seized all the advantage of the interior
position which Roquefeuille's necessity to close on the army had given him.
With admirable insight he saw there was time to fling his whole force at the
enemy's fleet without losing his hold on the army's line of passage. The
movement was made immediately. The moment the French were sighted

"General chase" was signalled, and Roquefeuille was within an ace of being
surprised at his anchorage when a calm stopped the attack. The calm was
succeeded by another furious gale, in which the French escaped in a
disastrous sauve qui peut, and the fleet of transports was destroyed. The
outcome of it all was not only the failure of the invasion, but that we
secured the command of home waters for the rest of the war.
The whole attempt, it will be seen, with everything in its favour, had
exhibited the normal course of degradation. For all the nicely framed plan
and the perfect deception, the inherent difficulties, when it came to the point
of execution, had as usual forced a clumsy concentration of the enemy's
battle-fleet with his transports, and we on our part were able to forestall it
with every advantage in our favour by the simple expedient of a central
mass on a revealed and certain line of passage.
In the next project, that of 1759, a new and very clever plan was devised for
turning the difficulty. The first idea of Marshal Belleisle, like that of
Napoleon, was to gather the army at Ambleteuse and Boulogne, and to
avoid the assemblage of transports by passing it across the Strait by stealth
in flat boats. But this idea was abandoned before it had gone very far for
something much more subtle. The fallacious advantage of a short passage
was dropped, and the army was to start from three widely separated points
all in more open waters—a diversionary raid from Dunkirk and two more
formidable forces from Havre and the Morbihan in South Brittany. To
secure sufficient control there was to be a concentration on the Brest fleet
from the Mediterranean and the West Indies.
The new feature, it will be observed, was that our covering fleet—that is,
the Western Squadron off Brest—would have two cruiser blockades to
secure, one on either side of it. Difficult as the situation looked, it was
solved on the old lines. The two divisions of the French army at Dunkirk
and Morbihan were held by cruiser squadrons capable of following them
over the open sea if by chance they escaped, while the third division at
Havre, which had nothing but flat boats for transport, was held by a flotilla
well supported. Its case was hopeless. It could not move without a squadron
to release it, and no fortune of weather could possibly bring a squadron
from Brest. Hawke, who had the main blockade, might be blown off, but he
could scarcely fail to bring to action any squadron that attempted to enter

the Channel. With the Morbihan force it was different. Any time that Hawke
was blown off a squadron could reach it from Brest and break the cruiser
blockade. The French Government actually ordered a portion of the fleet to
make the attempt. Conflans however, who was in command, protested his
force was too weak to divide, owing to the failure of the intended
concentration. Boscawen had caught and beaten the Mediterranean
squadron off Lagos, and though the West Indian squadron got in, it proved,
as in Napoleon's great plan of concentration, unfit for further service. The
old situation had arisen, forced by the old method of defence; and in the end
there was nothing for it but for Conflans to take his whole fleet to the
Morbihan transports. Hawke was upon him at once, and the disastrous day
of Quiberon was the result. The Dunkirk division alone got free, but the
smallness of its size, which permitted it to evade the watch, also prevented
its doing any harm. Its escort, after landing its handful of troops in Ireland,
was entirely destroyed; and so again the attempt of the French to invade
over an uncommanded sea produced no effect but the loss of their fleet.
The project of 1779 marked these principles even more strongly, for it
demonstrated them working even when our home fleet was greatly inferior
to that of the enemy. In this case the invader's idea was to form two
expeditionary forces at Cherbourg and Havre, and under cover of an
overwhelming combination of the Spanish and French fleets, to unite them
at sea and seize Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. It was in the early
summer we got wind of the scheme, and two cruiser squadrons and flotillas
were at once formed at the Downs and Channel Islands to watch the French
coasts and prevent the concentration of transports. Spain had not yet
declared war, but she was suspected, and the main fleet, under the veteran
Sir Charles Hardy, who had been Norris's second in command in 1744, was
ordered to proceed off Brest and prevent any Spanish squadron that might
appear from entering that port. The French, however, outmanoeuvred us by
putting to sea before Hardy could reach his station and forming a junction
with the Spaniards off Finisterre. The combined fleet contained about fifty
of the line, nearly double our own. The army of invasion, with Dumouriez
for its Chief of the Staff, numbered some 50,000 men, a force we were in no
condition to meet ashore. Everything, therefore, was in favour of success,
and yet in the navy, at least, a feeling of confidence prevailed that no
invasion could take place.

The brains of the naval defence were Lord Barham (then Sir Charles
Middleton) at the Admiralty and Kempenfelt as Chief of the Staff in the
fleet; and it is to their correspondence at this time that we owe some of the
most valuable strategical appreciations we possess. The idea of the French
was to come into the Channel in their overwhelming force, and while they
destroyed or held Hardy, to detach a sufficient squadron to break the cruiser
blockade and escort the troops across. Kempenfelt was confident that it
could not be done. He was sure that the unwieldy combined mass could be
rendered powerless by his comparatively homogeneous and mobile fleet,
inferior as it was, so long as he could keep it at sea and to the westward.
The appreciation of the power of a nimble inferior fleet which he wrote at
this time has already been given.23 When the worst of the position was fully
known, and the enemy was reported off the mouth of the Channel, he wrote
another to Middleton. His only doubt was whether his fleet had the
necessary cohesion and mobility. "We don't seem," he said, "to have
considered sufficiently a certain fact that the comparative force of two fleets
depends much upon their sailing. The fleet that sails fastest has much the
advantage, as they can engage or not as they please, and so have always in
their power to choose the favourable opportunity to attack. I think I may
safely hazard an opinion that twenty-five sail of the line coppered would be
sufficient to harass and tease this great unwieldy combined Armada so as to
prevent their effecting anything, hanging continually upon them, ready to
catch at any opportunity of a separation from night, gale or fog, to dart upon
the separated, to cut off convoys of provisions coming to them, and if they
attempted an invasion, to oblige their whole fleet to escort the transports,
and even then it would be impossible to protect them entirely from so active
and nimble a fleet."
Here we have from the pen of one of the greatest masters the real key of the
solution—the power, that is, of forcing the mass of the enemy's fleet to
escort the transports. Hardy, of course, knew it well from his experience of
1744, and acted accordingly. This case is the more striking, since defence
against the threatened invasion was not the whole of the problem he had to
solve. It was complicated by instructions that he must also prevent a
possible descent on Ireland, and cover the arrival of the great convoys. In
reply, on August 1st, he announced his intention of taking station ten to
twenty leagues W.S.W. of Scilly, "which I am of opinion," he said, "is the

most proper station for the security of the trade expected from the East and
West Indies, and for the meeting of the fleets of the enemy should they
attempt to come into the Channel." He underlined the last words, indicating,
apparently, his belief that they would not venture to do so so long as he
could keep his fleet to the westward and undefeated. This at least he did, till
a month later he found it necessary to come in for supplies. Then, still
avoiding the enemy, he ran not to Plymouth, but right up to St. Helen's. The
movement is always regarded as an unworthy retreat, and it caused much
dissatisfaction in the fleet at the time. But it is to be observed that his
conduct was strictly in accordance with the principle which makes the
invading army the primary objective. If Hardy's fleet was no longer fit to
keep the sea without replenishment, then the proper place to seek
replenishment was on the invader's line of passage. So long as he was there,
invasion could not take place till he was defeated. The allies, it was true,
were now free to join their transports, but the prospect of such a movement
gave the admiral no uneasiness, for it would bring him the chance of
serving his enemy as the Spaniards were served in 1588. "I shall do my
utmost," he said, "to drive them up the Channel." It is the old principle. If
the worst comes to the worst, so long as you are able to force the covering
fleet upon the transports, and especially in narrow waters, invasion becomes
an operation beyond the endurable risks of war.
So it proved. On August 14th Count d'Orvilliers, the allied commander-in-
chief, had made the Lizard, and for a fortnight had striven to bring Hardy to
decisive action. Until he had done so he dared neither enter the Channel
with his fleet nor detach a squadron to break the cruiser blockades at the
invasion bases. His ineffectual efforts exhausted his fleet's endurance,
which the distant concentration at Finisterre had already severely sapped,
and he was forced to return impotent to Brest before anything had been
accomplished. The allies were not able to take the sea again that campaign,
but even had it been in their power to do so, Hardy and Kempenfelt could
have played their defensive game indefinitely, and with ever-increasing
chances, as the winter drew near, of dealing a paralysing blow.
There was never any real chance of success, though it is true Dumouriez
thought otherwise. He believed the enterprise might have gone through if a
diversion had been made by the bulk of the fleet against Ireland, and under
cover of it a coup de main delivered upon the Isle of Wight, "for which," he

said, "six or eight of the line would have been enough." But it is
inconceivable that old hands like Hardy and Kempenfelt would have been
so easily beguiled of their hold on the line of passage. Had such a division
been detached up the Channel from the allied fleet they would surely,
according to tradition, have followed it with either a superior force or their
whole squadron.
The well-known projects of the Great War followed the same course. Under
Napoleon's directions they ran the whole gamut of every scheme that ever
raised delusive hope before. Beginning from the beginning with the idea of
stealing his army across in flat-boats, he was met with the usual flotilla
defence. Then came his only new idea, which was to arm his transport
flotilla to the point of giving it power to force a passage for itself. We
replied by strengthening our flotilla. Convinced by experiment that his
scheme was now impracticable, he set his mind on breaking the blockade
by the sudden intrusion of a flying squadron from a distance. To this end
various plausible schemes were worked out, but plan after plan melted in
his hand, till he was forced to face the inevitable necessity of bringing an
overwhelming battle force up to his transports. The experience of two
centuries had taught him nothing. By a more distant concentration than had
ever been attempted before he believed he could break the fatal hold of his
enemy. The only result was so severely to exhaust his fleet that it never
could get within reach of the real difficulties of its task, a task which every
admiral in his service knew to be beyond the strength of the Imperial Navy.
Nor did Napoleon even approach a solution of the problem he had set
himself—invasion over an uncommanded sea. With our impregnable flotilla
hold covered by an automatic concentration of battle-squadrons off Ushant,
his army could never even have put forth, unless he had inflicted upon our
covering fleet such a defeat as would have given him command of the sea,
and with absolute control of the sea the passage of an army presents no
difficulties.
Of the working of these principles under modern conditions we have no
example. The acquisition of free movement must necessarily modify their
application, and since the advent of steam there have been only two
invasions over uncommanded seas—that of the Crimea in 1854, and that of
Manchuria in 1904—and neither of these cases is in point, for in neither
was there any attempt at naval defence. Still there seems no reason to

