PIN: 081038–000 

Historical Perspectives 

of the 

Operational Art

Michael D. Krause and

R. Cody Phillips

General Editors

Center of Military History

United States Army

Washington, D.C., 2005
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

CMH Pub 70–89–1

Historical perspectives of the operational art / Michael D. Krause and R. Cody Phillips, 

 general editors.

 p. cm.

 Includes bibliographical references.

 1. Operational art (Military science)—History. I. Krause, Michael D. (Michael

Detlef), 1942– II. Phillips, R. Cody.

U163.H57 2005

355.4’09—dc22

2004057948
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

CMH Pub 70–89–1

Historical perspectives of the operational art / Michael D. Krause and R. Cody Phillips, 

 general editors.

 p. cm.

 Includes bibliographical references.

 1. Operational art (Military science)—History. I. Krause, Michael D. (Michael

Detlef), 1942– II. Phillips, R. Cody.

U163.H57 2005

355.4’09—dc22

2004057948


vi 

where and when to fight and tactics how to conduct the fight. In turn, 

tacticians employ fire and maneuver to achieve a limited objective, while 

operational commanders use fire and maneuver on a larger scale to create 

an imbalance against the enemy and set the tempo of a campaign. For a 

tactician, intelligence is concerned with capabilities; but at the operational 

level, intelligence is focused on enemy intentions. A tactical commander 

will use deception to hide his forces; an operational commander will use 

deception to mask his intentions.

The use of reserves is critical to the operational artist. Yet these are 

not reserves that might represent an inactive force waiting to be put into 

action, which is customarily how reserves are seen at the tactical level. 

Rather, reserves at the operational level are thought of as the future 

employment of forces that may or may not already be engaged in the 

battle or campaign. Logistics too is a factor in this discussion. At the 

strategic level, force generation capability and logistics are applied in 

broad terms and viewed as long-term reserves. At the operational level, 

the logistics capability is another form of reserve and an asset that affects 

the outcome of an armed conflict. At the tactical level, however, logistics 

affects only the battle in progress.

From the strategic level, a commander looks toward the outcome of 

campaigns and battles as a means of achieving national policy objectives. 

This process requires a focus on a distant goal. The operational commander 

often looks to a closer goal, which would be achieved following a campaign 

or series of battles. Obviously, the tactical commander is focused on the 

outcome of specific engagements or battles.

Simply stated, the strategist identifies broad goals and generates the 

capabilities to achieve those goals, while the operational commander 

seeks a unity of effort over a specific period of time, and the tactician 

initiates immediate action on the field of battle. The operational art of 

war is thus different in sum and part. It is more than large-scale tactics, 

but it is not small-scale strategy either. It has both a tactical and a 

strategic dimension, because it must create a vision of unity of action on 

the battlefield that ultimately achieves a strategic objective.

For both the soldier and the student of military history, this anthology 

will provide an orientation to significant battles and campaigns from the 

past. Rather than view the sound generalship of Napoleon and the tactical 

displacement of his divisions at Jena, the reader might also consider how 

this battle and the entire campaign affected both the French and Prussian 

strategies. Even the dramatic clash at Gettysburg becomes more than 

simply Little Round Top, Cemetery Ridge, Culp’s Hill, and Pickett’s 

Charge, especially when given an operational perspective. Historical 

Perspectives of the Operational Art encourages students and soldiers 

alike to think beyond the battle that is before them. Isolated and taken 

out of context, tactical maneuvers can provide a surreal comprehension 
vi 

where and when to fight and tactics how to conduct the fight. In turn, 

tacticians employ fire and maneuver to achieve a limited objective, while 

operational commanders use fire and maneuver on a larger scale to create 

an imbalance against the enemy and set the tempo of a campaign. For a 

tactician, intelligence is concerned with capabilities; but at the operational 

level, intelligence is focused on enemy intentions. A tactical commander 

will use deception to hide his forces; an operational commander will use 

deception to mask his intentions.

The use of reserves is critical to the operational artist. Yet these are 

not reserves that might represent an inactive force waiting to be put into 

action, which is customarily how reserves are seen at the tactical level. 

Rather, reserves at the operational level are thought of as the future 

employment of forces that may or may not already be engaged in the 

battle or campaign. Logistics too is a factor in this discussion. At the 

strategic level, force generation capability and logistics are applied in 

broad terms and viewed as long-term reserves. At the operational level, 

the logistics capability is another form of reserve and an asset that affects 

the outcome of an armed conflict. At the tactical level, however, logistics 

affects only the battle in progress.

From the strategic level, a commander looks toward the outcome of 

campaigns and battles as a means of achieving national policy objectives. 

This process requires a focus on a distant goal. The operational commander 

often looks to a closer goal, which would be achieved following a campaign 

or series of battles. Obviously, the tactical commander is focused on the 

outcome of specific engagements or battles.

Simply stated, the strategist identifies broad goals and generates the 

capabilities to achieve those goals, while the operational commander 

seeks a unity of effort over a specific period of time, and the tactician 

initiates immediate action on the field of battle. The operational art of 

war is thus different in sum and part. It is more than large-scale tactics, 

but it is not small-scale strategy either. It has both a tactical and a 

strategic dimension, because it must create a vision of unity of action on 

the battlefield that ultimately achieves a strategic objective.

For both the soldier and the student of military history, this anthology 

will provide an orientation to significant battles and campaigns from the 

past. Rather than view the sound generalship of Napoleon and the tactical 

displacement of his divisions at Jena, the reader might also consider how 

this battle and the entire campaign affected both the French and Prussian 

strategies. Even the dramatic clash at Gettysburg becomes more than 

simply Little Round Top, Cemetery Ridge, Culp’s Hill, and Pickett’s 

Charge, especially when given an operational perspective. Historical 

Perspectives of the Operational Art encourages students and soldiers 

alike to think beyond the battle that is before them. Isolated and taken 

out of context, tactical maneuvers can provide a surreal comprehension 


x 

Part Four: The United States

 Page

Introduction 329

The Origins of Operational Art 333

Brig. Gen. Harold W. Nelson, U.S. Army, Retired

Operational Art and the Gettysburg Campaign 349

Col. Arthur V. Grant, U.S. Army, Retired

Normandy to Falaise: A Critique of Allied Operational 

 Planning in 1944 393

Russell F. Weigley, Ph.D.

After Inch ́on: MacArthur’s 1950 Campaign in North Korea 415

Col. Stanlis David Milkowski, U.S. Army, Retired

The Maturation of Operational Art: Operations Desert Shield

 and Desert Storm 439

Brig. Gen. John S. Brown

Afterword 483

List of Contributors 485

Index 489

Tables

1. The French Grand Armée’s Reinforcement Schedule, 

 13 –14 October 1806 50

2. Soviet Tank Army Composition, June 1942 252

3. Soviet Mechanized Corps Types, September 1942 252

Maps

1. Jena and Vicinity, 1806: Battles of Jena and Auerstädt 54

2. The Campaign in Bohemia, 1866: Army Concentration 

 Areas and Moltke’s Plan of Advance 122

3. Franco-Prussian War, 1870 –1871: 

 Concentration and Initial Operations 128

4. Franco-Prussian War, 1870 –1871: Siege of Paris 132

5. The Schlieffen Plan, 1905 152
x 

Part Four: The United States

 Page

Introduction 329

The Origins of Operational Art 333

Brig. Gen. Harold W. Nelson, U.S. Army, Retired

Operational Art and the Gettysburg Campaign 349

Col. Arthur V. Grant, U.S. Army, Retired

Normandy to Falaise: A Critique of Allied Operational 

 Planning in 1944 393

Russell F. Weigley, Ph.D.

After Inch ́on: MacArthur’s 1950 Campaign in North Korea 415

Col. Stanlis David Milkowski, U.S. Army, Retired

The Maturation of Operational Art: Operations Desert Shield

 and Desert Storm 439

Brig. Gen. John S. Brown

Afterword 483

List of Contributors 485

Index 489

Tables

1. The French Grand Armée’s Reinforcement Schedule, 

 13 –14 October 1806 50

2. Soviet Tank Army Composition, June 1942 252

3. Soviet Mechanized Corps Types, September 1942 252

Maps

1. Jena and Vicinity, 1806: Battles of Jena and Auerstädt 54

2. The Campaign in Bohemia, 1866: Army Concentration 

 Areas and Moltke’s Plan of Advance 122

3. Franco-Prussian War, 1870 –1871: 

 Concentration and Initial Operations 128

4. Franco-Prussian War, 1870 –1871: Siege of Paris 132

5. The Schlieffen Plan, 1905 152

Historical Perspectives 

of THE Operational Art


historical perspectives of the operational art 

Military Art’s Changing Nature

A chief problem bedeviling all military theorists of the period was 

the changing nature of modern operations. Historically, the term operation had been in use at least since the end of the seventeenth century to 

describe what European armies did in the field. Initially, during the age 

of preindustrial warfare, generals and kings raised professional armies to 

fight limited wars for the dynastic state’s limited objectives. Within limited war’s framework, the conduct of operations formed an integral part 

of strategy, and strategy was conceived as simply “the tactics of theaterlevel operations.”3

 By the eighteenth century’s end, Napoleon imparted 

new meaning to the traditional calculus when he raised larger armies to 

fight decisively for objectives that called for the annihilation of enemy 

forces and gave rise to empires.

Still, the basic technologies remained the same, and with room for alteration and even poetic license, the next generation of military thinkers, 

led by Henri Jomini and his disciples, redefined the traditional preindustrial paradigm to describe Napoleonic military art. Their view was that 

military strategy remained the domain of large-unit operations and that 

the essence of Napoleonic genius could be understood in his pursuit of 

“the strategy of the single point.” Napoleon’s columns march-maneuvered 

within theater to force convergence with the enemy at a single point—finite in time and space—for climactic battle to determine the outcome of 

a season’s campaign, perhaps even the outcome of an entire war. Strategy 

described a limited complex of actions, including approaches, marches, 

countermarches, and maneuvers, which took place within theater to leverage mass for decisive battle. Tactics described what happened within 

the limited confines of the battlefield.4

During the nineteenth century’s latter half, about the time when 

most military thinkers had grown comfortable with this understanding 

of strategy and tactics, the industrial revolution went to war, thereby altering the basic paradigm in ways not fully understood until after World 

War I:

● The evolution of the modern industrial state during the nineteenth century enabled governments to tap vast manpower resources to produce true mass armies 

based on the cadre and reserve principle of recruitment and organization.

● The application of steam and electricity to military ends enabled governments 

to mobilize these armies and project them into potential theaters with unprecedented rapidity and predictability.

● The size of these armies and their preparation for deployment in future conflict 

mandated the application of industrial-style planning and directing methods.

● The new firepower based first on rifled, breech-loading weaponry, then on its 

magazine-fed, smokeless powder variant, increased lethality and ranges and 

with them, the scale of modern combat.
historical perspectives of the operational art 

Military Art’s Changing Nature

A chief problem bedeviling all military theorists of the period was 

the changing nature of modern operations. Historically, the term operation had been in use at least since the end of the seventeenth century to 

describe what European armies did in the field. Initially, during the age 

of preindustrial warfare, generals and kings raised professional armies to 

fight limited wars for the dynastic state’s limited objectives. Within limited war’s framework, the conduct of operations formed an integral part 

of strategy, and strategy was conceived as simply “the tactics of theaterlevel operations.”3

 By the eighteenth century’s end, Napoleon imparted 

new meaning to the traditional calculus when he raised larger armies to 

fight decisively for objectives that called for the annihilation of enemy 

forces and gave rise to empires.

Still, the basic technologies remained the same, and with room for alteration and even poetic license, the next generation of military thinkers, 

led by Henri Jomini and his disciples, redefined the traditional preindustrial paradigm to describe Napoleonic military art. Their view was that 

military strategy remained the domain of large-unit operations and that 

the essence of Napoleonic genius could be understood in his pursuit of 

“the strategy of the single point.” Napoleon’s columns march-maneuvered 

within theater to force convergence with the enemy at a single point—finite in time and space—for climactic battle to determine the outcome of 

a season’s campaign, perhaps even the outcome of an entire war. Strategy 

described a limited complex of actions, including approaches, marches, 

countermarches, and maneuvers, which took place within theater to leverage mass for decisive battle. Tactics described what happened within 

the limited confines of the battlefield.4

During the nineteenth century’s latter half, about the time when 

most military thinkers had grown comfortable with this understanding 

of strategy and tactics, the industrial revolution went to war, thereby altering the basic paradigm in ways not fully understood until after World 

War I:

● The evolution of the modern industrial state during the nineteenth century enabled governments to tap vast manpower resources to produce true mass armies 

based on the cadre and reserve principle of recruitment and organization.

● The application of steam and electricity to military ends enabled governments 

to mobilize these armies and project them into potential theaters with unprecedented rapidity and predictability.

● The size of these armies and their preparation for deployment in future conflict 

mandated the application of industrial-style planning and directing methods.

● The new firepower based first on rifled, breech-loading weaponry, then on its 

magazine-fed, smokeless powder variant, increased lethality and ranges and 

with them, the scale of modern combat.
historical perspectives of the operational art 

However, the overall picture had changed by the beginning of the 

twentieth century. Campaigns were no longer governed by the seasons. 

The nature of operations was increasingly dictated by the thrust of 

higher-level preparation and planning, and operations themselves were 

no longer finite affairs leading to a single decisive battle. Operations, a 

complex of military actions and battles linked by time, place, and intent, 

might extend for several weeks or longer. An operation’s course might 

witness a major regroupment of forces and require changed command, 

control, and logistic arrangements, all within the altered limits of greatly 

expanded space and time. The growing realization was that the preparation for and conduct of operations had expanded beyond the limits of 

traditional military strategy to incorporate new content, methods, and 

concerns. The most important issue was one of linkages, and within a 

conceptual framework for the conduct of operations, how to fashion linkages to contend with changes in time, timing, duration, support, scale, 

range, and distance.

World War I simply reinforced and added more wrinkles to these and 

related considerations. Combat experience demonstrated conclusively 

that single operations no longer dictated the outcome of a campaign or 

war. Decision came only as a result of successive operations linked by 

intent, location, allocation of resources, and concerted action. Combat 

experience also demonstrated the bankruptcy of the extended-line strategy—once flanks were denied, adversaries were left with two unpalatable 

options: Effect a penetration or attack in another theater. Penetrations 

presented formidable challenges because the hard school of experience 

taught that defending forces could fall back on a combination of deep 

reserves, a relatively undamaged rail net and a coherent rear area to reconstitute a viable defense in what later was called operational depths. 

Consequently, after only limited tactical gains at great cost, the attackers 

would have to pause and prepare for follow-on offensive operations.

World War I also suggested solutions for the bloody impasse from 

outside the theater. One was to have a potential ally available with vast 

manpower reserves to tip the scales at the eleventh hour. Another was to 

attack the enemy’s deep supporting rear, either indirectly through surface 

blockade or a submarine guerre de course. Still another came from technological innovation: Aircraft could fly over trench lines, while armored 

vehicles could crush and shoot their way through. But before any of these 

innovations could be applied with any degree of consistent success in 

future war, practitioners had to understand what had happened and why 

and what the implications were for the future. In the course of pondering 

these variables, theorists and practitioners would begin to fashion not 

only a common vocabulary, including a rudimentary understanding of 

operational art, but also a common conceptual framework for the conduct 

of operations.
historical perspectives of the operational art 

However, the overall picture had changed by the beginning of the 

twentieth century. Campaigns were no longer governed by the seasons. 

The nature of operations was increasingly dictated by the thrust of 

higher-level preparation and planning, and operations themselves were 

no longer finite affairs leading to a single decisive battle. Operations, a 

complex of military actions and battles linked by time, place, and intent, 

might extend for several weeks or longer. An operation’s course might 

witness a major regroupment of forces and require changed command, 

control, and logistic arrangements, all within the altered limits of greatly 

expanded space and time. The growing realization was that the preparation for and conduct of operations had expanded beyond the limits of 

traditional military strategy to incorporate new content, methods, and 

concerns. The most important issue was one of linkages, and within a 

conceptual framework for the conduct of operations, how to fashion linkages to contend with changes in time, timing, duration, support, scale, 

range, and distance.

World War I simply reinforced and added more wrinkles to these and 

related considerations. Combat experience demonstrated conclusively 

that single operations no longer dictated the outcome of a campaign or 

war. Decision came only as a result of successive operations linked by 

intent, location, allocation of resources, and concerted action. Combat 

experience also demonstrated the bankruptcy of the extended-line strategy—once flanks were denied, adversaries were left with two unpalatable 

options: Effect a penetration or attack in another theater. Penetrations 

presented formidable challenges because the hard school of experience 

taught that defending forces could fall back on a combination of deep 

reserves, a relatively undamaged rail net and a coherent rear area to reconstitute a viable defense in what later was called operational depths. 

Consequently, after only limited tactical gains at great cost, the attackers 

would have to pause and prepare for follow-on offensive operations.