believe that such defence applied in the old manner would be less effective
than formerly. The flotilla was its basis, and since the introduction of the
torpedo the power of the flotilla has greatly increased. Its real and moral
effect against transports must certainly be greater than ever, and the power
of squadrons to break a flotilla blockade is more restricted. Mines, again,
tell almost entirely in favour of defence, so much so indeed as to render a
rapid coup de main against any important port almost an impossibility. In
the absence of all experience it is to such theoretical considerations we must
turn for light.
Theoretically stated, the success of our old system of defence depended on
four relations. Firstly, there is the relation between the rapidity with which
an invasion force could be mobilised and embarked, and the rapidity with
which restlessness in foreign ports and places d'armes could be reported;
that is to say, the chance of surprise and evasion are as the speed of
preparation to the speed of intelligence.
Secondly, there is the relation of the speed of convoys to the speed of
cruisers and flotilla; that is to say, our ability to get contact with a convoy
after it has put to sea and before the expedition can be disembarked is as the
speed of our cruisers and flotilla to the speed of the convoy.
Thirdly, there is the relation between the destructive power of modern
cruisers and flotillas against a convoy unescorted or weakly escorted and
the corresponding power in sailing days.
Fourthly, there is the relation between the speed of convoys and the speed
of battle-squadrons, which is of importance where the enemy's transports
are likely to be strongly escorted. On this relation depends the facility with
which the battle-squadron covering our mobile defence can secure an
interior position from which it may strike either the enemy's battle-squadron
if it moves or his convoy before it can complete its passage and effect the
landing.
All these relations appear to have been modified by modern developments
in favour of the defence. In the first ratio, that of speed of mobilisation to
speed of intelligence, it is obviously so. Although military mobilisation may
be still relatively as rapid as the mobilisation of fleets, yet intelligence has
outstripped both. This is true both for gaining and for conveying

intelligence. Preparations for oversea invasion were never easy to conceal,
owing to the disturbance of the flow of shipping that they caused. Elaborate
precautions were taken to prevent commercial leakage of intelligence, but
they never entirely succeeded. Yet formerly, in the condition of comparative
crudeness with which international trade was then organised, concealment
was relatively easy, at least for a time. But the ever-growing sensitiveness
of world-wide commerce, when market movements are reported from hour
to hour instead of from week to week, has greatly increased the difficulty.
And apart from the rapidity with which information may be gathered
through this alert and intimate sympathy between Exchanges, there is the
still more important fact that with wireless the speed of conveying naval
intelligence has increased in a far higher ratio than the speed of sea transit.
As regards the ratio between cruiser and convoy speeds, on which evasion
so much depends, it is the same. In frigate days the ratio appears to have
been not more than seven to five. Now in the case at any rate of large
convoys it would be nearly double.
Of the destructive power of the flotilla, growing as it does from year to
year, enough has been said already. With the advent of the torpedo and
submarine it has probably increased tenfold. In a lesser degree the same is
true of cruisers. In former days the physical power of a cruiser to injure a
dispersing convoy was comparatively low, owing to her relatively low
excess of speed and the restricted range and destructive power of her guns.
With higher speed and higher energy and range in gun power the ability of
cruisers to cut up a convoy renders its practical annihilation almost certain
if once it be caught, and consequently affords a moral deterrent against
trusting to evasion beyond anything that was known before.
The increased ratio of battle-fleet speed to that of large convoys is equally
indisputable and no less important, for the facility of finding interior
positions which it implies goes to the root of the old system. So long as our
battle-fleet is in a position whence it can cover our flotilla blockade or
strike the enemy's convoy in transit, it forces his battle-fleet in the last
resort to close up on the convoy, and that, as Kempenfelt pointed out, is
practically fatal to the success of invasion.

From whatever point of view, then, we regard the future chances of
successful invasion over an uncommanded sea, it would seem that not only
does the old system hold good, but that all modern developments which
touch the question bid fair to intensify the results which our sea service at
least used so confidently to expect, and which it never failed to secure.

II. ATTACK AND DEFENCE OF TRADE

The base idea of the attack and defence of trade may be summed up in the
old adage, "Where the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered
together." The most fertile areas always attracted the strongest attack, and
therefore required the strongest defence; and between the fertile and the
infertile areas it was possible to draw a line which for strategical purposes
was definite and constant. The fertile areas were the terminals of departure
and destination where trade tends to be crowded, and in a secondary degree
the focal points where, owing to the conformation of the land, trade tends to
converge. The infertile areas were the great routes which passed through the
focal points and connected the terminal areas. Consequently attack on
commerce tends to take one of two forms. It may be terminal or it may be
pelagic, terminal attack being the more profitable, but demanding the
greater force and risk, and pelagic attack being the more uncertain, but
involving less force and risk.
These considerations lead us directly to the paradox which underlies the
unbroken failure of our enemies to exercise decisive pressure upon us by
operations against our trade. It is that where attack is most to be feared,
there defence is easiest. A plan of war which has the destruction of trade for
its primary object implies in the party using it an inferiority at sea. Had he
superiority, his object would be to convert that superiority to a working
command by battle or blockade. Except, therefore, in the rare cases where
the opposed forces are equal, we must assume that the belligerent who
makes commerce destruction his primary object will have to deal with a
superior fleet. Now, it is true that the difficulty of defending trade lies
mainly in the extent of sea it covers. But, on the other hand, the areas in
which it tends to congregate, and in which alone it is seriously vulnerable,
are few and narrow, and can be easily occupied if we are in superior force.
Beyond those areas effective occupation is impossible, but so also is

effective attack. Hence the controlling fact of war on commerce, that
facility of attack means facility of defence.
Beside this fundamental principle we must place another that is scarcely
less important. Owing to the general common nature of sea
communications, attack and defence of trade are so intimately connected
that the one operation is almost indistinguishable from the other. Both ideas
are satisfied by occupying the common communications. The strongest
form of attack is the occupation of the enemy's terminals, and the
establishment of a commercial blockade of the ports they contain. But as
this operation usually requires the blockade of an adjacent naval port, it also
constitutes, as a rule, a defensive disposition for our own trade, even when
the enemy's terminal area does not overlap one of our own. In the
occupation of focal areas the two ideas are even more inseparable, since
most, if not all, such areas are on lines of communication that are common.
It will suffice, therefore, to deal with the general aspect of the subject from
the point of view of defence.
It was in conformity with the distinction between fertile and infertile areas
that our old system of trade defence was developed. Broadly speaking, that
system was to hold the terminals in strength, and in important cases the
focal points as well. By means of a battle-squadron with a full complement
of cruisers they were constituted defended areas, or "tracts" as the old term
was, and the trade was regarded as safe when it entered them. The
intervening trade-routes were left as a rule undefended. Thus our home
terminals were held by two battle-squadrons, the Western Squadron at the
mouth of the Channel, and the North Sea or Eastern Squadron with its
headquarters usually in the Downs. To these was added a cruiser squadron
on the Irish station based at Cork, which was sometimes subordinate to the
Western Squadron and sometimes an independent organisation. The area of
the Western Squadron in the French wars extended, as we have seen, over
the whole Bay of Biscay, with the double function, so far as commerce was
concerned, of preventing the issue of raiding squadrons from the enemy's
ports, and acting offensively against his Atlantic trade. That of the North
Sea squadron extended to the mouth of the Baltic and the north-about
passage. Its main function during the great naval coalitions against us was
to check the operations of Dutch squadrons or to prevent the intrusion of
French ones north-about against our Baltic trade. Like the Western

Squadron, it threw out divisions usually located at Yarmouth and Leith for
the protection of our coastwise trade from privateers and sporadic cruisers
acting from ports within the defended area. Similarly, between the Downs
and the Western Squadron was usually one or more smaller squadrons,
mainly cruisers, and generally located about Havre and the Channel Islands,
which served the same purpose for the Norman and North Breton ports. To
complete the system there were flotilla patrols acting under the port
admirals and doing their best to police the routes of the coastwise and local
traffic, which then had an importance long since lost. The home system of
course differed at different times, but it was always on these general lines.
The naval defence was supplemented by defended ports of refuge, the
principal ones being on the coast of Ireland to shelter the ocean trade, but
others in great numbers were provided within the defended areas against the
operations of privateers, and the ruins of batteries all round the British
shores testify how complete was the organisation.
A similar system prevailed in the colonial areas, but there the naval defence
consisted normally of cruiser squadrons stiffened with one or two ships-of-
the-line mainly for the purpose of carrying the flag. They were only
occupied by battle-squadrons when the enemy threatened operations with a
similar force. The minor or interior defence against local privateers was to a
large extent local; that is, the great part of the flotilla was furnished by
sloops built or hired on the spot, as being best adapted for the service.
Focal points were not then so numerous as they have become since the
development of the Far Eastern trade. The most important of them, the
Straits of Gibraltar, was treated as a defended area. From the point of view
of commerce-protection it was held by the Mediterranean squadron. By
keeping watch on Toulon that squadron covered not only the Straits, but
also the focal points within the sea. It too had its extended divisions,
sometimes as many as four, one about the approaches to Leghorn, one in the
Adriatic, a third at Malta, and the fourth at Gibraltar. In cases of war with
Spain the latter was very strong, so as to secure the focal area against
Cartagena and Cadiz. On one occasion indeed, in 1804-5, as we have seen,
it was constituted for a short time an independent area with a special
squadron. But in any case the Gibraltar area had its own internal flotilla
guard under the direction of the port admiral as a defence against local
privateers and pirates.

The general theory of these defended terminal and focal areas, it will be
seen, was to hold in force those waters which converging trade made most
fertile, and which therefore furnished an adequate field for the operations of
raiding squadrons. In spite of the elaborate defensive system, such
squadrons might, and sometimes did, intrude by surprise or stealth, and
were then able to set at defiance both convoy escorts and the cruiser
outposts. But, as experience proved, the system of terminal defence by
battle-squadrons made it impossible for such raiding squadrons to remain
long enough on the ground to cause any serious interruption or to do serious
harm. It was only by a regular fleet of superior strength that the system
could be broken down. In other words, the defence could only fall when our
means of local control was destroyed by battle.
So much for the defended areas. With regard to the great routes that
connected them, it has been said they were left undefended. By this is
meant that the security of ships passing along them was provided for, not by
patrols but by escort. The convoy system was adopted, and the theory of
that system is that while vessels are on the great routes they are normally
liable only to sporadic attack, and they are consequently collected into
fleets and furnished with an escort sufficient to repel sporadic attack. In
theory, cruiser escort is sufficient, but in practice it was found convenient
and economical to assign the duty in part to ships-of-the-line which were
going out to join the distant terminal squadron or returning from it for a
refit or some other reason; in other words, the system of foreign reliefs was
made to work in with the supplementary escort system. Where no such
ships were available and the convoys were of great value, or enemy's ships-
of-the-line were known to be out, similar units were specially detailed for
convoy duty to go and return, but this use of battle units was exceptional.
Such a method of dealing with the great routes is the corollary of the idea of
defended areas. As those areas were fertile and likely to attract raiding
squadrons, so the great routes were infertile, and no enemy could afford to
spend squadrons upon them. It is obvious, however, that the system had its
weak side, for the mere fact that a convoy was upon a great route tended to
attract a squadron, and the comparative immunity of those routes was lost.
The danger was provided for to a great extent by the fact that the enemy's
ports from which a squadron could issue were all within defended areas and
watched by our own squadrons. Still, the guard could not be made

impenetrable. There was always the chance of a squadron escaping, and if it
escaped towards a critical trade-route, it must be followed. Hence there
were times when the convoy system seriously disturbed our dispositions, as,
for instance, in the crisis of the Trafalgar campaign, when for a short time
our chain of defended areas was broken down by the escape of the Toulon
squadron. That escape eventually forced a close concentration on the
Western Squadron, but all other considerations apart, it was felt to be
impossible to retain the mass for more than two days owing to the fact that
the great East and West Indies convoys were approaching, and Villeneuve's
return to Ferrol from Martinique exposed them to squadronal attack. It was,
in fact, impossible to tell whether the mass had not been forced upon us
with this special end in view.
In the liability to deflection of this kind lay the most serious strategical
objection to the convoy system. It was sought to minimise it by giving the
convoys a secret route when there was apprehension of squadronal
interference. It was done in the case just cited, but the precaution seemed in
no way to lessen the anxiety. It may have been because in those days of
slow communication there could be no such certainty that the secret route
had been received as there would be now.
Modern developments and changes in shipping and naval material have
indeed so profoundly modified the whole conditions of commerce
protection, that there is no part of strategy where historical deduction is
more difficult or more liable to error. To avoid such error as far as possible,
it is essential to keep those developments in mind at every step. The more
important of them are three in number. Firstly, the abolition of privateering;
secondly, the reduced range of action for all warships; and thirdly, the
development of wireless telegraphy. There are others which must be dealt
with in their place, but these three go to the root of the whole problem.
Difficult as it is to arrive at exact statistics of commerce destruction in the
old wars, one thing seems certain—that the bulk of captures, which were
reckoned in hundreds and sometimes even in thousands, were due to the
action of privateers. Further, it seems certain that, reckoning at least by
numbers, the greater part of the damage was done by small privateers
operating close to their bases, either home or colonial, against coastwise
and local traffic. The complaints of merchants, so far as they are known,

relate mainly to this kind of work in the West Indies and home waters, while
accounts of serious captures by large privateers on the high seas are
comparatively rare. The actual damage done by the swarm of small vessels
may not have been great, but its moral effects were very serious. It was
impossible for the strongest Governments to ignore them, and the
consequence was a chronic disturbance of the larger strategical dispositions.
While these dispositions were adequate to check the operations of large
privateers acting in the same way as regular cruisers, the smaller ones found
very free play amidst the ribwork of the protective system, and they could
only be dealt with by filling up the spaces with a swarm of small cruisers to
the serious detriment of the larger arrangements. Even so, the proximity of
the enemy's ports made escape so easy, that the work of repression was very
ineffective. The state of the case was indeed almost identical with a people's
war. The ordinary devices of strategy failed to deal with it, as completely as
Napoleon's broadly planned methods failed to deal with the guerilleros in
Spain, or as our own failed for so long in South Africa.
By the abolition of privateering, then, it would seem that the most
disturbing part of the problem has been eliminated. It is, of course,
uncertain how far the Declaration of Paris will hold good in practice. It is
still open even to the parties to it to evade its restrictions to a greater or less
extent by taking up and commissioning merchantmen as regular ships of
war. But it is unlikely that such methods will extend beyond the larger
privately owned vessels. Any attempt to revive in this way the old
picaresque methods could only amount to a virtual repudiation of statutory
international law, which would bring its own retribution. Moreover, for
home waters at least, the conditions which favoured this picaresque warfare
no longer exist. In the old wars the bulk of our trade came into the Thames,
and thence the greater part of it was distributed in small coasting vessels. It
was against this coastwise traffic that the small, short-range privateers
found their opportunity and their richest harvest. But, now that so many
other great centres of distribution have established themselves, and that the
bulk of the distribution is done by internal lines of communication, the
Channel is no longer the sole artery, and the old troublesome disturbance
can be avoided without a vital dislocation of our commercial system.
The probability, then, is that in the future the whole problem will be found
to be simplified, and that the work of commerce protection will lie much

more within the scope of large strategical treatment than it ever did before,
with the result that the change should be found to tell substantially in favour
of defence and against attack.
The reduction of range of action is scarcely less important. In the old days a
cruising ship could be stored for six months, and so long as she could
occasionally renew her fuel and water, she was free to range the sea outside
the defended areas for the whole of the period with unimpaired vitality. For
such pelagic operations her movement was practically unrestricted. She
could run for two or three days from a superior enemy or chase for as long
without loss of energy, and she could wait indefinitely at a likely spot, or
change her ground, as danger or hope of plunder dictated. So long as she
had men left to man her prizes, her power of mischief was almost unlimited.
All this is now changed. The capacity of each cruise of a ship to-day is very
small. She is confined to short dashes within a strategically defended area,
or if she is bent on pelagic operations, is compelled to proceed so far to find
undefended waters that her coal will scarcely permit of more than a few
days' actual cruising. A couple of chases at high speed during that period
may force her to return at once, subject only to the precarious possibility of
renewing her coal from a prize. She has, further, to face the fact that
manning prizes must necessarily reduce her capacity for speed, which
depends so much on a fully manned engine-room. This will tend to
jeopardise her chances of return through or near defended areas. The only
escape from this difficulty is to sink the captured ship. But this course has
objections scarcely less weighty than the other. No Power will incur the
odium of sinking a prize with all hands, and their removal to the captor's
ship takes time, especially in bad weather, and the presence of such
prisoners in a cruiser in any number soon becomes a serious check on her
fighting power. In the case of large ships, moreover, the work of destruction
is no easy matter. In the most favourable circumstances it takes a
considerable time, and thus not only eats into the cruiser's endurance, but
decreases her chances of evasion.
From these and similar considerations it is obvious that the possibilities of
operations on the great trade-routes are much less extensive than they were
formerly, while to speak of cruisers "infesting" those routes is sheer
hyperbole. Under modern conditions it is scarcely more feasible than it
would be to keep up a permanent blockade of the British Islands. It would

require a flow of ships in such numbers as no country but our own can
contemplate possessing, and such as could not be maintained without
having first secured a very decided preponderance at sea. The loss of radius
of action therefore, though it does not increase the power of defence,
sensibly lessens that of attack by pelagic operations.
For the great increase in the powers of defence we must turn to the
extraordinary development in the means of distant communication. Under
former conditions it was possible for a cruising ship to remain for days
upon a fertile spot and make a number of captures before her presence was
known. But since most large merchantmen have been fitted with wireless
installations, she cannot now attack a single one of them without fear of
calling down upon her an adversary. Moreover, when she is once located,
every ship within wireless reach can be warned of her presence and avoid
her. She must widely and constantly shift her position, thereby still further
reducing her staying power. On the whole, then, it would appear that in so
far as modern developments affect the problem, they certainly render
pelagic operations far more difficult and uncertain than they used to be.
Upon the great routes the power of attack has been reduced and the means
of evasion has increased to such an extent as to demand entire
reconsideration of the defence of trade between terminal areas. The whole
basis of the old system would seem to be involved. That basis was the
convoy system, and it now becomes doubtful whether the additional
security which convoys afforded is sufficient to outweigh their economical
drawbacks and their liability to cause strategical disturbance.
Over and above the considerations already noticed, there are three others,
all of which favour the security of our trade by permitting a much more
extended choice of route. The first is, that steam vessels are not forced by
prevailing winds to keep to particular courses. The second is, that the
improvements in the art of navigation no longer render it so necessary to
make well-known landfalls during transit. The third is, that the
multiplication of our great ports of distribution have divided the old main
flow of trade to the Channel into a number of minor streams that cover a
much wider area and demand a greater distribution of force for effective
attack. It will be obvious that the combined effect of these considerations is
to increase still further the chances of individual vessels evading the
enemy's cruisers and to lessen the risk of dispensing with escort.

Nor are the new practical difficulties of sporadic operations on the great
routes the only arguments that minimise the value of convoys. We have also
to remember that while the number of vessels trading across the ocean has
enormously increased since 1815, it is scarcely possible, even if the
abolition of privateering prove abortive, that the number of cruisers
available for pelagic attack could exceed, or even equal, the number
employed in sailing days. This consideration, then, must also be thrown into
the scale against convoys; for it is certain that the amount of serious
operative damage which an enemy can do to our trade by pelagic operation
is mainly determined by the ratio which his available cruiser strength bears
to the volume of that trade. This aspect of the question is, however, part of a
much wider one, which concerns the relation which the volume of our trade
bears to the difficulty of its defence, and this must be considered later.
It remains, first, to deal with the final link in the old system of defence. The
statement that the great routes were left undefended will seem to be in
opposition to a prevailing impression derived from the fact that frigates are
constantly mentioned as being "on a cruise." The assumption is that they in
effect patrolled the great routes. But this was not so, nor did they rove the
sea at will. They constituted a definite and necessary part of the system.
Though that system was founded on a distinction between defended
terminals and undefended routes, which was a real strategical distinction, it
was impossible to draw an actual line where the one sphere began and the
other ended. Outside the regularly defended areas lay a region which, as the
routes began to converge, was comparatively fertile. In this region enemies'
cruisers and their larger privateers found the mean between risk and profit.
Here too convoys, as they entered the zone, were in their greatest danger for
fear of their escorts being overpowered by raiding squadrons. Consequently
it was the practice, when the approach of convoys was expected, to throw
forward from the defended area groups of powerful cruisers, and even
battleship divisions, to meet them and reinforce their escorts. Outward-
bound convoys had their escorts similarly strengthened till they were clear
of the danger zone. The system was in regular use both for home and
colonial areas. In no sense did it constitute a patrol of the routes. It was in
practice and conception a system of outposts, which at seasons of special
risk amounted to an extension of the defended areas combining with a
reinforcement of the convoy escorts. Focal points of lesser importance, such

as Capes Finisterre and St. Vincent, were similarly held by one or two
powerful cruisers, and if necessary by a squadron.
As has been already explained, owing to the peculiar conditions of the sea
and the common nature of maritime communications, these dispositions
were adopted as well for attack as defence, and the fertile areas, for the
defence of which a frigate captain was sent "on a cruise," were always
liable to bring him rich reward. His mission of defence carried with it the
best opportunities for attack.
In the full development of the system patrol lines did exist, but not for the
great routes. They were established to link up adjacent defended areas and
as a more scientific organisation of the cruiser outposts. In 1805 the
Gibraltar and the home areas were thus connected by a patrol line which
stretched from Cape St. Vincent through the Finisterre focal area to Cape
Clear, with a branch extending to the strategical centre off Ushant. The new
system was introduced at a time when we had reason to expect that the
French and Spanish fleets were to be devoted entirely to operations in small
raiding squadrons against our trade and colonies. Special provision was
therefore necessary to locate any such squadrons that might elude the
regular blockades, and to ensure that they should be adequately pursued.
The new lines were in fact intelligence patrols primarily, though they were
also regarded as the only means of protecting efficiently the southern trade-
route where it was flanked by French and Spanish ports.24
The whole system, it will be observed, though not conflicting with the main
object of bringing the enemy's fleets to action, did entail an expenditure of
force and deflecting preoccupations such as are unknown in land warfare.
Large numbers of cruisers had to be employed otherwise than as the eyes of
the battle-squadrons, while the coming and going of convoys produced
periodical oscillations in the general distribution.
Embarrassing as was this commercial deflection in the old wars, an
impression appears to prevail that in the future it must be much more
serious. It is argued plausibly enough not only that our trade is far larger
and richer than it was, but also that, owing to certain well-known economic
changes, it is far more a matter of life and death to the nation than in the
days when food and raw material did not constitute the bulk of our imports.