World War I also suggested solutions for the bloody impasse from 

outside the theater. One was to have a potential ally available with vast 

manpower reserves to tip the scales at the eleventh hour. Another was to 

attack the enemy’s deep supporting rear, either indirectly through surface 

blockade or a submarine guerre de course. Still another came from technological innovation: Aircraft could fly over trench lines, while armored 

vehicles could crush and shoot their way through. But before any of these 

innovations could be applied with any degree of consistent success in 

future war, practitioners had to understand what had happened and why 

and what the implications were for the future. In the course of pondering 

these variables, theorists and practitioners would begin to fashion not 

only a common vocabulary, including a rudimentary understanding of 

operational art, but also a common conceptual framework for the conduct 

of operations.
historical perspectives of the operational art 

happening within theater.9 For a time, under military theorist Sigismund W. von Schlichting’s influence, the Germans toyed with operativ, 

but they do not appear to have elaborated it with any degree of persistence and consistency.10 Under the influence of varied perspectives and 

preoccupations, other commentators saw no gap and therefore found 

little reason to worry about it, continuing to regard tactics and strategy 

as directly linked.

In contrast, by 1922 the Soviets were beginning to fill the “terminological gap” with something they called operational art, and they 

would spend much of the 1920s and 1930s developing a more complete 

understanding of this concept and its implications.11 At first, Soviet 

Army thinkers used the term to bridge the gap between strategy and 

tactics and to describe more precisely the discipline that governed the 

preparation for and conduct of operations. In 1926 a Soviet theorist and 

former Imperial Russian General Staff officer, Aleksandr A. Svechin, 

captured the essence of linkages among the new three-part understanding of military art when he wrote, “Tactics makes up the steps from 

which operational leaps are assembled. Strategy points out the path.”12

Not surprisingly, a new department, Conduct of Operations, appeared 

alongside the conventional Departments of Strategy and Tactics at the 

Soviet Staff Academy.

The new understanding of the relationship among the three components of military art provided the impetus for a second factor—steady 

focus on the evolving nature of operations, with implications for future 

war. In accordance with the foregoing discussion, the Soviets understood 

that the industrial revolution had changed the face of modern operations. 

They knew that operations now had to be consciously differentiated from 

battles, which were shorter in duration, more limited in scope and outcome, and more episodic in nature. Moreover, World War I had driven 

home the realization that single operations in themselves rarely produced 

strategic decision. Decision now came as the result of a whole complex 

of successive, simultaneous, and related operations. The Soviets also perceived that operations as diverse as those of World War I and their own 

civil war had much in common. This realization came primarily from an 

understanding that logistics and rail and road nets played a key role in 

determining the scale, scope, and depth of modern military operations.13

During the mid-1920s Soviet Army Staff Chief Mikhail N. Tukhachevskiy ordered the faculty that taught the conduct of operations at the staff 

academy to incorporate logistics into their operational-level exercises. 

Some Russian commentators later asserted that consideration of support 

in tandem with operations actually gave birth to the concept of Soviet 

operational art.14

Soviet theorist Georgiy S. Isserson provided the necessary insight: 

that armies since the onset of World War I had witnessed a “disaggrehistorical perspectives of the operational art 

happening within theater.9 For a time, under military theorist Sigismund W. von Schlichting’s influence, the Germans toyed with operativ, 

but they do not appear to have elaborated it with any degree of persistence and consistency.10 Under the influence of varied perspectives and 

preoccupations, other commentators saw no gap and therefore found 

little reason to worry about it, continuing to regard tactics and strategy 

as directly linked.

In contrast, by 1922 the Soviets were beginning to fill the “terminological gap” with something they called operational art, and they 

would spend much of the 1920s and 1930s developing a more complete 

understanding of this concept and its implications.11 At first, Soviet 

Army thinkers used the term to bridge the gap between strategy and 

tactics and to describe more precisely the discipline that governed the 

preparation for and conduct of operations. In 1926 a Soviet theorist and 

former Imperial Russian General Staff officer, Aleksandr A. Svechin, 

captured the essence of linkages among the new three-part understanding of military art when he wrote, “Tactics makes up the steps from 

which operational leaps are assembled. Strategy points out the path.”12

Not surprisingly, a new department, Conduct of Operations, appeared 

alongside the conventional Departments of Strategy and Tactics at the 

Soviet Staff Academy.

The new understanding of the relationship among the three components of military art provided the impetus for a second factor—steady 

focus on the evolving nature of operations, with implications for future 

war. In accordance with the foregoing discussion, the Soviets understood 

that the industrial revolution had changed the face of modern operations. 

They knew that operations now had to be consciously differentiated from 

battles, which were shorter in duration, more limited in scope and outcome, and more episodic in nature. Moreover, World War I had driven 

home the realization that single operations in themselves rarely produced 

strategic decision. Decision now came as the result of a whole complex 

of successive, simultaneous, and related operations. The Soviets also perceived that operations as diverse as those of World War I and their own 

civil war had much in common. This realization came primarily from an 

understanding that logistics and rail and road nets played a key role in 

determining the scale, scope, and depth of modern military operations.13

During the mid-1920s Soviet Army Staff Chief Mikhail N. Tukhachevskiy ordered the faculty that taught the conduct of operations at the staff 

academy to incorporate logistics into their operational-level exercises. 

Some Russian commentators later asserted that consideration of support 

in tandem with operations actually gave birth to the concept of Soviet 

operational art.14

Soviet theorist Georgiy S. Isserson provided the necessary insight: 

that armies since the onset of World War I had witnessed a “disaggre10 historical perspectives of the operational art 

After analyzing previous operations, and assuming massive injections of armor and air power, the Soviets calculated that future operations might occupy up to 300 kilometers of frontage, extend to a depth 

of about 250 kilometers, and have a duration of thirty to forty-five days. 

Consequently, these operations would be closely tied to the attainment 

of objectives determined by larger strategic requirements, while overall 

success would rest on the ability to integrate logistics and tactics into 

the larger design.

Linkages between fighting front and large supporting rear were 

also clear. For various reasons, including a close reading of Carl von 

Clausewitz’s work, the digestion of lessons from the home front in 

World War I and a growing sense that victory in future war would depend on the state’s total resources, the Soviets gravitated to a view that 

future conflict would be systemic and protracted. During the 1930s, 

Joseph Stalin’s policies of agricultural collectivization and massive industrialization amounted to a peacetime mobilization of Soviet society. 

A succession of five-year plans built infrastructure for future war and 

produced much of the military hardware required for deep operations. 

The transformation—even militarization—of Soviet society stood as 

grim testimony to linkages between strategic vision and operationallevel capability.17

Stalin’s potential German adversaries inherited a different military 

legacy and worked from a different philosophical base. After lightning 

victories over the French in 1870 and 1871, much of the rationale behind German military planning had been to devise initial operations of 

sufficient scope and speed that they would bring about the enemy’s capitulation during a single brief campaign of annihilation. The Germans 

assumed that modern society had become too fragile to withstand the 

dislocations of extended military conflict. The World War I experience 

seemed to confirm earlier apprehensions: Protractedness had brought 

the “Hydra-headed” dangers of attrition, domestic exhaustion, and political instability—even revolution.

As the German Reichswehr emerged from the Versailles-imposed 

1920s cocoon to become Hitler’s Wehrmacht in the late 1930s, emphasis 

once again fell upon avoidance. From a near-intuitive grasp of the military 

potential resident in the same technologies the Soviets were developing, 

the Germans fashioned Blitzkrieg, a stunning response to the challenges, 

including protractedness, inherent in positional warfare. The marriage 

of air power and armor with combat technique gave birth to a combined 

arms concept with immediate tactical application and important operational implications. Once again the siren-like calls of annihilation and 

rapid decision summoned the Germans to rocky military shores.18

In retrospect, the new German vision for “lightning war” had at least 

two major shortcomings, one of which was accepted as self-imposed. 
10 historical perspectives of the operational art 

After analyzing previous operations, and assuming massive injections of armor and air power, the Soviets calculated that future operations might occupy up to 300 kilometers of frontage, extend to a depth 

of about 250 kilometers, and have a duration of thirty to forty-five days. 

Consequently, these operations would be closely tied to the attainment 

of objectives determined by larger strategic requirements, while overall 

success would rest on the ability to integrate logistics and tactics into 

the larger design.

Linkages between fighting front and large supporting rear were 

also clear. For various reasons, including a close reading of Carl von 

Clausewitz’s work, the digestion of lessons from the home front in 

World War I and a growing sense that victory in future war would depend on the state’s total resources, the Soviets gravitated to a view that 

future conflict would be systemic and protracted. During the 1930s, 

Joseph Stalin’s policies of agricultural collectivization and massive industrialization amounted to a peacetime mobilization of Soviet society. 

A succession of five-year plans built infrastructure for future war and 

produced much of the military hardware required for deep operations. 

The transformation—even militarization—of Soviet society stood as 

grim testimony to linkages between strategic vision and operationallevel capability.17

Stalin’s potential German adversaries inherited a different military 

legacy and worked from a different philosophical base. After lightning 

victories over the French in 1870 and 1871, much of the rationale behind German military planning had been to devise initial operations of 

sufficient scope and speed that they would bring about the enemy’s capitulation during a single brief campaign of annihilation. The Germans 

assumed that modern society had become too fragile to withstand the 

dislocations of extended military conflict. The World War I experience 

seemed to confirm earlier apprehensions: Protractedness had brought 

the “Hydra-headed” dangers of attrition, domestic exhaustion, and political instability—even revolution.

As the German Reichswehr emerged from the Versailles-imposed 

1920s cocoon to become Hitler’s Wehrmacht in the late 1930s, emphasis 

once again fell upon avoidance. From a near-intuitive grasp of the military 

potential resident in the same technologies the Soviets were developing, 

the Germans fashioned Blitzkrieg, a stunning response to the challenges, 

including protractedness, inherent in positional warfare. The marriage 

of air power and armor with combat technique gave birth to a combined 

arms concept with immediate tactical application and important operational implications. Once again the siren-like calls of annihilation and 

rapid decision summoned the Germans to rocky military shores.18

In retrospect, the new German vision for “lightning war” had at least 

two major shortcomings, one of which was accepted as self-imposed. 
12 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The World War II and Cold War Legacies

World War II also left the U.S. armed forces with considerable experience in conducting modern operations. However, operational mastery 

had come neither easily nor quickly, in part because the period between 

the world wars offered scant intellectual, doctrinal, and organizational 

precedent. At the U.S. Army Command and General Staff School (USACGSC) during the 1930s, theater operations were taught according to 

nineteenth-century precedent as “military strategy.” The Army’s capstone 

field manual, FM 100–5, Operations, appeared in draft form in 1939, 

but its focus, as befitting a small, peacetime ground force, was primarily 

tactical. The Louisiana Maneuvers of 1940 and 1941 offered only belated 

and limited practical experience with large-unit operations.23 For its part, 

the Army Air Corps had to support ground operations, but much of its 

attention was riveted on acquiring the expertise and hardware to conduct 

strategic bombing campaigns.24

To its credit, the U.S. Navy, drawing from its experience in World 

War I and anticipating the possibility of a protracted two-ocean war, seriously considered the planning challenges inherent in conducting multidimensional operations over time and across large expanses.25

 Yet, the 

overall U.S. picture was one of Isserson’s disaggregated forces translated 

into American terms. Unfortunately, the services and their offspring remained largely preoccupied with their own perspectives, problems, and 

self-interests. For these and other reasons, the background for preparing 

and conducting operations constituted at best a mixed bag. The result 

was that U.S. military forces during World War II had to learn on the 

job from the hard school of experience. To their credit, commanders and 

their staffs gradually perfected the art of conducting massive combined 

and joint operations across vast distances to reach strategic objectives. It 

would be difficult, in retrospect, to argue that major operations by Admiral Chester W. Nimitz in the Central Pacific, General Douglas MacArthur 

in the Southwest Pacific, General Dwight D. Eisenhower in Europe, and 

General George S. Patton, Jr., across northern France did not match the 

majesty and significance of Soviet World War II operations.

Despite the richness of experience in conducting World War II

operations, the United States and the Soviet Union followed different 

paths of postwar doctrinal and organizational evolution. For a time, 

neither former ally focused consistently on large-scale operations. The 

Cold War precluded doctrinal interchange, while demobilization and 

the advent of nuclear weaponry produced varying responses that affected the way the two armed powers viewed their roles and the nature 

of possible military operations.

In the U.S. Army, theater armies and support commands atrophied or 

disappeared in the rush to demobilize, leaving the Army to seek parochial 
12 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The World War II and Cold War Legacies

World War II also left the U.S. armed forces with considerable experience in conducting modern operations. However, operational mastery 

had come neither easily nor quickly, in part because the period between 

the world wars offered scant intellectual, doctrinal, and organizational 

precedent. At the U.S. Army Command and General Staff School (USACGSC) during the 1930s, theater operations were taught according to 

nineteenth-century precedent as “military strategy.” The Army’s capstone 

field manual, FM 100–5, Operations, appeared in draft form in 1939, 

but its focus, as befitting a small, peacetime ground force, was primarily 

tactical. The Louisiana Maneuvers of 1940 and 1941 offered only belated 

and limited practical experience with large-unit operations.23 For its part, 

the Army Air Corps had to support ground operations, but much of its 

attention was riveted on acquiring the expertise and hardware to conduct 

strategic bombing campaigns.24

To its credit, the U.S. Navy, drawing from its experience in World 

War I and anticipating the possibility of a protracted two-ocean war, seriously considered the planning challenges inherent in conducting multidimensional operations over time and across large expanses.25

 Yet, the 

overall U.S. picture was one of Isserson’s disaggregated forces translated 

into American terms. Unfortunately, the services and their offspring remained largely preoccupied with their own perspectives, problems, and 

self-interests. For these and other reasons, the background for preparing 

and conducting operations constituted at best a mixed bag. The result 

was that U.S. military forces during World War II had to learn on the 

job from the hard school of experience. To their credit, commanders and 

their staffs gradually perfected the art of conducting massive combined 

and joint operations across vast distances to reach strategic objectives. It 

would be difficult, in retrospect, to argue that major operations by Admiral Chester W. Nimitz in the Central Pacific, General Douglas MacArthur 

in the Southwest Pacific, General Dwight D. Eisenhower in Europe, and 

General George S. Patton, Jr., across northern France did not match the 

majesty and significance of Soviet World War II operations.

Despite the richness of experience in conducting World War II

operations, the United States and the Soviet Union followed different 

paths of postwar doctrinal and organizational evolution. For a time, 

neither former ally focused consistently on large-scale operations. The 

Cold War precluded doctrinal interchange, while demobilization and 

the advent of nuclear weaponry produced varying responses that affected the way the two armed powers viewed their roles and the nature 

of possible military operations.

In the U.S. Army, theater armies and support commands atrophied or 

disappeared in the rush to demobilize, leaving the Army to seek parochial 
14 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Middle East War and respond to the challenge of possible conflict with 

Warsaw Pact hordes on the northern European plain. The result was the 

1976 version of FM 100–5, which emphasized “active defense.”29

Dissatisfaction with this concept and the search for alternatives was a 

third major factor in the Army’s post-Vietnam doctrinal evolution. On one 

hand, the geopolitical realities of NATO dictated both a forward defense 

and national contributions of corps-size formations, both of which lobbied strongly for a continuing tactical-level focus. The 1976 FM 100–5

accurately reflected this focus. On the other hand, increasingly obvious 

considerations, including the necessity for defense in depth and the requirement to apply and integrate sophisticated technologies at higher levels, argued for new departures in thought and organization. As critics and 

writers of doctrine turned to the promise inherent in conducting a future 

war of maneuver with large-scale units, they sought historical and doctrinal 

precedent. Earlier, advocates of active defense had seized upon the dogged 

German defense against the Soviet onslaught from 1943 to 1945 as key to 

the doctrinal secret of “fighting outnumbered and winning.” The belated 

realization was that the Germans had fought outnumbered and lost.