In view of the new conditions it is held that we are more vulnerable through
our trade now than formerly, and that, consequently, we must devote
relatively more attention and force to its defence.
If this were true, it is obvious that war with a strong naval combination
would present difficulties of the most formidable kind, greater indeed than
we have ever experienced; for since with modern developments the demand
for fleet cruisers is much greater than formerly, the power of devoting
cruisers to trade defence is relatively much less.
It cannot be denied that at first sight the conclusion looks irreproachable.
But on analysis it will be found to involve two assumptions, both of which
are highly questionable. The first is, that the vulnerability of a sea Power
through its maritime trade is as the volume of that trade. The second is, that
the difficulty of defending sea-borne trade is also as its volume—that is to
say, the larger the amount of the trade, the larger must be the force devoted
to its protection. This idea indeed is carried so far, that we are frequently
invited to fix the standard of our naval strength by comparing it with the
proportion which the naval strength of other Powers bears to their sea-borne
trade.
It is hoped that the foregoing sketch of our traditional system of trade
defence will avail to raise a doubt whether either assumption can be
accepted without very careful consideration. In the history of that system
there is no indication that it was affected by the volume of the trade it was
designed to protect. Nor has any one succeeded in showing that the pressure
which an enemy could exert upon us through our commerce increased in
effect with the volume of our seaborne trade. The broad indications indeed
are the other way—that the greater the volume of our trade, the less was the
effective impression which an enemy could make upon it, even when he
devoted his whole naval energies to that end. It is not too much to say that
in every case where he took this course his own trade dwindled to nothing,
while ours continually increased.
It may be objected that this was because the only periods in which he
devoted his main efforts to trade destruction were when we had dominated
his navy, and being no longer able to dispute the command, he could do no
more than interfere with its exercise. But this must always be so whether we

have positively dominated his navy or not. If he tries to ignore our battle-
fleets, and devotes himself to operations against trade, he cannot dispute the
command. Whatever his strength, he must leave the command to us. He
cannot do both systematically, and unless he attacks our trade
systematically by sustained strategical operation, he cannot hope to make
any real impression.
If, now, we take the two assumptions and test them by the application of
elementary principles, both will appear theoretically unsound. Let us take
first the relation of vulnerability to volume. Since the object of war is to
force our will upon the enemy, the only way in which we can expect war on
commerce to serve our end is to inflict so much damage upon it as will
cause our enemy to prefer peace on our terms to a continuation of the
struggle. The pressure on his trade must be insupportable, not merely
annoying. It must seriously cripple his finance or seriously threaten to
strangle his national life and activities. If his total trade be a hundred
millions, and we succeed in destroying five, he will feel it no more than he
does the ordinary fluctuations to which he is accustomed in time of peace.
If, however, we can destroy fifty millions, his trade equilibrium will be
overthrown, and the issue of the war will be powerfully affected. In other
words, to affect the issue the impression made on trade must be a
percentage or relative impression. The measure of a nation's vulnerability
through its trade is the percentage of destruction that an enemy can effect.
Now, it is true that the amount of damage which a belligerent can inflict
with a given force on an enemy's commerce will vary to some extent with
its volume; for the greater the volume of commerce, the more fertile will be
the undefended cruising grounds. But no matter how fertile such areas
might be, the destructive power of a cruiser was always limited, and it must
be still more limited in the future. It was limited by the fact that it was
physically impossible to deal with more than a certain number of prizes in a
certain time, and, for the reasons already indicated, this limit has suffered a
very marked restriction. When this limit of capacity in a given force is
passed, the volume of commerce will not affect the issue; and seeing how
low that capacity must be in the future and how enormous is the volume of
our trade, the limit of destructive power, at least as against ourselves,
provided we have a reasonably well-organised system of defence, must be
relatively low. It must, in fact, be passed at a percentage figure well within

what we have easily supported in the past. There is reason, therefore, to
believe that so far from the assumption in question being true, the effective
vulnerability of sea-borne trade is not in direct but in inverse proportion to
its volume. In other words, the greater the volume, the more difficult it is to
make an effective percentage impression.
Similarly, it will be observed that the strain of trade defence was
proportioned not to the volume of that trade, but to the number and
exposure of its terminals and focal points. Whatever the volume of the trade
these remained the same in number, and the amount of force required for
their defence varied only with the strength that could readily be brought to
bear against them. It varied, that is, with the distribution of the enemy's
bases and the amount of his naval force. Thus in the war of 1812 with the
United States, the West Indian and North American areas were much more
exposed than they had been when we were at war with France alone and
when American ports were not open to her as bases. They became
vulnerable not only to the United States fleet, but also in a much higher
degree to that of France, and consequently the force we found necessary to
devote to trade defence in the North Atlantic was out of all proportion to the
naval strength of the new belligerent. Our protective force had to be
increased enormously, while the volume of our trade remained precisely the
same.
This relation of trade defence to terminal and focal areas is of great
importance, for it is in the increase of such areas in the Far East that lies the
only radical change in the problem. The East Indian seas were always of
course to some extent treated as a defended area, but the problem was
simplified by the partial survival in those regions of the old method of
defence. Till about the end of the seventeenth century long-range trade was
expected to defend itself, at least outside the home area, and the retention of
their armament by East Indiamen was the last survival of the practice.
Beyond the important focal area of St. Helena they relied mainly on their
own power of resistance or to such escort as could be provided by the relief
ships of the East Indian station. As a rule, their escort proper went no
farther outward-bound than St. Helena, whence it returned with the
homeward-bound vessels that gathered there from India, China, and the
South Sea whaling grounds. The idea of the system was to provide escort

for that part of the great route which was exposed to attack from French or
Spanish colonial bases on the African coasts and in the adjacent islands.
For obvious reasons this system would have to be reconsidered in the
future. The expansion of the great European Powers have changed the
conditions for which it sufficed, and in a war with any one of them the
system of defended terminal and focal areas would require a great extension
eastward, absorbing an appreciable section of our force, and entailing a
comparatively weak prolongation of our chain of concentrations. Here,
then, we must mark a point where trade defence has increased in difficulty,
and there is one other.
Although minor hostile bases within a defended area have lost most of their
menace to trade, they have acquired as torpedo bases a power of disturbing
the defence itself. So long as such bases exist with a potent flotilla within
them, it is obvious that the actual provision for defence cannot be so simple
a matter as it was formerly. Other and more complex arrangements may
have to be made. Still, the principle of defended areas seems to remain
unshaken, and if it is to work with its old effectiveness, the means and the
disposition for securing those areas will have to be adapted to the new
tactical possibilities. The old strategical conditions, so far as can be seen,
are unaltered except in so far as the reactions of modern material make
them tell in favour of defence rather than of attack.
If we desire to formulate the principles on which this conclusion rests we
shall find them in the two broad rules, firstly, that the vulnerability of trade
is in inverse ratio to its volume, and secondly, that facility of attack means
facility of defence. The latter, which was always true, receives special
emphasis from modern developments. Facility of attack means the power of
exercising control. For exercise of control we require not only numbers, but
also speed and endurance, qualities which can only be obtained in two
ways: it must be at the cost of armour and armament, or at the cost of
increased size. By increasing size we at once lose numbers. If by sacrificing
armament and armour we seek to maintain numbers and so facilitate attack,
we at the same time facilitate defence. Vessels of low fighting power indeed
cannot hope to operate in fertile areas without support to overpower the
defence. Every powerful unit detached for such support sets free a unit on
the other side, and when this process is once begun, there is no halting-

place. Supporting units to be effective must multiply into squadrons, and
sooner or later the inferior Power seeking to substitute commerce
destruction for the clash of squadrons will have squadronal warfare thrust
upon him, provided again the superior Power adopts a reasonably sound
system of defence. It was always so, and, so far as it is possible to penetrate
the mists which veil the future, it would seem that with higher mobility and
better means of communication the squadronal stage must be reached long
before any adequate percentage impression can have been made by the
sporadic action of commerce destroyers. Ineffectual as such warfare has
always been in the past, until a general command has been established, its
prospects in the future, judged by the old established principles, are less
promising than ever.
Finally, in approaching the problem of trade protection, and especially for
the actual determination of the force and distribution it requires, there is a
dominant limitation to be kept in mind. By no conceivable means is it
possible to give trade absolute protection. We cannot make an omelette
without breaking eggs. We cannot make war without losing ships. To aim at
a standard of naval strength or a strategical distribution which would make
our trade absolutely invulnerable is to march to economic ruin. It is to
cripple our power of sustaining war to a successful issue, and to seek a
position of maritime despotism which, even if it were attainable, would set
every man's hand against us. All these evils would be upon us, and our goal
would still be in the far distance. In 1870 the second naval Power in the
world was at war with an enemy that could not be considered a naval Power
at all, and yet she lost ships by capture. Never in the days of our most
complete domination upon the seas was our trade invulnerable, and it never
can be. To seek invulnerability is to fall into the strategical vice of trying to
be superior everywhere, to forfeit the attainment of the essential for fear of
risking the unessential, to base our plans on an assumption that war may be
waged without loss, that it is, in short, something that it never has been and
never can be. Such peace-bred dreams must be rigorously abjured. Our
standard must be the mean of economic strength—the line which on the one
hand will permit us to nourish our financial resources for the evil day, and
on the other, when that day comes, will deny to the enemy the possibility of
choking our financial vigour by sufficiently checking the flow of our trade.

III. ATTACK, DEFENCE, AND SUPPORT OF
MILITARY EXPEDITIONS

The attack and defence of oversea expeditions are governed in a large
measure by the principles of attack and defence of trade. In both cases it is a
question of control of communications, and in a general way it may be said,
if we control them for the one purpose, we control them for the other. But
with combined expeditions freedom of passage is not the only
consideration. The duties of the fleet do not end with the protection of the
troops during transit, as in the case of convoys, unless indeed, as with
convoys, the destination is a friendly country. In the normal case of a hostile
destination, where resistance is to be expected from the commencement of
the operations, the fleet is charged with further duties of a most exacting
kind. They may be described generally as duties of support, and it is the
intrusion of these duties which distinguish the naval arrangements for
combined operations most sharply from those for the protection of trade.
Except for this consideration there need be no difference in the method of
defence. In each case the strength required would be measured by the
dangers of interference in transit. But as it is, that standard will not serve for
combined expeditions; for however small those risks, the protective
arrangements must be sufficiently extensive to include arrangements for
support.
Before dealing with this, the most complex aspect of the question, it will be
well to dismiss attack. From the strategical point of view its principles
differ not at all from those already laid down for active resistance of
invasion. Whether the expedition that threatens us be small or of invasion
strength, the cardinal rule has always been that the transports and not the
escort must be the primary objective of the fleet. The escort, according to
the old practice, must be turned or contained, but never treated as a primary
objective unless both turning and containing prove to be impracticable. It is
needless to repeat the words of the old masters in which this principle lies
embalmed. It is seldom that we find a rule of naval strategy laid down in
precise technical terms, but this one is an exception. In the old squadronal
instructions, "The transports of the enemy are to be your principal object,"
became something like a common form.

Nor did this rule apply only to cases where the transports were protected by
a mere escort. It held good even in the exceptional cases where the military
force was accompanied or guarded by the whole available battle strength of
the enemy. We have seen how in 1744 Norris was prepared to follow the
French transports if necessary with his whole force, and how in 1798
Nelson organised his fleet in such a way as to contain rather than destroy
the enemy's battle-squadron, so that he might provide for an overwhelming
attack upon the transports.
Exceptions to this as to all strategical rules may be conceived. Conditions
might exist in which, if the enemy's battle-fleet accompanied his transports,
it would be worth our while, for ulterior objects of our own, to risk the
escape of the transports in order to seize the opportunity of destroying the
fleet. But even in such a case the distinction would be little more than
academical; for our best chance of securing a decisive tactical advantage
against the enemy's fleet would usually be to compel it to conform to our
movements by threatening an attack on the transports. It is well known that
it is in the embarrassment arising from the presence of transports that lies
the special weakness of a fleet in charge of them.
There is, however, one condition which radically differentiates
comparatively small expeditions from great invasions and that is the power
of evasion. Our experience has proved beyond dispute that the navy alone
cannot guarantee defence against such expeditions. It cannot be sure of
preventing their sailing or of attacking them in transit, and this is especially
the case where an open sea gives them a free choice of route, as in the case
of the French expeditions against Ireland. It is for this reason that, although
an adequate navy has always proved sufficient to prevent an invasion, for
defence against expeditions it must be supplemented by a home army. To
perfect our defence, or, in other words, our power of attack, such an army
must be adequate to ensure that all expeditions small enough to evade the
fleet shall do no effective harm when they land. If in numbers, training,
organisation, and distribution it is adequate for this purpose, an enemy
cannot hope to affect the issue of the war except by raising his expeditions
to invasion strength, and so finding himself involved in a problem that no
one has ever yet solved for an uncommanded sea.

Still, even for expeditions below invasion strength the navy will only regard
the army as a second line, and its strategy must provide in the event of
evasion for co-operation with that line. By means of a just distribution of its
coastal flotilla it will provide for getting contact with the expedition at the
earliest moment after its destination is declared. It will press the principle of
making the army its objective to the utmost limit by the most powerful and
energetic cruiser pursuit, and with wireless and the increased ratio of cruiser
speed, such pursuit is far more formidable than it ever was. No expedition
nowadays, however successful its evasion, can be guaranteed against naval
interruption in the process of landing. Still less can it be guaranteed against
naval interference in its rear or flanks while it is securing its front against
the home army. It may seek by using large transports to reduce their number
and secure higher speed, but while that will raise its chance of evasion, it
will prolong the critical period of landing. If it seek by using smaller
transports to quicken disembarkation, that will decrease its chances of
evasion by lowering its speed and widening the sea area it will occupy in
transit. All the modern developments in fact which make for defence in case
of invasion over an uncommanded sea also go to facilitate timely contact
with an expedition seeking to operate by evasion. Nor must it be forgotten,
since the problem is a combined one, that the corresponding developments
ashore tell with little less force in favour of the defending army. Such
appear to be the broad principles which govern an enemy's attempts to act
with combined expeditions in our own waters, where by hypothesis we are
in sufficient naval strength to deny him permanent local command. We may
now turn to the larger and more complex question of the conduct of such
expeditions where the naval conditions are reversed.
By the conduct, be it remembered, we mean not only their defence but also
their support, and for this reason the starting-point of our inquiry is to be
found, as above indicated, in the contrast of combined expeditions with
convoys. A convoy consists of two elements—a fleet of merchantmen and
an escort. But a combined expedition does not consist simply of an army
and a squadron. It is an organism at once more complex and more
homogeneous. Its constitution is fourfold. There is, firstly, the army;
secondly, the transports and landing flotilla—that is, the flotilla of flat-boats
and steamboats for towing them, all of which may be carried in the
transports or accompany them; thirdly, the "Squadron in charge of

transports," as it came to be called, which includes the escort proper and the
supporting flotilla of lighter craft for inshore work; and lastly, the
"Covering squadron."
Such at least is a combined expedition in logical analysis. But so essentially
is it a single organism, that in practice these various elements can seldom be
kept sharply distinct. They may be interwoven in the most intricate manner.
Indeed to a greater or less extent each will always have to discharge some
of the functions of the others. Thus the covering squadron may not only be
indistinguishable from the escort and support, but it will often provide the
greater part of the landing flotilla and even a portion of the landing force.
Similarly, the escort may also serve as transport, and provide in part not
only the supporting force, but also the landing flotilla. The fourfold
constitution is therefore in a great measure theoretical. Still its use is not
merely that it serves to define the varied functions which the fleet will have
to discharge. As we proceed it will be seen to have a practical strategical
value.
From a naval point of view it is the covering squadron which calls first for
consideration, because of the emphasis with which its necessity marks not
only the distinction between the conduct of combined expeditions and the
conduct of commercial convoys, but also the fact that such expeditions are
actually a combined force, and not merely an army escorted by a fleet.
In our system of commerce protection the covering squadron had no place.
The battle-fleet, as we have seen, was employed in holding definite terminal
areas, and had no organic connection with the convoys. The convoys had no
further protection than their own escort and the reinforcements that met
them as they approached the terminal areas. But where a convoy of
transports forming part of a combined expedition was destined for an
enemy's country and would have to overcome resistance by true combined
operations, a covering battle-squadron was always provided. In the case of
distant objectives it might be that the covering squadron was not attached
till the whole expedition assembled in the theatre of operations; during
transit to that theatre the transports might have commerce protection escort
only. But once the operations began from the point of concentration, a
covering squadron was always in touch.

It was only where the destination of the troops was a friendly country, and
the line of passage was well protected by our permanent blockades, that a
covering squadron could be dispensed with altogether. Thus our various
expeditions for the assistance of Portugal were treated exactly like
commercial convoys, but in such cases as Wolfe's expedition to Quebec or
Amherst's to Louisburg, or indeed any of those which were continually
launched against the West Indies, a battle-squadron was always provided as
an integral part in the theatre of operations. Our arrangements in the
Crimean War illustrate the point exactly. Our troops were sent out at first to
land at Gallipoli in a friendly territory, and to act within that territory as an
army of observation. It was not a true combined expedition, and the
transports were given no covering squadron. Their passage was sufficiently
covered by our Channel and Mediterranean fleets occupying the exits of the
Baltic and the Black Sea. But so soon as the original war plan proved
ineffective and combined offensive operations against Sebastopol were
decided on, the Mediterranean fleet lost its independent character, and
thenceforth its paramount function was to furnish a covering squadron in
touch with the troops.
Seeing how important are the support duties of such a force, the term
"Covering squadron" may seem ill-chosen to describe it. But it is adopted
for two reasons. In the first place, it was the one employed officially in our
service on the last mentioned occasion which was our last great combined
expedition. In preparing the descent on the Crimea, Sir Edmund Lyons, who
was acting as Chief of the Staff to Sir James Dundas, and had charge of the
combined operations, organised the fleet into a "Covering squadron" and a
"Squadron in charge of transports." In the second place, the designation
serves to emphasise what is its main and primary function. For important as
it is to keep in mind its support duties, they must not be permitted to
overshadow the fact that its paramount function is to prevent interference
with the actual combined operations—that is, the landing, support, and
supply of the army. Thus in 1705, when Shovel and Peterborough were
operating against Barcelona, Shovel was covering the amphibious siege
from the French squadron in Toulon. Peterborough required the assistance
of the marines ashore to execute a coup de main, and Shovel only consented
to land them on the express understanding that the moment his cruisers
passed the signal that the Toulon squadron was putting to sea, they would

have to be recalled to the fleet no matter what the state of the land
operations. And to this Peterborough agreed. The principle involved, it will
be seen, is precisely that which Lyons's term "Covering squadron"
embodies.
To quote anything that happened in the Crimean War as a precedent without
such traditional support will scarcely appear convincing. In our British way
we have fostered a legend that so far as organisation and staff work were
concerned that war was nothing but a collection of deterrent examples. But
in truth as a combined operation its opening movement both in conception
and organisation was perhaps the most daring, brilliant, and successful thing
of the kind we ever did. Designed as the expedition was to assist an ally in
his own country, it was suddenly called upon without any previous
preparation to undertake a combined operation of the most difficult kind
against the territory of a well-warned enemy. It involved a landing late in
the year on an open and stormy coast within striking distance of a naval
fortress which contained an army of unknown strength, and a fleet not much
inferior in battle power and undefeated. It was an operation comparable to
the capture of Louisburg and the landing of the Japanese in the Liaotung
Peninsula, but the conditions were far more difficult. Both those operations
had been rehearsed a few years previously, and they had been long prepared
on the fullest knowledge. In the Crimea everything was in the dark; even
steam was an unproved element, and everything had to be improvised. The
French had practically to demobilise their fleet to supply transport, and so
hazardous did the enterprise appear, that they resisted its being undertaken
with every military argument. We had in fact, besides all the other
difficulties, to carry an unwilling ally upon our backs. Yet it was
accomplished, and so far at least as the naval part was concerned, the
methods which achieved success mark the culmination of all we had learnt
in three centuries of rich experience.
The first of the lessons was that for operations in uncommanded or
imperfectly commanded seas there was need of a covering squadron
differentiated from the squadron in charge of transports. Its main function
was to secure the necessary local command, whether for transit or for the
actual operations. But as a rule transit was secured by our regular
blockading squadrons, and generally the covering squadron only assembled
in the theatre of operations. When therefore the theatre was within a