Now, the advocates of maneuver war seized upon Blitzkrieg and initial German successes in World War II to advance doctrinal departures 

that would emphasize the marriage of technology and technique while 

conducting modern mobile operations. Almost as an afterthought, other 

thinkers began seriously to examine the doctrine and military art of the 

Soviet adversary that had inflicted defeat on “the devil’s disciples.” From 

Soviet military history there gradually emerged a mature understanding 

of the three-part nature of Soviet military art, along with notions about 

why the Soviets chose to place separate emphasis on operational art as 

the theory and practice of conducting operations. The term found immediate resonance among U.S. Army doctrine writers, who were now more 

attuned to the nuances and complexities of modern operations.30

Meanwhile, the Soviets themselves emerged from the doctrinal torpor induced by Stalinist and early nuclear-era rigidities. From the mid1960s on into the 1970s, as the Soviets slowly clawed their way to nuclear 

parity with the United States, military art theorists filled the pages of 

the serious Soviet military press with works that amounted to a renaissance of operational art and its contemporary legacy. Under conditions 

of nuclear parity, a major assumption was that in a future European war, 

the nature of operations might remain conventional, either initially or 

for an extended period. Consequently, it was necessary once again to 

focus singlemindedly on the preparation and conduct of large-scale conventional operations—albeit under conditions that might witness a rapid 

escalation to nuclear war.31 During the late 1970s and early 1980s, this 

train of thought lay at the heart of the conceptual evolution of the theater 

strategic offensive operation. This series of integrated operations envi14 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Middle East War and respond to the challenge of possible conflict with 

Warsaw Pact hordes on the northern European plain. The result was the 

1976 version of FM 100–5, which emphasized “active defense.”29

Dissatisfaction with this concept and the search for alternatives was a 

third major factor in the Army’s post-Vietnam doctrinal evolution. On one 

hand, the geopolitical realities of NATO dictated both a forward defense 

and national contributions of corps-size formations, both of which lobbied strongly for a continuing tactical-level focus. The 1976 FM 100–5

accurately reflected this focus. On the other hand, increasingly obvious 

considerations, including the necessity for defense in depth and the requirement to apply and integrate sophisticated technologies at higher levels, argued for new departures in thought and organization. As critics and 

writers of doctrine turned to the promise inherent in conducting a future 

war of maneuver with large-scale units, they sought historical and doctrinal 

precedent. Earlier, advocates of active defense had seized upon the dogged 

German defense against the Soviet onslaught from 1943 to 1945 as key to 

the doctrinal secret of “fighting outnumbered and winning.” The belated 

realization was that the Germans had fought outnumbered and lost.

Now, the advocates of maneuver war seized upon Blitzkrieg and initial German successes in World War II to advance doctrinal departures 

that would emphasize the marriage of technology and technique while 

conducting modern mobile operations. Almost as an afterthought, other 

thinkers began seriously to examine the doctrine and military art of the 

Soviet adversary that had inflicted defeat on “the devil’s disciples.” From 

Soviet military history there gradually emerged a mature understanding 

of the three-part nature of Soviet military art, along with notions about 

why the Soviets chose to place separate emphasis on operational art as 

the theory and practice of conducting operations. The term found immediate resonance among U.S. Army doctrine writers, who were now more 

attuned to the nuances and complexities of modern operations.30

Meanwhile, the Soviets themselves emerged from the doctrinal torpor induced by Stalinist and early nuclear-era rigidities. From the mid1960s on into the 1970s, as the Soviets slowly clawed their way to nuclear 

parity with the United States, military art theorists filled the pages of 

the serious Soviet military press with works that amounted to a renaissance of operational art and its contemporary legacy. Under conditions 

of nuclear parity, a major assumption was that in a future European war, 

the nature of operations might remain conventional, either initially or 

for an extended period. Consequently, it was necessary once again to 

focus singlemindedly on the preparation and conduct of large-scale conventional operations—albeit under conditions that might witness a rapid 

escalation to nuclear war.31 During the late 1970s and early 1980s, this 

train of thought lay at the heart of the conceptual evolution of the theater 

strategic offensive operation. This series of integrated operations envi16 historical perspectives of the operational art 

curious mixture of modified Clausewitz and Jomini doctrines came the 

concepts of operational design, including center of gravity, lines of operation, decisive points, and culmination, which underlay operational art and 

its application to campaign planning.34 From a sense that technology and 

circumstance were changing the nature and content of operations flowed 

a generic understanding of operational-level functions—intelligence, 

fires, maneuver, logistics, protection, and command and control—which 

entered either sequentially or simultaneously into planning for major 

operations and campaigns. From a realization that operational art would 

remain an enemy concept unless closely tied to education and application 

came a gradual introduction of campaign planning into the curricula of 

the U.S. Army War College and the USACGSC.

35

Joint Impact

Although the Army had dealt convincingly with issues of concept, 

vocabulary, and application, there was no immediate guarantee that the 

joint community would pick up on one service’s fixation with operational 

art. Of the other services, only the U.S. Air Force had increasingly become a party to the Army’s doctrinal evolution, thanks to the explicit 

and implicit implications of FOFA and AirLand Battle. Indeed, doctrinal 

evolution might have stopped in the mid-1980s had it not been for several 

subsequent, near-simultaneous developments.

The 1986 Goldwater-Nichols Department of Defense Reorganization 

Act had several important and at first almost unnoticeable consequences 

for the U.S. defense establishment. The new congressional legislation enhanced the stature and functions of the warfighting commanders in chief 

(CINCs), who now exercised increased responsibility in planning for and 

conducting future joint and combined military operations.

A mandated emphasis on jointness forced the services to write 

doctrine with an eye toward a common understanding of the conduct of 

operations, both jointly and separately. With the creation of J–7, a new 

Joint Staff directorate, joint-level doctrinal stress fell increasingly on the 

development of common joint-level vocabulary and concepts. Under 

these circumstances, it was no accident that the U.S. Navy began to talk 

about operational art in maritime theaters. It was also no accident that 

Joint Publication 3–0, Doctrine for Joint Operations, and Joint Publication 5–0, Doctrine for Planning Joint Operations, focused more clearly 

and consistently on operational art.36

Another factor in contemporary doctrinal development was the end 

of the Cold War. One major result of vanishing bipolarity was a renewed 

effort to integrate regional perspectives and priorities into the crafting of 

U.S. national security and military strategies. These concepts provided 

guidance and a sense of larger context. The same concepts reinforced the 
16 historical perspectives of the operational art 

curious mixture of modified Clausewitz and Jomini doctrines came the 

concepts of operational design, including center of gravity, lines of operation, decisive points, and culmination, which underlay operational art and 

its application to campaign planning.34 From a sense that technology and 

circumstance were changing the nature and content of operations flowed 

a generic understanding of operational-level functions—intelligence, 

fires, maneuver, logistics, protection, and command and control—which 

entered either sequentially or simultaneously into planning for major 

operations and campaigns. From a realization that operational art would 

remain an enemy concept unless closely tied to education and application 

came a gradual introduction of campaign planning into the curricula of 

the U.S. Army War College and the USACGSC.

35

Joint Impact

Although the Army had dealt convincingly with issues of concept, 

vocabulary, and application, there was no immediate guarantee that the 

joint community would pick up on one service’s fixation with operational 

art. Of the other services, only the U.S. Air Force had increasingly become a party to the Army’s doctrinal evolution, thanks to the explicit 

and implicit implications of FOFA and AirLand Battle. Indeed, doctrinal 

evolution might have stopped in the mid-1980s had it not been for several 

subsequent, near-simultaneous developments.

The 1986 Goldwater-Nichols Department of Defense Reorganization 

Act had several important and at first almost unnoticeable consequences 

for the U.S. defense establishment. The new congressional legislation enhanced the stature and functions of the warfighting commanders in chief 

(CINCs), who now exercised increased responsibility in planning for and 

conducting future joint and combined military operations.

A mandated emphasis on jointness forced the services to write 

doctrine with an eye toward a common understanding of the conduct of 

operations, both jointly and separately. With the creation of J–7, a new 

Joint Staff directorate, joint-level doctrinal stress fell increasingly on the 

development of common joint-level vocabulary and concepts. Under 

these circumstances, it was no accident that the U.S. Navy began to talk 

about operational art in maritime theaters. It was also no accident that 

Joint Publication 3–0, Doctrine for Joint Operations, and Joint Publication 5–0, Doctrine for Planning Joint Operations, focused more clearly 

and consistently on operational art.36

Another factor in contemporary doctrinal development was the end 

of the Cold War. One major result of vanishing bipolarity was a renewed 

effort to integrate regional perspectives and priorities into the crafting of 

U.S. national security and military strategies. These concepts provided 

guidance and a sense of larger context. The same concepts reinforced the 
18 historical perspectives of the operational art

based on ideas, and ideas over time can be picked up, dropped, and either 

reborn or refashioned to suit fresh circumstances and changed situations. 

In general, operational art first appeared during the 1920s in response to 

the shifting content of strategy, the changing nature of operations, and 

the evolving nature of military structures. The larger context included the 

appearance of major new elements within the international order and the 

constant intrusion of new technology into military conflict. During the 

late 1980s and early 1990s, all these conditions were once again present; 

and in one of the ironies of intellectual and military history, they elicited 

a rebirth of interest in operational art under different circumstances. The 

productive elaboration of this concept in contemporary context supports 

the contention that military thinkers and doctrine writers should always 

draw inspiration from the past but should not be bound by it. Indeed, 

the term’s potential for retaining future significance argues that theorists 

should seek to expand and refine the limits of operational art. It and related concepts remain dynamic, and dynamism, while sometimes a source 

of confusion, is also an important sign of vitality and growth.

18 historical perspectives of the operational art 
18 historical perspectives of the operational art

based on ideas, and ideas over time can be picked up, dropped, and either 

reborn or refashioned to suit fresh circumstances and changed situations. 

In general, operational art first appeared during the 1920s in response to 

the shifting content of strategy, the changing nature of operations, and 

the evolving nature of military structures. The larger context included the 

appearance of major new elements within the international order and the 

constant intrusion of new technology into military conflict. During the 

late 1980s and early 1990s, all these conditions were once again present; 

and in one of the ironies of intellectual and military history, they elicited 

a rebirth of interest in operational art under different circumstances. The 

productive elaboration of this concept in contemporary context supports 

the contention that military thinkers and doctrine writers should always 

draw inspiration from the past but should not be bound by it. Indeed, 

the term’s potential for retaining future significance argues that theorists 

should seek to expand and refine the limits of operational art. It and related concepts remain dynamic, and dynamism, while sometimes a source 

of confusion, is also an important sign of vitality and growth.

18 historical perspectives of the operational art 
20 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of Modern Armies (Essex, U.K.: Frank Cass and Co., Ltd., 1994); see especially part 

two.

14. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoy postanovke,” pp. 84–85.

15. This argument is clearly enunciated in Georgiy S. Isserson, “Osnovy glubokoy 

operatsii” [Fundamentals of the Deep Operation], as cited by Cynthia A. Roberts, 

“Planning for War: The Red Army and the Catastrophe of 1941,” Europe-Asia Studies

(December 1995): 1323.

16. R. A. Savushkin, Razvitiye sovetskikh vooruzhyennykh sil voyennogo iskusstva v 

mezhvoyennyy period (1921–1941 gg.) [The Development of the Soviet Armed Forces 

and Military Art during the Inter-War Period (1921–1941)] (Moscow: VPA, 1989), pp. 

90–100.

17. Schneider, Structure of Strategic Revolution, pp. 231–65.

18. A comprehensive and provocative account of these and other continuities in modern 

German military development is Jehuda L. Wallach’s The Dogma of the Battle of 

Annihilation: The Theories of Clausewitz and Schlieffen and Their Impact on the German 

Conduct of Two World Wars (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1986), especially pp. 

229–81.

19. See the discussion, for example, in John Keegan, Six Armies in Normandy (New 

York: Viking Press, 1982), p. 243.

20. The most recent critique of Blitzkrieg in operational-strategic perspective is KarlHeinz Frieser, Blitzkrieg-Legende, 2d ed. (Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1996), chs. 1 

and 2; for the Soviet-German comparative perspective, see Shimon Naveh, In Pursuit of 

Military Excellence: The Evolution of Operational Theory (London: Frank Cass, 1997), 

pp. 221–38.

21. The attainments and difficulties of the prewar era are summarized in Georgiy S. 

Isserson, “Razvitiye teorii sovetskogo operativnogo iskusstva v 30-ye gody” [The 

Development at the Theory of Soviet Operational Art during the 1930s], VIZh (March 

1965), especially pp. 54–59.

22. The most recent treatment of the Eastern Front in World War II is David M. Glantz 

and Jonathan M. House, When Titans Clashed (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 

1995); the classic account of 1943 to 1945 in English remains John Erickson’s The Road 

to Berlin (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1983).

23. Christopher R. Gabel, The U.S. Army GHQ Maneuvers of 1941 (Washington, D.C.: 

U.S. Army Center of Military History 1992), pp. 185–94.

24. An eloquent summary with an emphasis on military geography is John Keegan, 

Fields of Battle: The Wars for North America (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996), pp. 

325–33.

25. See the overview in James J. Schneider, “War Plan Rainbow 5,” Defense Analysis

(December 1994): 289–92.

26. L. D. Holder, “Educating and Training for Theater Warfare,” in On Operational Art, 

ed. Clayton R. Newell and Michael D. Krause (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of 

Military History, 1994), pp.171–72.

27. Thomas W. Wolfe, Soviet Power and Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 

1970), pp. 32–49, 128–56.

28. The most recent account is Roger J. Spiller, “In the Shadow of the Dragon: Doctrine 

and the U.S. Army After Vietnam,” RUSI Journal 142, no. 6 (December 1997): 41–54.

29. Paul H. Herbert, Deciding What Has To Be Done: General William E. DePuy and the 

1976 Edition of FM 100–5 (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Combat Studies Institute, 1988), 

pp. 25–36.
20 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of Modern Armies (Essex, U.K.: Frank Cass and Co., Ltd., 1994); see especially part 

two.

14. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoy postanovke,” pp. 84–85.

15. This argument is clearly enunciated in Georgiy S. Isserson, “Osnovy glubokoy 

operatsii” [Fundamentals of the Deep Operation], as cited by Cynthia A. Roberts, 

“Planning for War: The Red Army and the Catastrophe of 1941,” Europe-Asia Studies

(December 1995): 1323.

16. R. A. Savushkin, Razvitiye sovetskikh vooruzhyennykh sil voyennogo iskusstva v 

mezhvoyennyy period (1921–1941 gg.) [The Development of the Soviet Armed Forces 

and Military Art during the Inter-War Period (1921–1941)] (Moscow: VPA, 1989), pp. 

90–100.

17. Schneider, Structure of Strategic Revolution, pp. 231–65.

18. A comprehensive and provocative account of these and other continuities in modern 

German military development is Jehuda L. Wallach’s The Dogma of the Battle of 

Annihilation: The Theories of Clausewitz and Schlieffen and Their Impact on the German 

Conduct of Two World Wars (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1986), especially pp. 

229–81.

19. See the discussion, for example, in John Keegan, Six Armies in Normandy (New 

York: Viking Press, 1982), p. 243.

20. The most recent critique of Blitzkrieg in operational-strategic perspective is KarlHeinz Frieser, Blitzkrieg-Legende, 2d ed. (Munich: R. Oldenbourg Verlag, 1996), chs. 1 

and 2; for the Soviet-German comparative perspective, see Shimon Naveh, In Pursuit of 

Military Excellence: The Evolution of Operational Theory (London: Frank Cass, 1997), 

pp. 221–38.

21. The attainments and difficulties of the prewar era are summarized in Georgiy S. 

Isserson, “Razvitiye teorii sovetskogo operativnogo iskusstva v 30-ye gody” [The 

Development at the Theory of Soviet Operational Art during the 1930s], VIZh (March 

1965), especially pp. 54–59.

22. The most recent treatment of the Eastern Front in World War II is David M. Glantz 

and Jonathan M. House, When Titans Clashed (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 

1995); the classic account of 1943 to 1945 in English remains John Erickson’s The Road 

to Berlin (Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1983).

23. Christopher R. Gabel, The U.S. Army GHQ Maneuvers of 1941 (Washington, D.C.: 

U.S. Army Center of Military History 1992), pp. 185–94.

24. An eloquent summary with an emphasis on military geography is John Keegan, 

Fields of Battle: The Wars for North America (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1996), pp. 

325–33.

25. See the overview in James J. Schneider, “War Plan Rainbow 5,” Defense Analysis

(December 1994): 289–92.

26. L. D. Holder, “Educating and Training for Theater Warfare,” in On Operational Art, 

ed. Clayton R. Newell and Michael D. Krause (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of 

Military History, 1994), pp.171–72.

27. Thomas W. Wolfe, Soviet Power and Europe (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, 

1970), pp. 32–49, 128–56.

28. The most recent account is Roger J. Spiller, “In the Shadow of the Dragon: Doctrine 

and the U.S. Army After Vietnam,” RUSI Journal 142, no. 6 (December 1997): 41–54.

29. Paul H. Herbert, Deciding What Has To Be Done: General William E. DePuy and the 

1976 Edition of FM 100–5 (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Combat Studies Institute, 1988), 

pp. 25–36.






28 historical perspectives of the operational art 

for the third, or mobile stage, which leads to the coup de grâce. But of 

course it must be appreciated that Napoleon was head of state as well as 

supreme military commander in the field. Thus, he decided policy at the 

strategic level as well as implemented its military objectives at the operational level. His key subordinates, the commanders of corps d’armée, the 

vital building blocks of Napoleonic warfare, were rarely if ever permitted 

to indulge in free interpretation of their orders. In this fact lay both the 

strength and weakness of Napoleon’s conduct of war. Highly motivated 

and closely controlled marshals of the empire were redoubtable instruments in achieving victory at the operational and tactical levels. Left on 

their own or divided by many hundreds of miles from their master, the 

emperor, the results could be (and frequently were) rampant indecision, 

rivalry, indiscipline—and failure. Any study of the campaigns in Spain 

and Portugal, particularly from 1812 when Napoleon was 2,000 miles 

away in Russia or in 1813 deep in central Germany, will bear this out. 