defended terminal area, as in our descents upon the northern and Atlantic
coasts of France, then the terminal defence squadron was usually also
sufficient to protect the actual operations. It thus formed automatically the
covering squadron, and either continued its blockade, or, as in the case of
our attack on St. Malo in 1758, took up a position between the enemy's
squadron and the expedition's line of operation. If, however, the theatre of
operation was not within a terminal area, or lay within a distant one that
was weakly held, the expedition was given its own covering squadron, in
which the local squadron was more or less completely merged. Whatever, in
fact, was necessary to secure the local control was done, though, as we have
seen, and must presently consider more fully, this necessity was not always
the standard by which the strength of the covering squadron was measured.
The strength of the covering squadron being determined, the next question
is the position or "tract" which it should occupy. Like most other strategical
problems, it is "an option of difficulties." In so far as the squadron is
designed for support—that is, support from its men, boats, and guns—it
will be desirable to station it as near as possible to the objective; but as a
covering squadron, with the duty of preventing the intrusion of an enemy's
force, it should be as far away as possible, so as to engage such a force at
the earliest possible moment of its attempt to interfere. There is also the
paramount necessity that its position must be such that favourable contact
with the enemy is certain if he tries to interrupt. Usually such certainty is
only to be found either in touch with the enemy's naval base or in touch
with your own landing force. Where the objective is the local naval base of
the enemy these two points, of course, tend to be identical strategically, and
the position of the covering squadron becomes a tactical rather than a
strategical question. But the vital principle of an independent existence
holds good, and no matter how great the necessity of support, the covering
squadron should never be so deeply engaged with the landing force as to be
unable to disentangle itself for action as a purely naval unit in time to
discharge its naval function. In other words, it must always be able to act in
the same way as a free field army covering a siege.
Where the objective of the expedition is not the local naval base, the choice
of a position for the covering squadron will turn mainly on the amount of
support which the army is likely to require. If it cannot act by surprise, and
serious military resistance is consequently to be expected, or where the

coast defences are too strong for the transport squadron to overpower, then
the scale will incline to a position close to the army, though the extent to
which, under modern conditions, ships at sea can usefully perform the
delicate operation of supporting an infantry attack with gun fire, except by
enfilading the enemy's position, remains to be proved. A similar choice will
be indicated where strong support of men and boats is required, as when a
sufficiency of flat-boats and steam towage cannot be provided by the
transports and their attendant squadron; or again where the locality is such
that amphibious operations beyond the actual landing are likely to be called
for, and the assistance of a large number of boats and seamen acting with
the army is necessary to give it the amphibious tactical mobility which it
would otherwise lack. Such cases occurred at Quebec in 1759, where
Saunders took his covering battle-squadron right up the St. Lawrence,
although its covering functions could have been discharged even better by a
position several hundreds of miles away from the objective; and again in
1800 at Alexandria, where Lord Keith ran the extremest hazard to his
covering functions in order to undertake the supply of General
Abercromby's army by inland waters and give him the mobility he required.
If, on the other hand, the transport squadron is able to furnish all the support
necessary, the covering squadron will take station as close as possible to the
enemy's naval base, and there it will operate according to the ordinary laws
of blockade. If nothing is desired but to prevent interference, its guard will
take the form of a close blockade. But if there be a subsidiary purpose of
using the expedition as a means of forcing the enemy to sea, the open form
will be employed; as, for instance, in Anson's case above cited, when he
covered the St. Malo expedition not by closely blockading Brest, but by
taking a position to the eastward at the Isle de Batz.
In the Japanese operations against Manchuria and the Kuantung Peninsula
these old principles displayed themselves in undiminished vitality. In the
surprise descents against Seoul and at Takusan the work of support was left
entirely with the transport squadron, while Admiral Togo took up a covering
position far away at Port Arthur. The two elements of the fleet were kept
separate all through. But in the operations for the isolation and subsequent
siege of Port Arthur they were so closely united as to appear frequently
indistinguishable. Still, so far as the closeness of the landing place to the
objective permitted, the two acted independently. For the actual landing of

the Second Army the boats of the covering squadron were used, but it
remained a live naval unit all through, and was never organically mingled
with the transport squadron. Its operations throughout were, so far as
modern conditions permit, on the lines of a close blockade. To prevent
interference was its paramount function, undisturbed, so far as we are able
to judge, by any subsidiary purpose of bringing the enemy to decisive
action.
All through the operations, however, there was a new influence which
tended to confuse the precision of the old methods. Needless to say it was
the torpedo and the mine. Their deflective pressure was curious and
interesting. In our own operations against Sebastopol, to which the Port
Arthur case is most closely comparable, the old rules still held good. On the
traditional principle, dating from Drake's attack on San Domingo in 1585, a
landing place was chosen which gave the mean between facility for a coup
de main and freedom from opposition; that is, it was chosen at the nearest
practicable point to the objective which was undefended by batteries and
out of reach of the enemy's main army.
In the handling of the covering squadron Admiral Dundas, the Commander-
in-Chief, gave it its dual function. After explaining the constitution of the
transport squadron he says, "The remainder of my force ... will act as a
covering squadron, and where practicable assist in the general
disembarkation." With these two objects in mind he took a station near
enough to the landing place to support the army with his guns if it were
opposed, but still in sight of his cruisers before Sebastopol, and at such a
distance that at the first sign of the Russians moving he would have time to
get before the port and engage them before they could get well to sea; that
is, he took a position as near to the army as was compatible with preventing
interference, or, it may be said, his position was as near to the enemy's base
as was compatible with supporting the landing. From either aspect in fact
the position was the same, and its choice presented no complexity owing
mainly to the fact that for the first time steam simplified the factors of time
and distance.
In the Japanese case the application of these principles was not so easy. In
selecting the nearest undefended point for a landing, it was not only
batteries, or even the army in Port Arthur, or the troops dispersed in the

Liaotung Peninsula that had to be considered, but rather, as must always be
the case in the future, mines and mobile torpedo defence. The point they
chose was the nearest practicable bay that was unmined. It was not strictly
out of mobile defence range, but it so happened that it lay behind islands
which lent themselves to the creation of fixed defences, and thus it fulfilled
all the recognised conditions. But in so far as the defences could be turned
by the Russian fleet a covering squadron was necessary, and the difficulty
of choosing a position for it was complicated by the fact that the objective
of the combined operations was not merely Port Arthur itself, but also the
squadron it contained. It was necessary, therefore, not only to hold off that
squadron, but to prevent its escape. This indicated a close blockade. But for
close blockade a position out of night torpedo range is necessary, and the
nearest point where such a position could be secured was behind the
defences that covered the disembarkation. Consequently, in spite of what
the strategical conditions dictated, the covering squadron was more or less
continuously forced back upon the army and its supporting force, even
when the support of the battle-squadron was no longer required.
In the conditions that existed nothing was lost. For the lines of the Japanese
fixed defences were so near to the enemy's base, that by mining the
entrance of the port Admiral Togo ensured that the enemy's exit would be
slow enough for him to be certain of getting contact from his defended
anchorage before the Russians could get far to sea. What would happen in a
case when no such position could be secured is another matter. The landing
place and supply base of the army must be secured against torpedo attack,
and the principle of concentration of effort would suggest that the means of
defence should not be attenuated by providing the covering squadron with a
defended anchorage elsewhere. Thus it would appear that unless the
geographical conditions permit the covering squadron to use one of its own
national bases, the drift of recent developments will be to force it back on
the army, and thus tend to confuse its duties with those of the transport
squadron. Hence the increased importance of keeping clear the difference in
function between the two squadrons.
To emphasise the principle of the covering squadron, these two cases may
be contrasted with the Lissa episode at the end of the Austro-Italian War of
1866. In that case it was entirely neglected, with disastrous results. The
Austrian admiral, Tegethoff, with an inferior fleet had by higher order been

acting throughout on the defensive, and was still in Pola waiting for a
chance of a counter-stroke. Persano with the superior Italian fleet was at
Ancona, where he practically dominated the Adriatic. In July the Italians,
owing to the failure of the army, were confronted with the prospect of being
forced to make peace on unfavourable terms. To improve the position
Persano was ordered to take possession of the Austrian island of Lissa.
Without any attempt to organise his fleet on the orthodox British principle
he proceeded to conduct the operation with his entire force. Practically the
whole of it became involved in amphibious work, and as soon as Persano
was thus committed, Tegethoff put to sea and surprised him. Persano was
unable to disentangle a sufficient force in time to meet the attack, and
having no compact squadron fit for independent naval action, he was
decisively defeated by the inferior enemy. According to British practice, it
was clearly a case where, if the operation were to be undertaken at all, an
independent covering squadron should have been told off either to hold
Tegethoff in Pola or to bring him to timely action, according to whether the
island or the Austrian fleet was the primary objective. The reason it was not
done may be that Persano was not given a proper landing force, and he
seems to have considered that the whole strength of his fleet was needed for
the successful seizure of the objective. If so, it is only one more proof of the
rule that no matter what fleet support the landing operations may require, it
should never be given in an imperfectly commanded sea to an extent which
will deny the possibility of a covering squadron being left free for
independent naval action.
The length to which the supporting functions of the fleet may be carried
will always be a delicate question. The suggestion that its strength must be
affected by the need of the army for the men of the fleet or its boats, which
imply its men as well, will appear heretical. A battle-squadron, we say, is
intended to deal with the enemy's battle-squadron and its men to fight the
ships, and the mind revolts at the idea of the strength of a squadron being
fixed by any other standard. Theoretically nothing can seem more true, but
it is an idea of peace and the study. The atmosphere of war engendered a
wider and more practical view. The men of the old wars knew that when a
squadron is attached to a combined expedition it is something different
from a purely naval unit. They knew, moreover, that an army acting oversea
against hostile territory is an incomplete organism incapable of striking its

blow in the most effective manner without the assistance of the men of the
fleet. It was the office, then, of the naval portion of the force not only to
defend the striking part of the organism, but to complete its deficiencies and
lend it the power to strike. Alone and unaided the army cannot depend on
getting itself ashore, it cannot supply itself, it cannot secure its retreat, nor
can it avail itself of the highest advantages of an amphibious force, the
sudden shift of base or line of operation. These things the fleet must do for
it, and it must do them with its men.25
The authority for this view is abundant. In 1800, for instance, when General
Maitland was charged with an expedition against Belleisle, he was invited
to state what naval force he would require. He found it difficult to fix with
precision. "Speaking loosely, however," he wrote, "three or four sail of the
line and four or five active frigates appear to me to be properly adequate to
the proposed service. The frigates to blockade." (Meaning, of course, to
blockade the objective and prevent reinforcements reaching it from the
mainland, always one of the supporting functions of the squadron attached
to the transports.) "The line-of-battle ships," he adds, "to furnish us with the
number of men necessary for land operations." In this case our permanent
blockading squadrons supplied the cover, and what Maitland meant was
that the battleships he asked for were to be added to the transport squadron
not as being required for escort, but for support. St. Vincent, who was then
First Lord, not only endorsed his request, but gave him for disembarkation
work one more ship-of-the-line than he had asked for. At this time our
general command of the sea had been very fully secured, and we had plenty
of naval force to spare for its exercise. It will be well to compare it with a
case in which the circumstances were different.
When in 1795 the expedition under Admiral Christian and General
Abercromby was being prepared for the West Indies, the admiral in concert
with Jervis drew up a memorandum as to the naval force required.26 The
force he asked for was considerable. Both he and Jervis considered that the
escort and local cover must be very strong, because it was impossible to
count on closing either Brest or Toulon effectually by blockade. But this
was not the only reason. The plan of operations involved three distinct
landings, and each would require at least two of the line, and perhaps three,
"not only as protection, but as the means by which flat-boats must be
manned, cannon landed, and the other necessary services of fatigue