Thus, the supreme centralization of Napoleonic warfare had serious potential weakness as well as important strengths. But when Napoleon was 

present and controlling a manageable force by the lights of the time—say, 

some 250,000 men (as in 1805, 1806, or 1809)—there were few things 

he was incapable of achieving. The military concepts flowed smoothly 

into the political goals that the emperor could rapidly adjust.

Napoleon had a masterly grasp of military geography. He would tax 

his librarian for books on historical, descriptive, geographical, and topical 

aspects of Europe. He appreciated the political and geographical realities 

of each of the regions in Europe. He does not, however, appear to have 

appreciated the overall immensity of the physical problems presented by 

the campaigns in the Iberian Peninsula, “where small armies are swallowed up and large armies starve,”3

 or by the expanse of Russia.

For Napoleon, the concept of a successful campaign connoted one 

that achieved its real object for the most economical expenditure in terms 

of time and resources. The conquest and occupation of terrain was secondary in importance. Considerations of time spent or wasted were far more 

significant. “The loss of time is irreparable in war.” “Strategy is the art of 

making use of time and space. I am less chary of the latter than the former; 

space we can recover, time never.” “I may lose a battle, but I shall never 

lose a minute.” “Time is the great element between weight and force.”4

The proper use of available time usually called for speed and accuracy of movement by large bodies of troops, all of them integrated and 

synchronized according to the requirement of a campaign plan.

Napoleon commanded by means of the Imperial Headquarters (le 

grand quartier-général, or GQG). This organization was not only the 

headquarters for the army in the field, but it also comprised virtually the 

entire government of France. It was divided into the military component, 

headed by a chief of staff (under Berthier) who headed a general staff, an 
28 historical perspectives of the operational art 

for the third, or mobile stage, which leads to the coup de grâce. But of 

course it must be appreciated that Napoleon was head of state as well as 

supreme military commander in the field. Thus, he decided policy at the 

strategic level as well as implemented its military objectives at the operational level. His key subordinates, the commanders of corps d’armée, the 

vital building blocks of Napoleonic warfare, were rarely if ever permitted 

to indulge in free interpretation of their orders. In this fact lay both the 

strength and weakness of Napoleon’s conduct of war. Highly motivated 

and closely controlled marshals of the empire were redoubtable instruments in achieving victory at the operational and tactical levels. Left on 

their own or divided by many hundreds of miles from their master, the 

emperor, the results could be (and frequently were) rampant indecision, 

rivalry, indiscipline—and failure. Any study of the campaigns in Spain 

and Portugal, particularly from 1812 when Napoleon was 2,000 miles 

away in Russia or in 1813 deep in central Germany, will bear this out. 

Thus, the supreme centralization of Napoleonic warfare had serious potential weakness as well as important strengths. But when Napoleon was 

present and controlling a manageable force by the lights of the time—say, 

some 250,000 men (as in 1805, 1806, or 1809)—there were few things 

he was incapable of achieving. The military concepts flowed smoothly 

into the political goals that the emperor could rapidly adjust.

Napoleon had a masterly grasp of military geography. He would tax 

his librarian for books on historical, descriptive, geographical, and topical 

aspects of Europe. He appreciated the political and geographical realities 

of each of the regions in Europe. He does not, however, appear to have 

appreciated the overall immensity of the physical problems presented by 

the campaigns in the Iberian Peninsula, “where small armies are swallowed up and large armies starve,”3

 or by the expanse of Russia.

For Napoleon, the concept of a successful campaign connoted one 

that achieved its real object for the most economical expenditure in terms 

of time and resources. The conquest and occupation of terrain was secondary in importance. Considerations of time spent or wasted were far more 

significant. “The loss of time is irreparable in war.” “Strategy is the art of 

making use of time and space. I am less chary of the latter than the former; 

space we can recover, time never.” “I may lose a battle, but I shall never 

lose a minute.” “Time is the great element between weight and force.”4

The proper use of available time usually called for speed and accuracy of movement by large bodies of troops, all of them integrated and 

synchronized according to the requirement of a campaign plan.

Napoleon commanded by means of the Imperial Headquarters (le 

grand quartier-général, or GQG). This organization was not only the 

headquarters for the army in the field, but it also comprised virtually the 

entire government of France. It was divided into the military component, 

headed by a chief of staff (under Berthier) who headed a general staff, an 
30 historical perspectives of the operational art 

connaissance often at considerable personal risk, to the anxiety of his 

officers and escort. By 1500 or 1600 he would be back at main GQG

(which would probably have moved forward to a new location during 

his absence—he detested disorder and always tried to avoid the bustle 

of packing and unpacking) to hold a second map-tent conference with 

d’Albe, consider any recent messages, and then dictate more orders 

and grant further interviews. Meals were haphazardly taken and rarely 

lasted more than twenty minutes. An hour’s relaxation might follow 

at 1900, involving reminiscing over old battles with intimates or the 

occasional card game that the emperor invariably won by fair means 

or foul—such was the understanding. A final conference with the indispensable d’Albe and possibly Berthier, and the emperor’s eighteenhour day was over. He would enter his sleeping tent, Roustam would 

place himself across the doorway, while the aides-de-camp and secretary on duty settled down in the anteroom-tent for, they hoped, a few 

hours of relative rest; and a silence zone of 100 meters would come into 

effect around the sleeping genius.

Serving Napoleon was no sinecure. His work capacity appeared limitless and he expected the same dedication from all around him. Once 

around 1812 Berthier was found in tears: “I am being killed by hard 

work; a mere private soldier is happier than I.”7

 The emperor could fly 

into sudden rage and strike out with his riding crop at any within range; 

but his ability to snatch at will occasional short sleep at quiet moments of 

the day (even amidst the din of battle, as at Wagram in 1809) helped him 

recharge his mental and physical energies.

Napoleon also operated a completely separate information gleaning 

and overseeing system. Attached to his person rather than to the staff 

were up to a dozen adjutants-général—hand-picked young colonels 

who were given temporary rank of général de brigade or (more rarely) 

général de division, none aged over forty, who were used as his “eyes 

and ears” and as “trouble shooters.” They would be expected to undertake everything from boiling an egg to commanding a critical attack and 

required tact as well as stamina. Each of these trusted aides had a couple of personal assistants. They could also call upon the dozen officers 

d’ordonnance—subalterns and captains under twenty-four years of age, 

noted for their intelligence, courage, and absolute devotion to the emperor, many being engineers and gunners (selected in later years from the 

annual classes emerging from L’École Polytechnique de Paris)—who 

were often entrusted with carrying Napoleon’s own messages.

The staff’s ability to effect the conduct of warfare at operational level 

was in large measure determined by Berthier’s ceaseless supervision and 

urging, and by the extension of the staff system to the levels of corps 

d’armée and to the divisions of infantry and cavalry they contained. Each 

corps had a miniaturized form of the GQG. Its commander would have 
30 historical perspectives of the operational art 

connaissance often at considerable personal risk, to the anxiety of his 

officers and escort. By 1500 or 1600 he would be back at main GQG

(which would probably have moved forward to a new location during 

his absence—he detested disorder and always tried to avoid the bustle 

of packing and unpacking) to hold a second map-tent conference with 

d’Albe, consider any recent messages, and then dictate more orders 

and grant further interviews. Meals were haphazardly taken and rarely 

lasted more than twenty minutes. An hour’s relaxation might follow 

at 1900, involving reminiscing over old battles with intimates or the 

occasional card game that the emperor invariably won by fair means 

or foul—such was the understanding. A final conference with the indispensable d’Albe and possibly Berthier, and the emperor’s eighteenhour day was over. He would enter his sleeping tent, Roustam would 

place himself across the doorway, while the aides-de-camp and secretary on duty settled down in the anteroom-tent for, they hoped, a few 

hours of relative rest; and a silence zone of 100 meters would come into 

effect around the sleeping genius.

Serving Napoleon was no sinecure. His work capacity appeared limitless and he expected the same dedication from all around him. Once 

around 1812 Berthier was found in tears: “I am being killed by hard 

work; a mere private soldier is happier than I.”7

 The emperor could fly 

into sudden rage and strike out with his riding crop at any within range; 

but his ability to snatch at will occasional short sleep at quiet moments of 

the day (even amidst the din of battle, as at Wagram in 1809) helped him 

recharge his mental and physical energies.

Napoleon also operated a completely separate information gleaning 

and overseeing system. Attached to his person rather than to the staff 

were up to a dozen adjutants-général—hand-picked young colonels 

who were given temporary rank of général de brigade or (more rarely) 

général de division, none aged over forty, who were used as his “eyes 

and ears” and as “trouble shooters.” They would be expected to undertake everything from boiling an egg to commanding a critical attack and 

required tact as well as stamina. Each of these trusted aides had a couple of personal assistants. They could also call upon the dozen officers 

d’ordonnance—subalterns and captains under twenty-four years of age, 

noted for their intelligence, courage, and absolute devotion to the emperor, many being engineers and gunners (selected in later years from the 

annual classes emerging from L’École Polytechnique de Paris)—who 

were often entrusted with carrying Napoleon’s own messages.

The staff’s ability to effect the conduct of warfare at operational level 

was in large measure determined by Berthier’s ceaseless supervision and 

urging, and by the extension of the staff system to the levels of corps 

d’armée and to the divisions of infantry and cavalry they contained. Each 

corps had a miniaturized form of the GQG. Its commander would have 
32 historical perspectives of the operational art 

A major purpose of seeking accurate intelligence in war is to reduce 

the unknown to manageable proportions. Napoleon used embassies at 

the strategic level. He used cavalry and spies at the operational level. 

He sought to use cavalry not only to gather intelligence but also to deceive an opponent as to his own strength and intentions. Napoleon served 

as his own intelligence evaluator, cutting out intermediate intelligence 

tiers—and this could lead to rapid decision-making and orders issued.11

The reverse side of achieving surprise and good intelligence is the 

ensuring of security for one’s own operations, including the deception of 

the foe. Napoleon was a past master at concealing his own strength and 

intention from the enemy. Long before a campaign opened a security curtain would be lowered. The press was ruthlessly controlled and “tuned” 

to produce only the information—more often disinformation—that the 

Emperor wished the foe to comprehend. Weeks before a major military 

movement the frontiers would be closed to foreigners and the surveillance by Fouché’s secret police redoubled. At the same time elaborate 

deception schemes would be implemented to create apparent military 

threats in areas where none in fact existed.

Once a military movement had begun, a dense mobile screen of light 

cavalry and dragoons would deny the enemy’s probing patrols any inkling of what lay behind. Cavalry screens would equally be employed in 

wholly irrelevant areas to increase the bewilderment of the enemy. They 

also would protect the French line of communication snaking back to the 

place de campagne (operational base) or the intermediate centres des 

opérations, because Napoleon believed in keeping his links to his supply 

and munitions dumps, hospitals, and the like as short as possible. Napoleon frequently changed the composition of major formations in midcampaign for operational or administrative reasons, inevitably increasing 

the confusion of the enemy’s intelligence services as they strove to keep 

abreast of developments.

One of the most successful ways of achieving surprise in war is 

using speed to confound enemy intelligence and to present his command, 

control, communications, and intelligence (C3I) functions with either 

fait accomplis or with the discouraging need to be forever adjusting to 

hostile initiatives. This would induce paralysis in decision-making and 

lead to psychological collapse. Napoleon was highly adept at inducing 

this state of affairs.

Napoleon’s armies most certainly could move fast. In the First Italian 

Campaign of 1796, General Fiorella marched Augereau’s division from 

the siege lines before Mantua to Castiglione—a matter of fifty miles—in 

thirty-six hours. Early the next year, Masséna force-marched his division 

from Verona (where it had been in action) on 13 January to join General 

Bonaparte at Rivoli. He fought a day-long battle there (the fourteenth), 

was put back on the road to Mantua that evening, and reached La Favor32 historical perspectives of the operational art 

A major purpose of seeking accurate intelligence in war is to reduce 

the unknown to manageable proportions. Napoleon used embassies at 

the strategic level. He used cavalry and spies at the operational level. 

He sought to use cavalry not only to gather intelligence but also to deceive an opponent as to his own strength and intentions. Napoleon served 

as his own intelligence evaluator, cutting out intermediate intelligence 

tiers—and this could lead to rapid decision-making and orders issued.11

The reverse side of achieving surprise and good intelligence is the 

ensuring of security for one’s own operations, including the deception of 

the foe. Napoleon was a past master at concealing his own strength and 

intention from the enemy. Long before a campaign opened a security curtain would be lowered. The press was ruthlessly controlled and “tuned” 

to produce only the information—more often disinformation—that the 

Emperor wished the foe to comprehend. Weeks before a major military 

movement the frontiers would be closed to foreigners and the surveillance by Fouché’s secret police redoubled. At the same time elaborate 

deception schemes would be implemented to create apparent military 

threats in areas where none in fact existed.

Once a military movement had begun, a dense mobile screen of light 

cavalry and dragoons would deny the enemy’s probing patrols any inkling of what lay behind. Cavalry screens would equally be employed in 

wholly irrelevant areas to increase the bewilderment of the enemy. They 

also would protect the French line of communication snaking back to the 

place de campagne (operational base) or the intermediate centres des 

opérations, because Napoleon believed in keeping his links to his supply 

and munitions dumps, hospitals, and the like as short as possible. Napoleon frequently changed the composition of major formations in midcampaign for operational or administrative reasons, inevitably increasing 

the confusion of the enemy’s intelligence services as they strove to keep 

abreast of developments.

One of the most successful ways of achieving surprise in war is 

using speed to confound enemy intelligence and to present his command, 

control, communications, and intelligence (C3I) functions with either 

fait accomplis or with the discouraging need to be forever adjusting to 

hostile initiatives. This would induce paralysis in decision-making and 

lead to psychological collapse. Napoleon was highly adept at inducing 

this state of affairs.

Napoleon’s armies most certainly could move fast. In the First Italian 

Campaign of 1796, General Fiorella marched Augereau’s division from 

the siege lines before Mantua to Castiglione—a matter of fifty miles—in 

thirty-six hours. Early the next year, Masséna force-marched his division 

from Verona (where it had been in action) on 13 January to join General 

Bonaparte at Rivoli. He fought a day-long battle there (the fourteenth), 

was put back on the road to Mantua that evening, and reached La Favor34 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the campaign. It was axiomatic for Napoleon to mass as many bayonets 

and sabers on the battlefield as possible. But dispersal before battle was 

as important as concentration in battle. On the eve of a major engagement 

it was more important that troops should be assembled than concentrated. 

By assembly, Napoleon understood the placing of his formations within 

close-support marching distance, not shoulder to shoulder on the battle 

line. It was vital to have sufficient troops disengaged to provide an enveloping or outflanking force. Equally, it was necessary to have sufficiently 

elastic disposition to be able to meet any unforeseen threat or development (the question of reserves figured large in this consideration). And 

third, the interests of field security and concealment of French intentions 

for as long as possible had to be taken into account. From these principles 

derives the true meaning of the dictum: “The army must be kept assembled and the greatest possible force concentrated on the field of battle.”14

Much of the success of Napoleon’s operational concepts lay in his creation of a web of carefully positioned formations. At the outset of a campaign, the net was widely spread; it almost resembled a cordon. Thus, for 

example, in the Jena campaign in October 1806, Napoleon’s frontage was 

reduced from the initial 200 to just 45 kilometers for the passage of the 

problematical Thüringer Wald. Once that obstacle had been successfully 

negotiated, the front expanded again to 60 kilometers for the northward 

advance toward Leipzig. Then the crash concentration of all the forces 

west in the direction of Weimar was ordered when “the veil [of uncertainty] was torn” and the elusive Prussian Army was discovered beyond the 

River Saale. This broad base of Napoleonic operational deployment was 

not allowed to contradict the principle of “concentration.” The enemy was 

steadily enveloped in the weaving tentacles, and then finally enmeshed 

by the last-minute “pounce” achieved by the ordering of a forced march 

(up to twenty-two miles), largely under cover of darkness. In this way Napoleon fused maneuver with battle, and thereafter, with pursuit, thereby 

making probably his greatest original contribution to the art and science 

of war, at least at the operational level. Napoleon succeeded more than 

any other soldier did before his time in fusing marching, fighting, and 

pursuit into one continuous and remorseless process. The development of 

the campaign of 1806 against Prussia is the model example.

To facilitate this process the emperor laid down a series of different 

operational alignments for his corps d’armée. These included the deployment of his major formations in a wedge-shaped disposition, or in echelon 

(with one flank refused), or with one flank en potence—loosely akin to 

Frederick the Great’s “oblique order”—according to circumstances and 

the requirements of the overall general plan. But his most favored formation was le bataillon carré (the battalion of square). By this the army 

corps were disposed in a diamond-shaped rectangular formation, with an 

advance guard preceded by the cavalry screen in the presumed direction 
34 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the campaign. It was axiomatic for Napoleon to mass as many bayonets 

and sabers on the battlefield as possible. But dispersal before battle was 

as important as concentration in battle. On the eve of a major engagement 

it was more important that troops should be assembled than concentrated. 

By assembly, Napoleon understood the placing of his formations within 

close-support marching distance, not shoulder to shoulder on the battle 

line. It was vital to have sufficient troops disengaged to provide an enveloping or outflanking force. Equally, it was necessary to have sufficiently 

elastic disposition to be able to meet any unforeseen threat or development (the question of reserves figured large in this consideration). And 

third, the interests of field security and concealment of French intentions 

for as long as possible had to be taken into account. From these principles 

derives the true meaning of the dictum: “The army must be kept assembled and the greatest possible force concentrated on the field of battle.”14

Much of the success of Napoleon’s operational concepts lay in his creation of a web of carefully positioned formations. At the outset of a campaign, the net was widely spread; it almost resembled a cordon. Thus, for 

example, in the Jena campaign in October 1806, Napoleon’s frontage was 

reduced from the initial 200 to just 45 kilometers for the passage of the 

problematical Thüringer Wald. Once that obstacle had been successfully 

negotiated, the front expanded again to 60 kilometers for the northward 

advance toward Leipzig. Then the crash concentration of all the forces 

west in the direction of Weimar was ordered when “the veil [of uncertainty] was torn” and the elusive Prussian Army was discovered beyond the 

River Saale. This broad base of Napoleonic operational deployment was 

not allowed to contradict the principle of “concentration.” The enemy was 

steadily enveloped in the weaving tentacles, and then finally enmeshed 

by the last-minute “pounce” achieved by the ordering of a forced march 

(up to twenty-two miles), largely under cover of darkness. In this way Napoleon fused maneuver with battle, and thereafter, with pursuit, thereby 

making probably his greatest original contribution to the art and science 

of war, at least at the operational level. Napoleon succeeded more than 

any other soldier did before his time in fusing marching, fighting, and 

pursuit into one continuous and remorseless process. The development of 

the campaign of 1806 against Prussia is the model example.

To facilitate this process the emperor laid down a series of different 

operational alignments for his corps d’armée. These included the deployment of his major formations in a wedge-shaped disposition, or in echelon 

(with one flank refused), or with one flank en potence—loosely akin to 

Frederick the Great’s “oblique order”—according to circumstances and 

the requirements of the overall general plan. But his most favored formation was le bataillon carré (the battalion of square). By this the army 

corps were disposed in a diamond-shaped rectangular formation, with an 

advance guard preceded by the cavalry screen in the presumed direction 
36 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tion. The argument still rages whether Napoleon set out deliberately to 

provoke a war with Prussia. Not that weak-willed Frederick-William III 

and his Francophile minister Haugwitz together with “the Peace Party” 

at Potsdam might have found it impossible to accept the new condition; 

but it was wholly unacceptable to the king’s beautiful and strong-minded 

spouse, Queen Louise, who headed the war party at court that included 

the Gallophobic Hardenburg and two senior generals, the Duke of Brunswick and Prince Hohenlohe. The argument raged behind closed doors, 

and in the end the war party triumphed, but only, it is often claimed, after 

the strong-willed queen had persistently denied conjugal rights to her 

uxorious husband until he fell into line. In August 1807 the decision for 

war was at last taken in secret—and for once French diplomatic intelligence did not fully discover the secret for a full month.

Prussian Armies and War Plans

The Prussian Army of 1806 could place 171,000 troops into firstline formations (including 35,000 cavalry and 550 guns), supported by 

a further 83,000 men in garrison. Its reputation as the creation of the 

august Frederick still hung like an aura around its name. In fact, however, 

as Clausewitz remarked, “behind the fine facade all was mildewed.”16

As General Fuller has pronounced, “the Prussian Army was a museum 

piece.”17 Clinging to outdated concepts, ferocious discipline was imposed 

to achieve uniformity, which was deemed more important than inspiration. Rigid linear drills were regarded as de rigueur, and the precision was 

considered more important than speed or flexibility. The supply trains 

were enormous in extent, the army depended upon magazines and depots 

for food and munitions, and as a consequence a day’s march of twelve 

miles was considered the outside limit.

The cult of the past was carried to unreasonable lengths. The infantry 

were brave and well disciplined after the fashion of “walking muskets,” 

but their muskets were the worst in Europe, most of them being of the 

1754 pattern. Formal tactics discouraged all thought of initiative. The 

Prussian cavalry was bold and dashing, as became the heirs of von Seydlitz, and exceptionally well mounted (the horse studs of Prussia were 

a major resource that France would not be slow to exploit after October), but they were highly conservative as to role and employment on 

campaign. The artillery was imposing in size but often badly handled. 

Morale—despite the setbacks sustained from Valmy onward in the War 

of the First Coalition—was exceedingly (but unrealistically) high. Yet 

the Prussian soldier would fight bravely and tenaciously—their Saxon 

comrades a little less so.

The worst attribute lay at staff level. Leadership was not on a par 

with that of the 1760s, and by 1806 had become entrusted to a junta of 
36 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tion. The argument still rages whether Napoleon set out deliberately to 

provoke a war with Prussia. Not that weak-willed Frederick-William III 

and his Francophile minister Haugwitz together with “the Peace Party” 

at Potsdam might have found it impossible to accept the new condition; 

but it was wholly unacceptable to the king’s beautiful and strong-minded 

spouse, Queen Louise, who headed the war party at court that included 

the Gallophobic Hardenburg and two senior generals, the Duke of Brunswick and Prince Hohenlohe. The argument raged behind closed doors, 

and in the end the war party triumphed, but only, it is often claimed, after 

the strong-willed queen had persistently denied conjugal rights to her 

uxorious husband until he fell into line. In August 1807 the decision for 

war was at last taken in secret—and for once French diplomatic intelligence did not fully discover the secret for a full month.

Prussian Armies and War Plans

The Prussian Army of 1806 could place 171,000 troops into firstline formations (including 35,000 cavalry and 550 guns), supported by 

a further 83,000 men in garrison. Its reputation as the creation of the 

august Frederick still hung like an aura around its name. In fact, however, 

as Clausewitz remarked, “behind the fine facade all was mildewed.”16

As General Fuller has pronounced, “the Prussian Army was a museum 

piece.”17 Clinging to outdated concepts, ferocious discipline was imposed 

to achieve uniformity, which was deemed more important than inspiration. Rigid linear drills were regarded as de rigueur, and the precision was 

considered more important than speed or flexibility. The supply trains 

were enormous in extent, the army depended upon magazines and depots 

for food and munitions, and as a consequence a day’s march of twelve 

miles was considered the outside limit.

The cult of the past was carried to unreasonable lengths. The infantry 

were brave and well disciplined after the fashion of “walking muskets,” 

but their muskets were the worst in Europe, most of them being of the 

1754 pattern. Formal tactics discouraged all thought of initiative. The 

Prussian cavalry was bold and dashing, as became the heirs of von Seydlitz, and exceptionally well mounted (the horse studs of Prussia were 

a major resource that France would not be slow to exploit after October), but they were highly conservative as to role and employment on 

campaign. The artillery was imposing in size but often badly handled. 

Morale—despite the setbacks sustained from Valmy onward in the War 

of the First Coalition—was exceedingly (but unrealistically) high. Yet 

the Prussian soldier would fight bravely and tenaciously—their Saxon 

comrades a little less so.

The worst attribute lay at staff level. Leadership was not on a par 

with that of the 1760s, and by 1806 had become entrusted to a junta of 
38 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Eventually, three field armies were organized. The first, under Brunswick, 

numbered 70,000 men drawn from the Berlin and Magdeburg districts to 

form between Leipzig and Naumburg. The second, commanded by Hohenlohe, initially 50,000 strong but ultimately 70,000 men following the 

forcible assimilation of the Saxon Army, drew up around Dresden. The 

third, under Generals Rüchel and Blücher, took post near Mühlhausen 

and Göttingen, respectively. Of their total pieces of artillery, served by 

15,000 men, 300 were heavy and medium guns, the balance being regimental pieces. Such were the Prussian dispositions on 25 September.

As to how this force, imposing on paper, was best to be used became 

the subject of prolonged and often acrimonious debate. No less than five 

main plans emerged. Scharnhorst (Blücher’s chief of staff) put forward the 

most sensible scheme—to await the arrival of the tsar’s army already assembling under General Bennigsen on the River Bug. If necessary (especially if Napoleon struck first), space could be traded for time in a series of 

holding actions in the Thüringer Wald, along the Elbe, or even in extremity 

on the Oder. Nobody else came out in support of this suggestion, which 

several claimed would compromise the army’s honor, and it was therefore 

dropped. Second, the idea of awaiting Napoleon around Erfurt and Hof, 

taking up positions to outflank the Grand Armée, was mooted. This also 

was dropped as too defensive. Third, Brunswick pressed for the superficially attractive concept of moving a single, strong army through Erfurt 

toward Würzburg and thence on to threaten Stuttgart in the hope of catching the French in their cantonment areas, or if not to at least compromise 

their communications with France. The jealous Hohenlohe spoke strongly 

against this plan, advocating instead a more easterly move through Hof on 

Bamberg. The high command also ruled out this plan when it was realized 

that it would involve stringing out the three armies along a ninety-mile 

front, with only the smallest of reserves near Naumburg. The sinister (or 

incompetent) Massenbach put forward the wildest idea of all—an apparently pointless military parade by the Silesian Army (his own, naturally) 

through Hof to the Danube and thence back into Saxony. At last the king 

intervened in the wrangling, and imposed a fifth plan, involving the implementation of the main features of both Brunswick’s and Hohenlohe’s 

operational schemes—a compromise that pleased nobody.

This notwithstanding, the reams of preliminary orders had already 

been issued to implement the king’s compromise plan, when on 27 September the council of war suddenly reverted to the adoption of Brunswick’s original plan in total. The rusty cogs of the Prussian military machine agonizingly went into reverse as further quires of contradictory 

orders were rushed to the regiments, and a state of chaos ensued as attempts were made to reorganize. Hardly had this process started when 

Captain Muffling returned from a reconnaissance on 5 October with the 

alarming news that Napoleon himself had some days before already left 
38 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Eventually, three field armies were organized. The first, under Brunswick, 

numbered 70,000 men drawn from the Berlin and Magdeburg districts to 

form between Leipzig and Naumburg. The second, commanded by Hohenlohe, initially 50,000 strong but ultimately 70,000 men following the 

forcible assimilation of the Saxon Army, drew up around Dresden. The 

third, under Generals Rüchel and Blücher, took post near Mühlhausen 

and Göttingen, respectively. Of their total pieces of artillery, served by 

15,000 men, 300 were heavy and medium guns, the balance being regimental pieces. Such were the Prussian dispositions on 25 September.

As to how this force, imposing on paper, was best to be used became 

the subject of prolonged and often acrimonious debate. No less than five 

main plans emerged. Scharnhorst (Blücher’s chief of staff) put forward the 

most sensible scheme—to await the arrival of the tsar’s army already assembling under General Bennigsen on the River Bug. If necessary (especially if Napoleon struck first), space could be traded for time in a series of 

holding actions in the Thüringer Wald, along the Elbe, or even in extremity 

on the Oder. Nobody else came out in support of this suggestion, which 

several claimed would compromise the army’s honor, and it was therefore 

dropped. Second, the idea of awaiting Napoleon around Erfurt and Hof, 

taking up positions to outflank the Grand Armée, was mooted. This also 

was dropped as too defensive. Third, Brunswick pressed for the superficially attractive concept of moving a single, strong army through Erfurt 

toward Würzburg and thence on to threaten Stuttgart in the hope of catching the French in their cantonment areas, or if not to at least compromise 

their communications with France. The jealous Hohenlohe spoke strongly 

against this plan, advocating instead a more easterly move through Hof on 

Bamberg. The high command also ruled out this plan when it was realized 

that it would involve stringing out the three armies along a ninety-mile 

front, with only the smallest of reserves near Naumburg. The sinister (or 

incompetent) Massenbach put forward the wildest idea of all—an apparently pointless military parade by the Silesian Army (his own, naturally) 

through Hof to the Danube and thence back into Saxony. At last the king 

intervened in the wrangling, and imposed a fifth plan, involving the implementation of the main features of both Brunswick’s and Hohenlohe’s 

operational schemes—a compromise that pleased nobody.

This notwithstanding, the reams of preliminary orders had already 

been issued to implement the king’s compromise plan, when on 27 September the council of war suddenly reverted to the adoption of Brunswick’s original plan in total. The rusty cogs of the Prussian military machine agonizingly went into reverse as further quires of contradictory 

orders were rushed to the regiments, and a state of chaos ensued as attempts were made to reorganize. Hardly had this process started when 

Captain Muffling returned from a reconnaissance on 5 October with the 

alarming news that Napoleon himself had some days before already left 
40 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Bamberg to Berlin, taking all necessary risks.”21 He was further ordered 

to make ready to assemble Soult’s IV, Ney’s VI, and Augereau’s VII Corps 

at Bamberg within a week of receiving the executive order. Four days later 

the chief of staff was informed that in the event of war the line of communications would most likely run from Strasburg to Mannheim, Mainz, 

and Würzburg, utilizing the Rhine and Main Rivers for barge traffic.22

Paradoxically, the very indecision and continuous redeployments of 

the Prussian forces caused Napoleon considerable difficulty. As intelligence reports began to arrive at GQG, he found their reported movements 

impossible to understand—as well he might. Why were they not preparing to hold the mighty Elbe River line, “the Rhine of Prussia”? Why were 

they placing themselves so far forward and to the west of the Elbe barrier 

when any rudimentary knowledge of the basic principles of operational 

art should have convinced Frederick-William III of the advantages he 

could acquire by trading time for space (particularly as Napoleon now 

had good reason to believe that Russia was on the point of allying herself 

to Prussia and doubtless “infamous Albion” to form a fourth coalition)? 

“Prussian movements continue to be most extraordinary,” he informed 

Berthier on 10 September. “They need to be taught a lesson. My horses 

leave [Paris] tomorrow and the Guard will follow in a few days time.... 

If the news continues to indicate that the Prussians have lost their heads, 

I shall travel directly to Würzburg or Bamberg.”23 Clearly, Napoleon was 

still leaving his options open. If the enemy marched for the Upper Main, 

then Würzburg would constitute the better center of operations. If they 

continued to hesitate, then Bamberg would be his choice.

Napoleon is known to have considered three possible operational 

plans for the campaign of 1806. His problem was to devise a means of 

ensuring the decisive defeat of Prussia without exposing French territory—or that of its allies—to Prussian (or conceivably British) invasion 

and ideally before Russia could intervene in the struggle.

The three courses of action open to him were as follows. First, the 

most direct route to Berlin lay from Wesel through Münster and Hanover. 

Much of this area was already in French hands, and its proximity to the 

Channel and North Sea would facilitate warding off any British landing 

in the area. On the other hand, there were several major disadvantages in 

this option. The redeployment of the Grand Armée from its present location in cantonments around the Main and Danube Rivers would take no 

little time to achieve. It might not be complete before the onset of winter, 

and this could earn the Prussian foe time to appreciate Napoleon’s purposes, to bring Bennigsen’s Russian army from the east, and even make 

it possible for Austria, anxious to avenge the humiliations of 1805, to 

throw over the Peace of Pressburg and enter the struggle, which would 

thus become one of continental extent. Two final disadvantages clinched 

the issue. A series of major river lines bisected this route of advance upon 
40 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Bamberg to Berlin, taking all necessary risks.”21 He was further ordered 

to make ready to assemble Soult’s IV, Ney’s VI, and Augereau’s VII Corps 

at Bamberg within a week of receiving the executive order. Four days later 

the chief of staff was informed that in the event of war the line of communications would most likely run from Strasburg to Mannheim, Mainz, 

and Würzburg, utilizing the Rhine and Main Rivers for barge traffic.22

Paradoxically, the very indecision and continuous redeployments of 

the Prussian forces caused Napoleon considerable difficulty. As intelligence reports began to arrive at GQG, he found their reported movements 

impossible to understand—as well he might. Why were they not preparing to hold the mighty Elbe River line, “the Rhine of Prussia”? Why were 

they placing themselves so far forward and to the west of the Elbe barrier 

when any rudimentary knowledge of the basic principles of operational 

art should have convinced Frederick-William III of the advantages he 

could acquire by trading time for space (particularly as Napoleon now 

had good reason to believe that Russia was on the point of allying herself 

to Prussia and doubtless “infamous Albion” to form a fourth coalition)? 

“Prussian movements continue to be most extraordinary,” he informed 

Berthier on 10 September. “They need to be taught a lesson. My horses 

leave [Paris] tomorrow and the Guard will follow in a few days time.... 