executed." Christian also required the necessary frigates and three or four
brigs "to cover [that is, support] the operations of the smaller vessels [that
is, the landing flotillas doing inshore work]." The main attack would require
at least four of the line and seven frigates, with brigs and schooners in
proportion. In all he considered, the ships-of-the-line [the frigates being
"otherwise employed"] would have to provide landing parties to the number
of 2000 men "for the flat-boats, landing and moving guns, water, and
provisions," and this would be their daily task. The military force these
landing parties were to serve amounted to about 18,000 men.
Lord Barham, it must be said, who as Sir Charles Middleton was then First
Sea Lord, objected to the requirements as excessive, particularly in the
demand for a strong escort, as he considered that the transit could be
safeguarded by special vigilance on the part of the permanent blockading
squadrons. The need for large shore parties he seems to have ignored. His
opinion, however, is not quite convincing, for from the first he had taken up
an antagonistic attitude to the whole idea of the expedition. He regarded the
policy which dictated it as radically unsound, and was naturally anxious to
restrict the force that was to be spent upon it. His opposition was based on
the broad and far-sighted principles that were characteristic of his strategy.
He believed that in view of the threatening attitude of Spain the right course
was to husband the navy so as to bring it up to a two-Power standard for the
coming struggle, and to keep it concentrated for decisive naval action the
moment Spain showed her hand. In short, he stoutly condemned a policy
which entailed a serious dissipation of naval force for a secondary object
before a working command of the sea had been secured. It was, in fact, the
arrangements for this expedition which forced him to resign before the
preparations were complete. But it is to be observed that his objections to
the plan were really due, not to the principle of its organisation, but to our
having insufficient force to give it adequate naval support without
prejudicing the higher consideration of our whole position at sea.27
It is obvious that the foregoing considerations, beyond the strategical
reactions already noted, will have another of the first importance, in that
they must influence the choice of a landing place. The interest of the army
will always be to fix it as near to the objective as is compatible with an
unopposed landing. The ideal was one night's march, but this could rarely
be attained except in the case of very small expeditions, which could be

landed rapidly at the close of day and advance in the dark. In larger
expeditions, the aim was to effect the landing far enough from the objective
to prevent the garrison of the place or the enemy's local forces offering
opposition before a footing was secured. The tendency of the navy will
usually be in the opposite direction; for normally the further they can land
the army away from the enemy's strength, the surer are they of being able to
protect it against naval interference. Their ideal will be a place far enough
away to be out of torpedo range, and to enable them to work the covering
and the transport squadron in sound strategical independence.
To reduce these divergencies to a mean of efficiency some kind of joint
Staff is necessary, and to ensure its smooth working it is no less desirable to
ascertain, so far as possible, the principles and method on which it should
proceed. In the best recent precedents the process has been for the Army
Staff to present the limits of coast-line within which the landing must take
place for the operation to have the desired effect, and to indicate the known
practicable landing points in the order they would prefer them. It will then
be for the Naval Staff to say how nearly in accordance with the views of the
army they are prepared to act. Their decision will turn on the difficulties of
protection and the essentials of a landing place from the point of view of
weather, currents, beach and the like, and also in a secondary measure upon
the extent to which the conformation of the coast will permit of tactical
support by gun-fire and feints. If the Naval Staff are unwilling to agree to
the point or points their colleagues most desire, a question of balance of risk
is set up, which the higher Joint Staff must adjust. It will be the duty of the
Naval Staff to set out frankly and clearly all the sea risks the proposal of the
army entails, and if possible to suggest an alternative by which the risk of
naval interference can be lessened without laying too heavy a burden on the
army. Balancing these risks against those stated by the army, the superior
Staff must decide which line is to be taken, and each service then will do its
best to minimise the difficulties it has to face. Whether the superior Staff
will incline to the naval or the military view will depend upon whether the
greater danger likely to be incurred is from the sea or on land.
Where the naval conditions are fairly well known the line of operations can
be fixed in this way with much precision. But if, as usually happens, the
probable action of the enemy at sea cannot be divined with sufficient
approximation, then assuming there is serious possibility of naval

interference, the final choice within the limited area must be left to the
admiral. The practice has been to give him instructions which define in
order of merit the points the army desire, and direct him to select the one
which in the circumstances, as he finds them, he considers within
reasonable risk of war. Similarly, if the danger of naval interference be
small and the local conditions ashore imperfectly known, the final choice
will be with the general, subject only to the practicable possibilities of the
landing place he would choose.
During the best period of our old wars there was seldom any difficulty in
making things work smoothly on these lines. After the first inglorious
failure at Rochefort in 1757 the practice was, where discretion of this kind
had been allowed, for the two commanders-in-chief to make a joint coast-
reconnaissance in the same boat and settle the matter amicably on the spot.
It was on these lines the conduct of our combined operations was always
arranged thenceforth. Since the elder Pitt's time it has never been our
practice to place combined expeditions under either a naval or a military
commander-in-chief and allow him to decide between naval and military
exigencies. The danger of possible friction between two commanders-in-
chief came to be regarded as small compared with the danger of a single
one making mistakes through unfamiliarity with the limitations of the
service to which he does not belong.
The system has usually worked well even when questions arose which were
essentially questions for a joint superior Staff. The exceptions indeed are
very few. A fine example of how such difficulties can be settled, when the
spirit is willing, occurred in the Crimea. The naval difficulties, as we have
already seen, were as formidable as they could well be short of rendering
the whole attempt madness. When it came to the point of execution a joint
council of war was held, at which sat the allied Staffs of both services. So
great were the differences of opinion between the French and British
Generals, and so imperfectly was the terrain known, that they could not
indicate a landing place with any precision. All the admirals knew was that
it must be on an open coast, which they had not been able to reconnoitre,
where the weather might at any time interrupt communications with the
shore, and where they were liable to be attacked by a force which, until
their own ships were cleared of troops, would not be inferior. All these

objections they laid before the Council General. Lord Raglan then said the
army now perfectly understood the risk, and was prepared to take it.
Whereupon the allied admirals replied that they were ready to proceed and
do their best to set the army ashore and support it at any point that should
be chosen.
There remains a form of support which has not yet been considered, and
that is diversionary movements or feints by the fleet to draw the enemy's
attention away from the landing place. This will naturally be a function of
the covering battle-squadron or its attendant cruisers and flotilla. The device
appears in Drake's attack on San Domingo in 1585, an attack which may be
regarded as our earliest precedent in modern times and as the pattern to
which all subsequent operations of the kind conformed so far as
circumstances allowed. In that case, while Drake landed the troops a night's
march from the place, the bulk of the fleet moved before it, kept it in alarm
all night, and at dawn made a demonstration with the boats of forcing a
direct landing under cover of its guns. The result was the garrison moved
out to meet the threat and were surprised in flank by the real landing force.
Passing from this simple case to the most elaborate in our annals, we find
Saunders doing the same thing at Quebec. In preparation for Wolfe's night
landing he made a show of arrangements for a bombardment of Montcalm's
lines below the city, and in the morning with the boats of the fleet began a
demonstration of landing his marines. By this device he held Montcalm
away from Wolfe's landing place till a secure footing had been obtained.
Similar demonstrations had been made above the city, and the combined
result was that Wolfe was able to penetrate the centre of the French position
unopposed.
Such work belongs of course to the region of tactics rather than of strategy,
but the device has been used with equal effect strategically. So great is the
secrecy as well as the mobility of an amphibious force, that it is extremely
difficult for an enemy to distinguish a real attack from a feint. Even at the
last moment, when a landing is actually in progress, it is impossible for the
defenders to tell that all the troops are being landed at the one point if a
demonstration is going on elsewhere. At Quebec it was not till Montcalm
was face to face with Wolfe that he knew he had to deal with the whole
British force. Still less from a strategical point of view can we be certain
whether a particular landing represents an advance guard or is a

diversionary operation to mask a larger landing elsewhere. This is a special
difficulty when in the case of large operations the landing army arrives in
echelon like the Second Japanese army. In that instance the naval feint was
used strategically, and apparently with conspicuous effect. The Russians
were always apprehensive that the Japanese would strike for Newchuang at
the head of the Gulf of Pe-chi-li, and for this reason General Stakelberg,
who had command of the troops in the peninsula, was not permitted to
concentrate for effective action in its southern part, where the Japanese had
fixed their landing place. Admiral Togo, in spite of the strain on his fleet in
effecting and securing the disembarkation of the army, detached a cruiser
squadron to demonstrate in the Gulf. The precise effect of this feint upon
the Russian Staff cannot be measured with certainty. All we know is that
Stakelberg was held back from his concentration so long that he was unable
to strike the Japanese army before it was complete for the field and able to
deal him a staggering counter-stroke.
This power of disturbing the enemy with feints is of course inherent in the
peculiar attributes of combined expeditions, in the facility with which their
line of operation can be concealed or changed, and there seems no reason
why in the future it should be less than in the past. Good railway
connections in the theatre of the descent will of course diminish the effect
of feints, but, on the other hand, the means of making them have increased.
In mine-sweeping vessels, for instance, there is a new instrument which in
the Russo-Japanese War proved capable of creating a very strong
impression at small cost to the fleet. Should a flotilla of such craft appear at
any practicable part of a threatened coast and make a show of clearing it, it
will be almost a moral impossibility to ignore the demonstration.
On the whole then, assuming the old methods are followed, it would seem
that with a reasonable naval preponderance the power of carrying out such
operations over an uncommanded sea is not less than it has proved to be
hitherto. The rapidity and precision of steam propulsion perhaps places that
power higher than ever. It would at any rate be difficult to find in the past a
parallel to the brilliant movement on Seoul with which the Japanese opened
the war in 1904. It is true the Russians at the last moment decided for
political reasons to permit the occupation to take place without opposition,
but this was unknown to the Japanese, and their arrangements were made
on the assumption that their enemy would use the formidable means at his

disposal to obstruct the operation. The risk was accepted, skillfully
measured, and adequately provided for on principles identical with those of
the British tradition. But, on the other hand, there has been nothing to show
that where the enemy has a working command of the sea the hazard of such
enterprises has been reduced. Against an enemy controlling the line of
passage in force, the well-tried methods of covering and protecting an
oversea expedition will no more work to-day than they did in the past. Until
his hold is broken by purely naval action, combined work remains beyond
all legitimate risk of war.