If the news continues to indicate that the Prussians have lost their heads, 

I shall travel directly to Würzburg or Bamberg.”23 Clearly, Napoleon was 

still leaving his options open. If the enemy marched for the Upper Main, 

then Würzburg would constitute the better center of operations. If they 

continued to hesitate, then Bamberg would be his choice.

Napoleon is known to have considered three possible operational 

plans for the campaign of 1806. His problem was to devise a means of 

ensuring the decisive defeat of Prussia without exposing French territory—or that of its allies—to Prussian (or conceivably British) invasion 

and ideally before Russia could intervene in the struggle.

The three courses of action open to him were as follows. First, the 

most direct route to Berlin lay from Wesel through Münster and Hanover. 

Much of this area was already in French hands, and its proximity to the 

Channel and North Sea would facilitate warding off any British landing 

in the area. On the other hand, there were several major disadvantages in 

this option. The redeployment of the Grand Armée from its present location in cantonments around the Main and Danube Rivers would take no 

little time to achieve. It might not be complete before the onset of winter, 

and this could earn the Prussian foe time to appreciate Napoleon’s purposes, to bring Bennigsen’s Russian army from the east, and even make 

it possible for Austria, anxious to avenge the humiliations of 1805, to 

throw over the Peace of Pressburg and enter the struggle, which would 

thus become one of continental extent. Two final disadvantages clinched 

the issue. A series of major river lines bisected this route of advance upon 
42 historical perspectives of the operational art 

By 15 September Napoleon was in a position provisionally to make 

up his mind. News had arrived of the Prussian border incursion into Saxony. That being the case, the best routes toward Dresden or Leipzig and 

ultimately Berlin and Potsdam evidently lay through Bamberg. Its proximity to the three roads traversing the Thüringer Wald, the chain of forested mountains, presented problems associated with their crossing that 

also provided a convenient “curtain of maneuver” to conceal the French 

operational concentration from prying Prussian patrols. Furthermore, 

the Grand Armée’s advance from Bamberg to Leipzig and Berlin would 

sooner or later compel the Prussian generals to offer battle to save their 

capital from occupation by the French.

Three days later, on 18 September, more details reached Napoleon of 

the Prussian actions proceeding in Saxony, including their forcible incorporation of that state’s small army into Frederick-William III’s armament, 

and Napoleon no longer hesitated. The time for determined action had 

come. Over a period of forty-eight hours in a prodigious demonstration of 

his working capacity Napoleon dictated no less than 120 separate orders. 

The whole army was forthwith placed on a fully mobilized status. The 

Imperial Guard at once left Paris in convoys of special wagons to cover 

the 550 kilometers to beyond Mainz, reaching that city on the twenty-seventh. Most important of all was the lengthy “General Disposition for the 

Assembly of the Grand Army,” a document that formed the basis for the 

whole campaign about to unfold. It emphasized three crucial dates. By 2 

October Augereau’s VII, Ney’s VI, and Bernadotte’s I Corps were to have 

concentrated at Frankfurt, Nürnburg, and Ansbach, respectively, ready in 

all respects to march. By the end of 3 October Davout’s III Corps was 

to have moved from Nördlingen to Bamberg, there to join GQG, while 

Lefebvre’s V Corps was to have reached Königshofen, and the artillery 

and baggage trains were to be massed at Würzburg. By 4 October Soult’s 

IV Corps was to be at Amberg, following a lengthy march from its cantonments on the River Inn. Sent out by galloping staff couriers early on the 

twentieth, this missive was in Berthier’s hands at Munich four days later.

Another vital document had already been sent posthaste two weeks 

earlier to Louis Bonaparte, ruler of Holland. This memorandum spelled 

out the role Louis was to assume during the prelude to and the early days 

of the campaign. “Hasten to mobilize your troops,” Napoleon enjoined 

his younger fratello: “Reunite all available forces so as to deceive them 

[the Prussians] and protect your frontiers while I leap into the center 

of Prussia with my army, marching directly on Berlin. Keep all this secret.”24 On 19 September the emperor continued with his instructions. 

“As my intention is not to attack from your side, I desire you to open your 

campaign on 1st October by threatening the enemy. The ramparts of the 

Wesel and Rhine will serve you as refuge in any unforeseen eventuality.”25 To strengthen the right flank of the Dutch forces and to protect his 
42 historical perspectives of the operational art 

By 15 September Napoleon was in a position provisionally to make 

up his mind. News had arrived of the Prussian border incursion into Saxony. That being the case, the best routes toward Dresden or Leipzig and 

ultimately Berlin and Potsdam evidently lay through Bamberg. Its proximity to the three roads traversing the Thüringer Wald, the chain of forested mountains, presented problems associated with their crossing that 

also provided a convenient “curtain of maneuver” to conceal the French 

operational concentration from prying Prussian patrols. Furthermore, 

the Grand Armée’s advance from Bamberg to Leipzig and Berlin would 

sooner or later compel the Prussian generals to offer battle to save their 

capital from occupation by the French.

Three days later, on 18 September, more details reached Napoleon of 

the Prussian actions proceeding in Saxony, including their forcible incorporation of that state’s small army into Frederick-William III’s armament, 

and Napoleon no longer hesitated. The time for determined action had 

come. Over a period of forty-eight hours in a prodigious demonstration of 

his working capacity Napoleon dictated no less than 120 separate orders. 

The whole army was forthwith placed on a fully mobilized status. The 

Imperial Guard at once left Paris in convoys of special wagons to cover 

the 550 kilometers to beyond Mainz, reaching that city on the twenty-seventh. Most important of all was the lengthy “General Disposition for the 

Assembly of the Grand Army,” a document that formed the basis for the 

whole campaign about to unfold. It emphasized three crucial dates. By 2 

October Augereau’s VII, Ney’s VI, and Bernadotte’s I Corps were to have 

concentrated at Frankfurt, Nürnburg, and Ansbach, respectively, ready in 

all respects to march. By the end of 3 October Davout’s III Corps was 

to have moved from Nördlingen to Bamberg, there to join GQG, while 

Lefebvre’s V Corps was to have reached Königshofen, and the artillery 

and baggage trains were to be massed at Würzburg. By 4 October Soult’s 

IV Corps was to be at Amberg, following a lengthy march from its cantonments on the River Inn. Sent out by galloping staff couriers early on the 

twentieth, this missive was in Berthier’s hands at Munich four days later.

Another vital document had already been sent posthaste two weeks 

earlier to Louis Bonaparte, ruler of Holland. This memorandum spelled 

out the role Louis was to assume during the prelude to and the early days 

of the campaign. “Hasten to mobilize your troops,” Napoleon enjoined 

his younger fratello: “Reunite all available forces so as to deceive them 

[the Prussians] and protect your frontiers while I leap into the center 

of Prussia with my army, marching directly on Berlin. Keep all this secret.”24 On 19 September the emperor continued with his instructions. 

“As my intention is not to attack from your side, I desire you to open your 

campaign on 1st October by threatening the enemy. The ramparts of the 

Wesel and Rhine will serve you as refuge in any unforeseen eventuality.”25 To strengthen the right flank of the Dutch forces and to protect his 
44 historical perspectives of the operational art 

7 October. At dawn the next day the Grand Armée marched into Prussian-occupied Saxon territory. Such was Napoleon’s immediate reply. 

And by ironic chance, France’s written reply, forwarded from Berlin, 

only reached Frederick-William’s hands on the fourteenth, in the middle 

of the Jena-Auerstädt campaign.

A major clash of arms was now obviously imminent. From Würzburg, Napoleon had issued to Marshal Soult a full operational order:

I have caused Würzburg, Forcheim and Kronach to be occupied, armed and 

provisioned, and I propose to debouch into Saxony with my whole army in three 

columns. You are at the head of the right-hand column with Marshal Ney’s Corps 

half a day’s march behind you and 10,000 Bavarians a day’s march behind him, 

making altogether more than 50,000 men. Marshal Bernadotte leads the center, 

followed by Marshal Davout’s Corps, the greater part of the reserve Cavalry, and 

the Guard, making more than 70,000 men. He will march by way of Kronach, 

Lebenstein and Schleiz. The V Corps [under command of Lannes, Lefebvre reverting to his Guard command] is at the head of the way to Coburg, Grafenthal and 

Saalfeld, and musters over 40,000 men. The day you reach Hof the remainder of 

the army will have reached positions on the same alignment. I shall march with 

the center.

With this immense superiority of force united in so small a place you will 

realize that I am determined to leave nothing to chance, and can attack the foe 

wherever he chooses to stand with nearly double his strength....

If the enemy opposes you with a force not exceeding 30,000 men, you should 

concert with Marshal Ney and attack him.... On reaching Hof, your first care 

should be to open communications between Lebenstein, Ebersdorf and Schleiz.... 

From news that has come in today [5 October] it appears that if the foe makes any 

move it will be towards my left; the bulk of his forces seem to be near Erfurt.... 

I cannot press you too earnestly to write to me frequently and keep me fully informed of all you learn from the direction of Dresden. You may well think that it 

will be a fine thing to move around this area in a “battalion square” of 200,000 

men. Still, this will require a little [operational] art and certain events.28

And so, indeed, it was to prove. Early on 8 October the move into the 

defiles of the Thüringer Wald began, crossing the Saxon frontier without 

encountering opposition in the process. A force of light cavalry, who, 

following their orders, began to empty every letterbox and to interrogate 

every peasant they met amid the passes, headed each of the three columns. Napoleon was aware that he was taking considerable risks and that 

his knowledge of Prussian military movements was incomplete.

Le bataillon carré in Action

Napoleon’s plan for crossing the difficult Thüringer Wald region illustrates his mastery of the principles of flexibility, mutual support, and 

the achievement of local superiority at one or more of the three exits 
44 historical perspectives of the operational art 

7 October. At dawn the next day the Grand Armée marched into Prussian-occupied Saxon territory. Such was Napoleon’s immediate reply. 

And by ironic chance, France’s written reply, forwarded from Berlin, 

only reached Frederick-William’s hands on the fourteenth, in the middle 

of the Jena-Auerstädt campaign.

A major clash of arms was now obviously imminent. From Würzburg, Napoleon had issued to Marshal Soult a full operational order:

I have caused Würzburg, Forcheim and Kronach to be occupied, armed and 

provisioned, and I propose to debouch into Saxony with my whole army in three 

columns. You are at the head of the right-hand column with Marshal Ney’s Corps 

half a day’s march behind you and 10,000 Bavarians a day’s march behind him, 

making altogether more than 50,000 men. Marshal Bernadotte leads the center, 

followed by Marshal Davout’s Corps, the greater part of the reserve Cavalry, and 

the Guard, making more than 70,000 men. He will march by way of Kronach, 

Lebenstein and Schleiz. The V Corps [under command of Lannes, Lefebvre reverting to his Guard command] is at the head of the way to Coburg, Grafenthal and 

Saalfeld, and musters over 40,000 men. The day you reach Hof the remainder of 

the army will have reached positions on the same alignment. I shall march with 

the center.

With this immense superiority of force united in so small a place you will 

realize that I am determined to leave nothing to chance, and can attack the foe 

wherever he chooses to stand with nearly double his strength....

If the enemy opposes you with a force not exceeding 30,000 men, you should 

concert with Marshal Ney and attack him.... On reaching Hof, your first care 

should be to open communications between Lebenstein, Ebersdorf and Schleiz.... 

From news that has come in today [5 October] it appears that if the foe makes any 

move it will be towards my left; the bulk of his forces seem to be near Erfurt.... 

I cannot press you too earnestly to write to me frequently and keep me fully informed of all you learn from the direction of Dresden. You may well think that it 

will be a fine thing to move around this area in a “battalion square” of 200,000 

men. Still, this will require a little [operational] art and certain events.28

And so, indeed, it was to prove. Early on 8 October the move into the 

defiles of the Thüringer Wald began, crossing the Saxon frontier without 

encountering opposition in the process. A force of light cavalry, who, 

following their orders, began to empty every letterbox and to interrogate 

every peasant they met amid the passes, headed each of the three columns. Napoleon was aware that he was taking considerable risks and that 

his knowledge of Prussian military movements was incomplete.

Le bataillon carré in Action

Napoleon’s plan for crossing the difficult Thüringer Wald region illustrates his mastery of the principles of flexibility, mutual support, and 

the achievement of local superiority at one or more of the three exits 
46 historical perspectives of the operational art 

umns had safely reached Saalfeld (Lannes’ V Corps) and Hof (Soult’s 

IV Corps) and taken or established bridges over the Upper Saale.

Confusion and misunderstandings of intent continued to dog the 

Prussian high command. Hohenlohe, on news of the action at Schleiz, 

had ordered his army to cross the Middle Saale and advance to Auma, 

there to support and rally Tauenzien, covered by a delaying action to be 

fought by Prince Louis Ferdinand. But Hohenlohe’s superior, Brunswick, 

countermanded the move, substituting an advance toward Rudolstadt, and 

for once the prince acceded. Prince Louis Ferdinand was now instructed 

to fall back to Rudolstadt and avoid battle if possible. But this new order 

reached its addressee too late. From early on the tenth Lannes and the 

Prussian prince had been locked in combat near Saalfeld. The 14,000 

French troops available (Augereau’s VII Corps had fallen behind) routed 

their 7,000 opponents when Quartermaster Guindet of the 10th Hussars 

killed Prince Louis Ferdinand in a man-to-man mounted combat. This 

triggered a disaster that caused his men to flee, which resulted in 2,700 

casualties (including 1,800 prisoners) and the loss of 33 guns, compared 

to the French with 172 killed and wounded.

It now appeared to the Prussian generals that Napoleon was indeed 

breaking through toward Leipzig—thus placing their communications in 

peril—so Hohenlohe pulled back toward Kahla en route for Jena, while 

the other two armies set out to re-concentrate at Weimar. The emperor, 

informed by Soult that the garrison of Plauen had fled northward, now 

believed that battle would be given by the Prussians at Gera in order to 

protect Leipzig (“I doubt, however, whether he can unite [his forces] 

before I can”29) and ordered all formations to press ahead northward to 

forestall the Prussians there. If there were no major battle there, it would 

doubtlessly occur at Leipzig or on the Elbe. Once again, therefore, Napoleon had reached an erroneous conclusion, although had Hohenlohe’s 

plan of the ninth been implemented, he might have been correct in large 

measure. Thus, the Prussians in confusion were even now puzzling their 

great opponent.

Everywhere the French light cavalry and dragoons were seeking information. During the eleventh it became clear that there were no Prussians near Gera nor, even more surprisingly, in the region of Leipzig. Late 

that night Lannes reported that large Prussian forces were still west of the 

Middle Saale. Napoleon at once recast his operational plan. Expecting 

that the battle he was seeking would now take place near Erfurt, probably on 16 October, his orders for implementation of the twelfth inaugurated the famous wheel of le bataillon carré through 90 degrees to move 

westward, toward the Middle Saale instead of toward Leipzig as hitherto 

planned. Lannes and Augereau became the new advance guard, Davout 

and Bernadotte the new right wing, the Guard and Reserve Cavalry the 

new left, and Soult and Ney the reserve positioned to the east. Auma 
46 historical perspectives of the operational art 

umns had safely reached Saalfeld (Lannes’ V Corps) and Hof (Soult’s 

IV Corps) and taken or established bridges over the Upper Saale.

Confusion and misunderstandings of intent continued to dog the 

Prussian high command. Hohenlohe, on news of the action at Schleiz, 

had ordered his army to cross the Middle Saale and advance to Auma, 

there to support and rally Tauenzien, covered by a delaying action to be 

fought by Prince Louis Ferdinand. But Hohenlohe’s superior, Brunswick, 

countermanded the move, substituting an advance toward Rudolstadt, and 

for once the prince acceded. Prince Louis Ferdinand was now instructed 

to fall back to Rudolstadt and avoid battle if possible. But this new order 

reached its addressee too late. From early on the tenth Lannes and the 

Prussian prince had been locked in combat near Saalfeld. The 14,000 

French troops available (Augereau’s VII Corps had fallen behind) routed 

their 7,000 opponents when Quartermaster Guindet of the 10th Hussars 

killed Prince Louis Ferdinand in a man-to-man mounted combat. This 

triggered a disaster that caused his men to flee, which resulted in 2,700 

casualties (including 1,800 prisoners) and the loss of 33 guns, compared 

to the French with 172 killed and wounded.

It now appeared to the Prussian generals that Napoleon was indeed 

breaking through toward Leipzig—thus placing their communications in 

peril—so Hohenlohe pulled back toward Kahla en route for Jena, while 

the other two armies set out to re-concentrate at Weimar. The emperor, 

informed by Soult that the garrison of Plauen had fled northward, now 

believed that battle would be given by the Prussians at Gera in order to 

protect Leipzig (“I doubt, however, whether he can unite [his forces] 

before I can”29) and ordered all formations to press ahead northward to 

forestall the Prussians there. If there were no major battle there, it would 

doubtlessly occur at Leipzig or on the Elbe. Once again, therefore, Napoleon had reached an erroneous conclusion, although had Hohenlohe’s 

plan of the ninth been implemented, he might have been correct in large 

measure. Thus, the Prussians in confusion were even now puzzling their 

great opponent.

Everywhere the French light cavalry and dragoons were seeking information. During the eleventh it became clear that there were no Prussians near Gera nor, even more surprisingly, in the region of Leipzig. Late 

that night Lannes reported that large Prussian forces were still west of the 

Middle Saale. Napoleon at once recast his operational plan. Expecting 

that the battle he was seeking would now take place near Erfurt, probably on 16 October, his orders for implementation of the twelfth inaugurated the famous wheel of le bataillon carré through 90 degrees to move 

westward, toward the Middle Saale instead of toward Leipzig as hitherto 

planned. Lannes and Augereau became the new advance guard, Davout 

and Bernadotte the new right wing, the Guard and Reserve Cavalry the 

new left, and Soult and Ney the reserve positioned to the east. Auma 
48 historical perspectives of the operational art 

line of the River Unstrutt—and this developing crisis caused FrederickWilliam III to convene a new council of war. A few argued for a major 

confrontation at Jena, but most advised an immediate retreat on Leipzig 

by way of Auerstädt, the Kosen Pass, Freiburg, and Merseberg, collecting 

the reserve from Halle en route to safeguard the armies’ links with the 

Elbe. After long and often fiery debate, Brunswick announced his decision. Hohenlohe’s force was to take post at Kapellendorf between Weimar and Jena, with Rüchel’s force in support at Weimar itself, to cover the 

main army’s march on Auerstädt. Once the king and Brunswick and their 

troops were clear of that town, Hohenlohe would assume duties of rearguard commander and follow his seniors northward. These orders were to 

become operative with effect from 1000 hours that same morning.

The Operational Climax Approaches

Napoleon reached Gera about 2000 on the twelfth and there impatiently bided his time waiting for definite news from Lannes. In the early 

hours he had issued preliminary orders for the thirteenth, which reflects 

the degree to which the Grand Armée was “marking time.” Apart from 

two formations—Ney’s VI Corps and Bernadotte’s I Corps—which 

were ordered to close up on Roda and Naumburg, respectively, all the 

rest were told to stay where they were, collect stragglers, reprovision, 

and rest. The emperor even found time to write a line to Josephine:

I am today at Gera, my dearest love, and everything is going very well, quite 

as I hoped would.... My health remains excellent, and I have put on weight since 

my departure [from Paris]. Yet I travel from 20 to 25 leagues each day, on horseback, in my carriage, etc. I retire to rest at eight o’clock and rise at midnight. I 

sometimes imagine that you will not yet have retired to bed. Ever thine.31

This doubtlessly welcome pause in operations was rudely shattered 

at 0900, when three pieces of critical intelligence information reached 

GQG. The first was a secret agent’s report, relayed by Murat, that the king 

and queen of Prussia had been seen at Erfurt on the eleventh, that a Prussian pontoon train had moved northwest from Weissenfels on the twelfth, 

and that there were unmistakable signs of large-scale troop movements 

on the Fulda-Erfurt-Naumburg highroad. Next a courier from Davout at 

Naumburg arrived. Interrogations of prisoners of war, Prussian deserters, 

and civilians had revealed beyond doubt that the main Prussian army was 

between Weimar and Erfurt, that the king of Prussia had certainly been 

at Erfurt on the eleventh, and that there were no signs whatsoever of 

Prussian troops between Naumburg and Leipzig. Third, an aide from Augereau at Kahla reported that certain enemy formations, originally identified as being at Jena, were in fact moving on Erfurt through Weimar to 

join the enemy main body.
48 historical perspectives of the operational art 

line of the River Unstrutt—and this developing crisis caused FrederickWilliam III to convene a new council of war. A few argued for a major 

confrontation at Jena, but most advised an immediate retreat on Leipzig 

by way of Auerstädt, the Kosen Pass, Freiburg, and Merseberg, collecting 

the reserve from Halle en route to safeguard the armies’ links with the 

Elbe. After long and often fiery debate, Brunswick announced his decision. Hohenlohe’s force was to take post at Kapellendorf between Weimar and Jena, with Rüchel’s force in support at Weimar itself, to cover the 

main army’s march on Auerstädt. Once the king and Brunswick and their 

troops were clear of that town, Hohenlohe would assume duties of rearguard commander and follow his seniors northward. These orders were to 

become operative with effect from 1000 hours that same morning.

The Operational Climax Approaches

Napoleon reached Gera about 2000 on the twelfth and there impatiently bided his time waiting for definite news from Lannes. In the early 

hours he had issued preliminary orders for the thirteenth, which reflects 

the degree to which the Grand Armée was “marking time.” Apart from 

two formations—Ney’s VI Corps and Bernadotte’s I Corps—which 

were ordered to close up on Roda and Naumburg, respectively, all the 

rest were told to stay where they were, collect stragglers, reprovision, 

and rest. The emperor even found time to write a line to Josephine:

I am today at Gera, my dearest love, and everything is going very well, quite 

as I hoped would.... My health remains excellent, and I have put on weight since 

my departure [from Paris]. Yet I travel from 20 to 25 leagues each day, on horseback, in my carriage, etc. I retire to rest at eight o’clock and rise at midnight. I 

sometimes imagine that you will not yet have retired to bed. Ever thine.31

This doubtlessly welcome pause in operations was rudely shattered 

at 0900, when three pieces of critical intelligence information reached 

GQG. The first was a secret agent’s report, relayed by Murat, that the king 

and queen of Prussia had been seen at Erfurt on the eleventh, that a Prussian pontoon train had moved northwest from Weissenfels on the twelfth, 

and that there were unmistakable signs of large-scale troop movements 

on the Fulda-Erfurt-Naumburg highroad. Next a courier from Davout at 

Naumburg arrived. Interrogations of prisoners of war, Prussian deserters, 

and civilians had revealed beyond doubt that the main Prussian army was 

between Weimar and Erfurt, that the king of Prussia had certainly been 

at Erfurt on the eleventh, and that there were no signs whatsoever of 

Prussian troops between Naumburg and Leipzig. Third, an aide from Augereau at Kahla reported that certain enemy formations, originally identified as being at Jena, were in fact moving on Erfurt through Weimar to 

join the enemy main body.
50 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and both Soult’s IV and Ney’s VI Corps were to force-march toward Jena, 

where Lefebvre and the infantry component of the Imperial Guard was to 

rejoin the emperor at the earliest possible moment.

Riding over the Saale, Napoleon joined Lannes at his forward headquarters on the steep Landgrafen-Berg feature northwest of Jena town. 

The marshal quickly briefed him on the current situation. The V Corps 

had reached Jena unopposed in a thick fog early that morning. General 

Suchet’s division had pressed ahead to the Landgrafen-Berg, where he 

had run into Prussian pickets and driven them off to the nearby villages 

of Lützeroda and Closewitz. He respectfully but strongly asserted that at 

least 40,000 opponents were present and that the French should remain 

west of the Saale. Napoleon approved these suggestions and ordered the 

remainder of V Corps and the Guard Infantry (when arrived) to be ready 

to pass the Saale as soon as dusk would conceal their movement. He 

clearly also believed he was in the presence of the main Prussian Army.

The development of the French “intelligence picture” between 9 and 

13 October is an excellent and revealing example of Napoleon’s operational art in action. Although far from infallible, it eventually worked 

with the minimum of confusion, despite a number of serious miscalculations—and indeed a virtual 72-hour “blackout”—which might have 

thrown a lesser army into chaos.

Table 1 illustrates the Grand Armée’s reinforcement capacity from 

late on the thirteenth to the afternoon of the fourteenth:

Table 1—The Grand Armée’s Reinforcement Schedule,

13–14 October 1806

Arriving Formations Number of Troops Present

13 October

1200 Lannes’ Corps 21,000

2359 The above plus the Guard infantry 25,000

14 October

1000 The above plus VII and part IV Corps 50,500

1200 The above plus remainder of IV Corps, 

VI Corps, and the Heavy Cavalry

90,500

1600 The above plus the Light Cavalry and 

III and I Corps from the north

145,500

Such a concentration of force within twenty-eight hours is a further 

tribute to Napoleon’s concept and Berthier’s staff work. Some forty miles 

were at this stage separating the two wings of the army. Messages may be 

calculated to have moved at about 5.5 miles an hour. As GQG was about 
50 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and both Soult’s IV and Ney’s VI Corps were to force-march toward Jena, 

where Lefebvre and the infantry component of the Imperial Guard was to 

rejoin the emperor at the earliest possible moment.

Riding over the Saale, Napoleon joined Lannes at his forward headquarters on the steep Landgrafen-Berg feature northwest of Jena town. 

The marshal quickly briefed him on the current situation. The V Corps 

had reached Jena unopposed in a thick fog early that morning. General 

Suchet’s division had pressed ahead to the Landgrafen-Berg, where he 

had run into Prussian pickets and driven them off to the nearby villages 

of Lützeroda and Closewitz. He respectfully but strongly asserted that at 

least 40,000 opponents were present and that the French should remain 

west of the Saale. Napoleon approved these suggestions and ordered the 

remainder of V Corps and the Guard Infantry (when arrived) to be ready 

to pass the Saale as soon as dusk would conceal their movement. He 

clearly also believed he was in the presence of the main Prussian Army.

The development of the French “intelligence picture” between 9 and 

13 October is an excellent and revealing example of Napoleon’s operational art in action. Although far from infallible, it eventually worked 

with the minimum of confusion, despite a number of serious miscalculations—and indeed a virtual 72-hour “blackout”—which might have 

thrown a lesser army into chaos.

Table 1 illustrates the Grand Armée’s reinforcement capacity from 

late on the thirteenth to the afternoon of the fourteenth:

Table 1—The Grand Armée’s Reinforcement Schedule,

13–14 October 1806

Arriving Formations Number of Troops Present

13 October

1200 Lannes’ Corps 21,000

2359 The above plus the Guard infantry 25,000

14 October

1000 The above plus VII and part IV Corps 50,500

1200 The above plus remainder of IV Corps, 

VI Corps, and the Heavy Cavalry

90,500

1600 The above plus the Light Cavalry and 

III and I Corps from the north

145,500

Such a concentration of force within twenty-eight hours is a further 

tribute to Napoleon’s concept and Berthier’s staff work. Some forty miles 

were at this stage separating the two wings of the army. Messages may be 

calculated to have moved at about 5.5 miles an hour. As GQG was about 
52 historical perspectives of the operational art 

signed for him at Dornburg.”34 In fact Bernadotte was still with Davout, 

who communicated the emperor’s order to him personally in the early 

hours of the fourteenth, but Bernadotte’s dislike for Davout and refusal to 

be seen as in any way under his orders caused him to disregard the imperial caveat, instead insisting on marching south toward Dornburg with his 

men. This act of disobedience was to place Davout in the greatest peril 

later that morning. The commander of I Corps in due course attempted 

to justify his actions on the grounds of the rather vague second sentence. 

It was almost to bring him before a court-martial and a possible firing 

squad for gross dereliction of duty.

Thus, Napoleon had envisaged a classical operational plan of battle 

based on a maneuver of envelopment. But between intention and actual 

execution there could only be a large gulf, as 14 October was clearly to 

demonstrate. 

The night of 13–14 October found Napoleon laboring alongside his 

engineers and fantassins. To extemporize a road up the Landgrafen-Berg 

and its culminating peak, the Windknollen, suitable for artillery, every 

battalion in turn was required to labor for an hour, according to Marbot.35 The torches to illuminate the work were hidden from the foe by 

the blaze of Jena’s lights beyond. The security of these peaks was critical 

for the development of the operational plan at daylight. The work completed on his orders for the morrow issue, and 25,000 men and forty-two 

cannon safely deployed on and about the two summits, Napoleon slept 

soundly, bivouacked in the midst of a square formed by the Grenadiers 

of the Guard.

Over the valley, Prince Hohenlohe slept more fitfully amid his 38,000 

men, but with no idea that he was facing the main French Army. He considered the French on the Landgrafen-Berg to be merely a flank-guard 

that, together with another French force reportedly at Naumburg, were 

between them covering the presumed major French advance continuing 

north, toward Leipzig. Both commanders were therefore in for some surprises on the fourteenth. The “fog of war” was supplemented by a thick 

mist that spread down the Saale River valley before dawn. Napoleon 

was confident of fighting with an overall superiority of force. And so he 

would, indeed—and to a far greater extent than he ever envisaged. But 

the same would not be the case for Davout.

Operational Considerations in the Battle 

14 October 1806

At Jena Napoleon fought from 0400 for ten hours with a force that 

began the action at a strength of 46,000 men and 70 guns and ultimately reached 96,000 men and 120 guns from shortly after midday. Right 
52 historical perspectives of the operational art 

signed for him at Dornburg.”34 In fact Bernadotte was still with Davout, 

who communicated the emperor’s order to him personally in the early 

hours of the fourteenth, but Bernadotte’s dislike for Davout and refusal to 

be seen as in any way under his orders caused him to disregard the imperial caveat, instead insisting on marching south toward Dornburg with his 

men. This act of disobedience was to place Davout in the greatest peril 

later that morning. The commander of I Corps in due course attempted 

to justify his actions on the grounds of the rather vague second sentence. 

It was almost to bring him before a court-martial and a possible firing 

squad for gross dereliction of duty.

Thus, Napoleon had envisaged a classical operational plan of battle 

based on a maneuver of envelopment. But between intention and actual 

execution there could only be a large gulf, as 14 October was clearly to 

demonstrate. 

The night of 13–14 October found Napoleon laboring alongside his 

engineers and fantassins. To extemporize a road up the Landgrafen-Berg 

and its culminating peak, the Windknollen, suitable for artillery, every 

battalion in turn was required to labor for an hour, according to Marbot.35 The torches to illuminate the work were hidden from the foe by 

the blaze of Jena’s lights beyond. The security of these peaks was critical 

for the development of the operational plan at daylight. The work completed on his orders for the morrow issue, and 25,000 men and forty-two 

cannon safely deployed on and about the two summits, Napoleon slept 

soundly, bivouacked in the midst of a square formed by the Grenadiers 

of the Guard.

Over the valley, Prince Hohenlohe slept more fitfully amid his 38,000 

men, but with no idea that he was facing the main French Army. He considered the French on the Landgrafen-Berg to be merely a flank-guard 

that, together with another French force reportedly at Naumburg, were 

between them covering the presumed major French advance continuing 

north, toward Leipzig. Both commanders were therefore in for some surprises on the fourteenth. The “fog of war” was supplemented by a thick 

mist that spread down the Saale River valley before dawn. Napoleon 

was confident of fighting with an overall superiority of force. And so he 

would, indeed—and to a far greater extent than he ever envisaged. But 

the same would not be the case for Davout.

Operational Considerations in the Battle 

14 October 1806

At Jena Napoleon fought from 0400 for ten hours with a force that 

began the action at a strength of 46,000 men and 70 guns and ultimately reached 96,000 men and 120 guns from shortly after midday. Right 
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56 historical perspectives of the operational art 

forced to form a square. It took Napoleon’s personal order to General 

Bertrand to lead the only two cavalry regiments in reserve (Murat had 

yet to reach the field) in a desperate and a costly rescue operation, supported by a determined drive by the men of the nigh-exhausted V Corps 

toward Vierzehnheiligen. Both attacks were ultimately driven back, but 

their intervention enabled Ney to return to the French lines, surrendering 

the village of Isserstädt on the way. Napoleon was not best pleased by this 

unauthorized adventure; Ney was in any case supposed to have attacked, 

when the time was right, on Lannes’ farther (not nearer) flank. “The Emperor was very much displeased at Marshal Ney’s obstinacy,” recalled 

General Rapp. “He said a few words to him on the subject—but with 

delicacy.”37 According to other accounts, this was the occasion when Napoleon declared that Ney knew less about warfare “than the last-joined 

drummer-boy.”38 This incident illustrates how Napoleon’s control of his 

subordinates could on occasion falter at the operational level.

The third aspect of Jena relates to the Napoleonic equivalent of operational fires. At Jena, we find the development of the use of concentrated artillery fire. Now, six years after Marengo and ten months after 

Austerlitz, the emperor produced his first massed battery as an extemporization to counter a moment of French weakness toward the end of the 

battle. It happened as follows. After Hohenlohe’s defeat, Rüchel’s force 

of 15,000 men made their appearance—belated but fresh—along the 

Weimar road. The sight of Lannes’ and Ney’s hurrying columns gave 

the newcomers reason for pause, but their withdrawal began as a model 

operation, infantry and cavalry alternately covering each other’s retreats 

by bounds. Napoleon, eager to exploit the Prussian defeat and having no 

wish to be held up by this valiant enemy rearguard, called for several batteries of guns (probably three—accounts vary) and had them drawn up 

to pour close-range fire into Rüchel’s masses. A dozen salvoes wrecked 

the Prussian forces’ cohesion, and when the French infantry swarmed 

forward again their foes turned and fled. The result was another 5,000 

prisoners and five colors taken. The guns were largely to thank for this 

sudden resolution of local difficulty.