APPENDIX

THE
"GREEN PAMPHLET"

WAR COURSE

Strategical Terms
and Definitions
used in
Lectures on Naval History
BY

JULIAN S. CORBETT, ESQ., L.L.M.

NAVAL STRATEGY

Introductory.

Naval strategy does not exist as a separate branch of knowledge. It is only a
section of a division of the art of war.
The study for officers is the art of war, specialising in Naval Strategy.
The true method of procedure then is to get hold of a general theory of war,
and so ascertain the exact relations of Naval Strategy to the whole.
Theory of war.

War is a form of political intercourse, a continuation of foreign politics
which begins when force is introduced to attain our ends.

OBJECTS.

We seek our ends by directing force upon certain objects, which may be
ulterior or immediate.
Immediate objects (also called "Primary") are the ends of particular
operations or movements. But it must be remembered that every primary

object has also its ulterior object; that is, every operation must be regarded,
not only from the point of view of its special object, but also as a step to the
end of the campaign or war.
Strategy is the art of directing force to the ends in view. Classified by the
object it is Major Strategy, dealing with ulterior objects; Minor Strategy,
with primary objects.
This also means that every operation of an army or fleet must be regarded
in a double light, i.e., it must be planned and conducted in relation (1) to the
general progress of the war; (2) to the object to which it is immediately
directed.
Major Strategy.

Major Strategy (always regarding the ulterior object) has for its province
the plan of the war, and includes: (1) Selection of the immediate or primary
objects to be aimed at for attaining the ulterior object; (2) Selection of the
force to be used, i.e., it determines the relative functions of the naval and
military forces.

NOTE.—Major Strategy in its broadest sense has also to deal with the
whole resources of the nation for war. It is a branch of statesmanship.
It regards the Army and Navy as parts of one force, to be handled
together; they are instruments of war. But it also has to keep in view
constantly the politico-diplomatic position of the country (on which
depends the effective action of the instrument), and its commercial and
financial position (by which the energy for working the instrument is
maintained). The friction of these two considerations is inherent in
war, and we call it the deflection of strategy by politics. It is usually
regarded as a disease. It is really a vital factor in every strategical
problem. It may be taken as a general rule that no question of grand
strategy can be decided apart from diplomacy, and vice versa. For a
line of action or an object which is expedient from the point of view of
strategy may be barred by diplomatic considerations, and vice versa.
To decide a question of grand strategy without consideration of its
diplomatic aspect, is to decide on half the factors only. Neither strategy
or diplomacy has ever a clean slate. This interaction has to be accepted
by commanding officers as part of the inevitable "friction of war." A

good example is Pitt's refusal to send a fleet into the Baltic to assist
Frederick the Great during the Seven Years War, for fear of
compromising our relations with the Scandinavian Powers.

Minor Strategy.

Minor Strategy has for its province the plans of operations. It deals with—

(1) The selection of the "objectives," that is, the particular forces of the
enemy or the strategical points to be dealt with in order to secure the
object of the particular operation.
(2) The directing of the force assigned for the operation.

Minor Strategy may be of three kinds:—

(1) Naval, where the immediate object is to be attained by a fleet only.
(2) Military, where the immediate object is to be attained by an army
only.
(3) Combined, where the immediate object is to be attained by army
and navy together.

NOTE.—It will be seen that what is usually called Naval Strategy or
Fleet Strategy, is only a sub-division of a division of strategy, and that,
therefore, strategy cannot be studied from the point of view of naval
operations only.

NOTE.—Naval Strategy, being only a part of General Strategy, is
subject to the same friction as Major Strategy, though in a less degree.
Individual commanders have often to take a decision independently of
the central government, or headquarters; they should, therefore, always
keep in mind the possible ulterior effects of any line of action they
may take, endeavouring to be sure that what is strategically expedient
is not diplomatically inexpedient.

EXAMPLE.—Boscawen's attack on De la Motte on the eve of the
Seven Years War.

NATURE OF OBJECT

Nature of object. Offensive and defensive.

The solution of every strategical problem, whether of Major or Minor
Strategy, depends primarily on the nature of the object in view.
All objects, whether ulterior or not, may be positive or negative.
A positive object is where we seek to assert or acquire something for
ourselves.
A negative object is where we seek to deny the enemy something or prevent
his gaining something.
Where the object is positive, Strategy is offensive.
Where the object is negative, Strategy is defensive.

EXAMPLE.—When Togo attacked Rojesvensky his primary object
was offensive, i.e., to capture or destroy the Russian Fleet. His ulterior
object was to maintain the defensive function which had been assigned
to the Japanese Fleet.

NOTES.—This is a good example of true defensive; that is, Togo's
operations, though drastically offensive in action, were all strictly
within the strategical defensive sphere assigned to him.

[pg 310]
Relation of offensive to defensive.

The Offensive, being positive in its aim is naturally the more effective form
of war (i.e., it leads more directly to a final decision), and, as a rule, should
be adopted by the stronger Power.
The Defensive, being negative in its aim, is naturally the stronger form of
war; i.e., it requires less force, and, as a rule, is adopted by the weaker
Power.

NOTE.—The general truth of this proposition is not affected by
apparent exceptions where the contrary appears to be true.

The Offensive must not be confused with the Initiative. It is possible to
seize the Initiative, under certain conditions, by taking a defensive
position from which the enemy is bound to dislodge us or abandon the
operation.

In most cases where the weaker side successfully assumes the
offensive, it is due to his doing so before the enemy's mobilization or
concentration is complete, whereby the attacking force is able to deal
in succession with locally inferior forces of the enemy.

The advantages of the Offensive are well known.
Its disadvantages are:—

(1) That it grows weaker as it advances, by prolonging its
communications.
(2) That it tends to operations on unfamiliar ground.
(3) That it continually increases the difficulty of retreat.

The advantages of Defence are chiefly:—

(1) Proximity to base.
(2) Familiar ground.
(3) Facility for arranging surprise by counter attack.

NOTE.—In modern Naval warfare these advantages—that is, the
advantages of fighting on your own ground—are specially high as
giving greater facility for the use of mine and torpedo.

The disadvantages are mainly moral or when the enemy's objective or
line of operations cannot be ascertained, but this disadvantage can be
neutralised when it is possible to secure an interior position.

GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE DEFENSIVE.

True Defensive means waiting for a chance to strike.

NOTE.—When the Dutch burnt our ships at Chatham, we were not
acting on the defensive, we had laid them up and were doing nothing
at all.

The strength and the essence of the defensive is the counter-stroke.
A well designed defensive will always threaten or conceal an attack.
A general defensive policy may consist of a series of minor offensive
operations.
The maxim is: If you are not relatively strong enough to assume the
offensive, assume the defensive till you become so—

(1) Either by inducing the enemy to weaken himself by attacks or
otherwise;
(2) Or by increasing your own strength, by developing new forces or
securing allies.

Except as a preparation or a cover for offensive action the defensive is
seldom or never of any use; for by the defensive alone we can never acquire
anything, we can only prevent the enemy acquiring. But where we are too
weak to assume the offensive it is often necessary to assume the defensive,
and wait in expectation of time turning the scale in our favour and
permitting us to accumulate strength relatively greater than the enemy's; we
then pass to the offensive, for which our defensive has been a preparation.
As a cover or support for the offensive, the defensive will enable us to
intensify the attack; for by assuming the defensive in one or more minor
theatres of operation we can reduce our forces in those theatres to a
minimum, and concentrate to a maximum for the offensive in the most
important theatre.

OFFENSIVE OPERATIONS USED WITH A DEFENSIVE
INTENTION

(A) Counter attacks.
(B) Diversions.

(A) Counter attacks are those which are made upon an enemy who exposes
himself anywhere in the theatre of his offensive operations. It is this form of
attack which constitutes what Clausewitz calls the "surprise advantage of
defence."
(B) Diversions are similar operations undertaken against an enemy outside
the limit of his theatre of offensive operations.
Diversions are designed to confuse his strategy, to distract his attention, and
to draw off his forces from his main attack. If well planned, they should
divert a force greater than their own. They should, therefore, be small. The
nearer they approach the importance of a real attack the less likely they are
to divert a force greater than their own.
It is only their power of diverting or containing a larger force than their own
that justifies the breach of the law of concentration which they involve.
This power depends mainly on suddenness and mobility, and these qualities
are most highly developed in combined expeditions.

NOTE.—Diversions must be carefully distinguished from eccentric
attacks. Eccentric attacks are true offensive movements. They have a
positive object, i.e., they aim to acquire something from the enemy;
whereas diversions have a negative object, i.e., they aim at preventing
the enemy doing or acquiring something. Being in the category of the
weaker form of war, eccentric attacks are usually made in greater force
than diversions.

EXAMPLES.—Diversion.—Our raid on Washington in 1815. Landing
force, about 4,000 men. Object, according to official instructions, "a
diversion on the coasts of United States of America in favour of the
army employed in the defence of Canada"; i.e., the intention was
negative—preventative—defensive.

2. Eccentric Attack.—Operations against New Orleans in 1815.
Intended force 15,000 to 20,000 men. Object, "to obtain command of
embouchure of the Mississippi, and, secondly, to occupy some
important and valuable possession, by the restoration of which the
conditions of peace might be improved, &c."; i.e., the intention was

positive—to acquire. Compare Rochefort Expedition (diversion) and
Belleisle (eccentric attack) in the Seven Years War.

Note 2.—This distinction gives a threefold classification of combined
expeditions, as used by Elizabethan strategists.

Raids = Diversions.
Incursions = Eccentric attacks.
Invasions = True direct offence.

Compare these with Sir John Ardagh's classification (Report of Royal
Commission on Reserve Forces, 1904):—

"Raids," not exceeding 10,000 men.
"Small expeditions," not exceeding 50,000 men.
"Dangerous invasion," not exceeding 150,000 men.

NATURE OF ULTERIOR OBJECT

Limited and unlimited wars.

From the nature of the ulterior object we get an important classification of
wars, according to whether such object is limited or unlimited.

(1) War with limited object ("limited war") is where we merely seek to
take from the enemy some particular part of his possessions, or
interests; e.g., Spanish-American War, where the object was the
liberation of Cuba.

(2) War with an unlimited object is where we seek to overthrow the
enemy completely, so that to save himself from destruction he must
agree to do our will (become subservient); e.g., Franco-German War.

NOTE.—Ulterior objects are not necessarily the same in their nature
as the immediate (primary or secondary) objects which lead up to
them; e.g., ulterior objects may be offensive, while one or more of the
immediate objects may be defensive, and vice versâ.

EXAMPLE 1.—Japanese position in the late war. Ulterior object of
the war (to drive Russians from Manchuria) was offensive (positive).
Function or ulterior object of the fleet (to cover the invasion) was
defensive (negative). Its primary object to effect this was to attack and
destroy the Russian naval force. This was offensive (positive).