In future years Napoleon would use artillery in large numbers on 

many critical occasions. One thinks of the brilliant handling of Senarmount’s guns at Friedland, used as an offensive weapon, or the extemporized great battery at Wagram’s second day in July 1809 that plugged a 

large gap in the French center and repulsed the Archduke Charles’ threatening counterattack. Although the massed guns at Waterloo did not do 

their desired work on account of wet ground and Wellington’s skillful 

placing of troops on the reverse slopes out of sight of the French gunners, 

Napoleon was right when he claimed “It is with guns that war is made.” 

His employment of guns at Jena forms part of the evolution of his massed 

batteries used for operational effect.
56 historical perspectives of the operational art 

forced to form a square. It took Napoleon’s personal order to General 

Bertrand to lead the only two cavalry regiments in reserve (Murat had 

yet to reach the field) in a desperate and a costly rescue operation, supported by a determined drive by the men of the nigh-exhausted V Corps 

toward Vierzehnheiligen. Both attacks were ultimately driven back, but 

their intervention enabled Ney to return to the French lines, surrendering 

the village of Isserstädt on the way. Napoleon was not best pleased by this 

unauthorized adventure; Ney was in any case supposed to have attacked, 

when the time was right, on Lannes’ farther (not nearer) flank. “The Emperor was very much displeased at Marshal Ney’s obstinacy,” recalled 

General Rapp. “He said a few words to him on the subject—but with 

delicacy.”37 According to other accounts, this was the occasion when Napoleon declared that Ney knew less about warfare “than the last-joined 

drummer-boy.”38 This incident illustrates how Napoleon’s control of his 

subordinates could on occasion falter at the operational level.

The third aspect of Jena relates to the Napoleonic equivalent of operational fires. At Jena, we find the development of the use of concentrated artillery fire. Now, six years after Marengo and ten months after 

Austerlitz, the emperor produced his first massed battery as an extemporization to counter a moment of French weakness toward the end of the 

battle. It happened as follows. After Hohenlohe’s defeat, Rüchel’s force 

of 15,000 men made their appearance—belated but fresh—along the 

Weimar road. The sight of Lannes’ and Ney’s hurrying columns gave 

the newcomers reason for pause, but their withdrawal began as a model 

operation, infantry and cavalry alternately covering each other’s retreats 

by bounds. Napoleon, eager to exploit the Prussian defeat and having no 

wish to be held up by this valiant enemy rearguard, called for several batteries of guns (probably three—accounts vary) and had them drawn up 

to pour close-range fire into Rüchel’s masses. A dozen salvoes wrecked 

the Prussian forces’ cohesion, and when the French infantry swarmed 

forward again their foes turned and fled. The result was another 5,000 

prisoners and five colors taken. The guns were largely to thank for this 

sudden resolution of local difficulty.

In future years Napoleon would use artillery in large numbers on 

many critical occasions. One thinks of the brilliant handling of Senarmount’s guns at Friedland, used as an offensive weapon, or the extemporized great battery at Wagram’s second day in July 1809 that plugged a 

large gap in the French center and repulsed the Archduke Charles’ threatening counterattack. Although the massed guns at Waterloo did not do 

their desired work on account of wet ground and Wellington’s skillful 

placing of troops on the reverse slopes out of sight of the French gunners, 

Napoleon was right when he claimed “It is with guns that war is made.” 

His employment of guns at Jena forms part of the evolution of his massed 

batteries used for operational effect.
58 historical perspectives of the operational art 

that officer’s simple duty, fought a steadily escalating encounter battle 

until he found himself engaged with fully 63,500 Prussians supported by 

230 guns, forming the Duke of Brunswick’s entire army. By superlative 

handling of his limited resources, peering around the battle area through 

his special battle spectacles, ever present at the forward edge of the battle area (FEBA) despite huge risks, and doubtless aided by a number of 

Prussian errors (especially after Brunswick and the aged von Mollendorf 

had been killed or mortally wounded and King Frederick-William III had 

insisted on taking over command), Davout fought magnificently for nineand-a-half hours and thoroughly defeated the Prussians. By last light the 

III Corps had inflicted 13,000 casualties (including 3,000 prisoners) or 

20.5 percent, and captured 115 Prussian guns—for the loss of 26 percent 

of its effective strength on entering battle: namely, 258 officers and 6,974 

rank-and-file soldiers dead or wounded. Gudin’s division, the worst hit, 

lost all of 40 percent of its strength. It was only when he had driven the 

fleeing foe back through Auerstädt, southwestward to the final crest of 

the Eckartsberg feature (short of Apolda), that Davout at last halted his 

exhausted men and sent Colonel Falcon to take the news to the emperor.40

The final compliment payable to Davout’s showing on this occasion is 

the fact that the Prussian high command freely admitted after the battle 

that they had believed they had been fighting not only at least 100,000 

Frenchmen all day but also Napoleon in person.

Once again the strengths of the corps d’armée system had been brilliantly displayed, above all its sustained fighting power and, under the right 

leadership, its adaptability to meet triumphantly almost any unforeseen 

situation. It also permitted Napoleon to survive important mistakes of calculation. He found it hard to appreciate that he had only been fighting onethird of the Prussian Army at Jena, while an isolated subordinate had dealt 

with the balance single-handed, as it were. But where was Bernadotte? 

The answer to that would have to wait until the morrow. Napoleon was 

so weary that he fell asleep while dictating orders for the fifteenth. At a 

sign from Marshal Lefebvre, the Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard silently 

formed their habitual square around their sleeping master—sitting on a 

chair alongside his customary bonfire—and guarded his slumber through 

the night. Ten miles away, the survivors of Davout’s decimated but victorious corps also slept the sleep of exhaustion. One man, however, spent a 

troubled night. Near Apolda, Marshal Bernadotte had received a peremptory order from Berthier to report to GQG early next morning and to be 

ready to explain his actions, or lack of them, on 14 October.

These had indeed been incredible. Bernadotte, as we have seen, refused to obey the emperor’s order dictated at 2200 on the thirteenth, preferring to hold to his previous instructions, namely to march on Dornburg. Even this simple maneuver down a reasonable road along the east 

bank of the Saale had been poorly conducted, and it was only at 1100 
58 historical perspectives of the operational art 

that officer’s simple duty, fought a steadily escalating encounter battle 

until he found himself engaged with fully 63,500 Prussians supported by 

230 guns, forming the Duke of Brunswick’s entire army. By superlative 

handling of his limited resources, peering around the battle area through 

his special battle spectacles, ever present at the forward edge of the battle area (FEBA) despite huge risks, and doubtless aided by a number of 

Prussian errors (especially after Brunswick and the aged von Mollendorf 

had been killed or mortally wounded and King Frederick-William III had 

insisted on taking over command), Davout fought magnificently for nineand-a-half hours and thoroughly defeated the Prussians. By last light the 

III Corps had inflicted 13,000 casualties (including 3,000 prisoners) or 

20.5 percent, and captured 115 Prussian guns—for the loss of 26 percent 

of its effective strength on entering battle: namely, 258 officers and 6,974 

rank-and-file soldiers dead or wounded. Gudin’s division, the worst hit, 

lost all of 40 percent of its strength. It was only when he had driven the 

fleeing foe back through Auerstädt, southwestward to the final crest of 

the Eckartsberg feature (short of Apolda), that Davout at last halted his 

exhausted men and sent Colonel Falcon to take the news to the emperor.40

The final compliment payable to Davout’s showing on this occasion is 

the fact that the Prussian high command freely admitted after the battle 

that they had believed they had been fighting not only at least 100,000 

Frenchmen all day but also Napoleon in person.

Once again the strengths of the corps d’armée system had been brilliantly displayed, above all its sustained fighting power and, under the right 

leadership, its adaptability to meet triumphantly almost any unforeseen 

situation. It also permitted Napoleon to survive important mistakes of calculation. He found it hard to appreciate that he had only been fighting onethird of the Prussian Army at Jena, while an isolated subordinate had dealt 

with the balance single-handed, as it were. But where was Bernadotte? 

The answer to that would have to wait until the morrow. Napoleon was 

so weary that he fell asleep while dictating orders for the fifteenth. At a 

sign from Marshal Lefebvre, the Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard silently 

formed their habitual square around their sleeping master—sitting on a 

chair alongside his customary bonfire—and guarded his slumber through 

the night. Ten miles away, the survivors of Davout’s decimated but victorious corps also slept the sleep of exhaustion. One man, however, spent a 

troubled night. Near Apolda, Marshal Bernadotte had received a peremptory order from Berthier to report to GQG early next morning and to be 

ready to explain his actions, or lack of them, on 14 October.

These had indeed been incredible. Bernadotte, as we have seen, refused to obey the emperor’s order dictated at 2200 on the thirteenth, preferring to hold to his previous instructions, namely to march on Dornburg. Even this simple maneuver down a reasonable road along the east 

bank of the Saale had been poorly conducted, and it was only at 1100 
60 historical perspectives of the operational art 

only Napoleonic marshal to found a royal dynasty (in Sweden) that has 

survived to the present day.

The Employment of Operational Reserves 

The Pursuit after Jena-Auerstädt

The ruthless and successful pursuit after the double battle of 14 October 1806 has justly gone down into the annals of military history as a 

masterpiece of what we today would term operational art. The correct 

employment of reserves above the tactical level is one of the major subthemes of this study, and the events of late 1806 demonstrate what could 

be achieved against a defeated enemy by a great captain of warfare—as 

well as certain limitations.

The operational pursuit was not launched immediately after the double battle. Napoleon’s exhaustion and his lack of certainty concerning 

what had befallen I and III Corps during the fourteenth caused a short 

delay in mounting a major, carefully considered, operational hue and cry. 

Apart from Murat—already noted as leading his light cavalry with great 

élan toward Erfurt on the heels of Hohenlohe and Rüchel—there is little 

doubt that most unwounded officers and men, including their emperor, 

succumbed to weariness and, after a brief period of euphoria, to depression, as they sought missing friends over the battlefield and extemporized some sort of meal after so many hours of combat. Of course, it may 

be said that for once Napoleon showed human weakness in succumbing 

to slumber at such a moment. It is in the moment and the immediate 

aftermath of victory, as in the time of defeat, that the senior commander 

must show energy and determination—and drive his equally weary subordinates to still greater efforts to exploit the foe’s difficulties and afford 

him no time to recover his equilibrium and re-form. And this was usually 

Napoleon’s way, to be sure.

In mid-October 1806 there was no immediate cause for anxiety on the 

last score. The chaos and confusion among the fleeing Prussian armies 

must have beggared belief. This became particularly the case when men 

of Hohenlohe and Rüchel, attempting to flee west and northwest, collided with Brunswick’s columns trying to force their way south from 

Auerstädt. Had Bernadotte only been at Apolda earlier than 1600—or 

remained with Davout, the Prussian cataclysm must have become far 

greater than was in fact the case.

So it was only at 0500 on the fifteenth that orders for a general pursuit were issued—and of course took several hours to put into full implementation. Napoleon’s eventual plan for the pursuit closely reflects his 

favorite operational maneuver. Murat, Soult, and Ney were to apply the 

maximum frontal pressure against the retiring enemy, while la masse 
60 historical perspectives of the operational art 

only Napoleonic marshal to found a royal dynasty (in Sweden) that has 

survived to the present day.

The Employment of Operational Reserves 

The Pursuit after Jena-Auerstädt

The ruthless and successful pursuit after the double battle of 14 October 1806 has justly gone down into the annals of military history as a 

masterpiece of what we today would term operational art. The correct 

employment of reserves above the tactical level is one of the major subthemes of this study, and the events of late 1806 demonstrate what could 

be achieved against a defeated enemy by a great captain of warfare—as 

well as certain limitations.

The operational pursuit was not launched immediately after the double battle. Napoleon’s exhaustion and his lack of certainty concerning 

what had befallen I and III Corps during the fourteenth caused a short 

delay in mounting a major, carefully considered, operational hue and cry. 

Apart from Murat—already noted as leading his light cavalry with great 

élan toward Erfurt on the heels of Hohenlohe and Rüchel—there is little 

doubt that most unwounded officers and men, including their emperor, 

succumbed to weariness and, after a brief period of euphoria, to depression, as they sought missing friends over the battlefield and extemporized some sort of meal after so many hours of combat. Of course, it may 

be said that for once Napoleon showed human weakness in succumbing 

to slumber at such a moment. It is in the moment and the immediate 

aftermath of victory, as in the time of defeat, that the senior commander 

must show energy and determination—and drive his equally weary subordinates to still greater efforts to exploit the foe’s difficulties and afford 

him no time to recover his equilibrium and re-form. And this was usually 

Napoleon’s way, to be sure.

In mid-October 1806 there was no immediate cause for anxiety on the 

last score. The chaos and confusion among the fleeing Prussian armies 

must have beggared belief. This became particularly the case when men 

of Hohenlohe and Rüchel, attempting to flee west and northwest, collided with Brunswick’s columns trying to force their way south from 

Auerstädt. Had Bernadotte only been at Apolda earlier than 1600—or 

remained with Davout, the Prussian cataclysm must have become far 

greater than was in fact the case.

So it was only at 0500 on the fifteenth that orders for a general pursuit were issued—and of course took several hours to put into full implementation. Napoleon’s eventual plan for the pursuit closely reflects his 

favorite operational maneuver. Murat, Soult, and Ney were to apply the 

maximum frontal pressure against the retiring enemy, while la masse 
62 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Indiscipline at all levels notwithstanding, the Grand Armée drove on 

through Rothenau, Ziesar, and Potsdam (where Napoleon took time off 

to ponder alone at Frederick the Great’s tomb and ordered the removal of 

that military monarch’s sword, sash, and Ribbon of the Black Eagle for 

transfer to the Hôtel des Invalides in Paris). The evening of the twentyfourth found the French advance cavalry in the suburbs of Berlin, and the 

next day Napoleon accorded to Davout’s III Corps the honor of marching 

first into the Prussian capital—to the chagrin of Murat. Thus did Napoleon make amends for his less-than-charitable remark of the late afternoon eleven days earlier by a handsome gesture; he had already made a 

clear admission of the debt he owed to Davout—later awarded the title 

of Duc d’Auerstädt (1808)—in the postbattle Fifth Bulletin of the Grand 

Armée published on the fifteenth, although he did imply that it was all 

part of a master operational plan! “On our right, Marshal Davout’s Corps 

performed wonders. Not only did he contain, but he pushed back, and 

defeated, the bulk of the enemy’s troops, which were to debouch through 

Kosen. This marshal displayed distinguished bravery and firmness of 

character—the first qualities in a warrior.”43 And so they remain to the 

present, not least at the operational level of command.

The continuing pursuit was only briefly interrupted by this and similar ceremonies, for now Napoleon had determined to secure the line of 

the River Oder and to head off any Russian intervention. The new IX 

Corps was already near Glogau, and now Davout was moved northeast to 

secure Küstrin and Frankfurt on der Oder, while Lannes made for Stettin. The remainder of the army—less Ney’s VI Corps carrying out the 

siege of Magdeburg from 20 October (which would surrender to him on 

6 November)—continued northward, allowing the Prussian formations 

still in the field no rest. Hohenlohe was caught up with at Prenzlau on 28 

October and forced to surrender with 10,000 men and 64 guns, impressed 

by Murat’s bluster and bluff that fully 100,000 French troops were surrounding him. And so it went with a number of other Prussian garrisons.

This left only Blücher’s and the Duke of Weimar’s detachments unaccounted for (22,000 men in all), currently at Schwerin and the Danish 

port of Lübeck to the northwest. But Bernadotte was hot on their heels, 

with Soult (laden with loot) a few days behind him. All the Prussians were 

within the walls of Lübeck on 4 November, still hoping to find shipping 

for England. The next day, however, Chief of Staff Scharnhorst surrendered with 10,000 men, followed by his commander, Blücher, on the fifth 

with as many more at the neighboring township of Ratgau. An additional 

prize was a division of Swedish troops’ belatedly landing. Bernadotte’s 

courtesy so impressed the nobly born officers that four years later they 

would suggest their conqueror’s name for the vacant position of Crown 

Prince of Sweden. (Thus in the long term the “miserable Ponte Corvo” 

collected the jackpot that eluded all his other comrades and rivals in the 
62 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Indiscipline at all levels notwithstanding, the Grand Armée drove on 

through Rothenau, Ziesar, and Potsdam (where Napoleon took time off 

to ponder alone at Frederick the Great’s tomb and ordered the removal of 

that military monarch’s sword, sash, and Ribbon of the Black Eagle for 

transfer to the Hôtel des Invalides in Paris). The evening of the twentyfourth found the French advance cavalry in the suburbs of Berlin, and the 

next day Napoleon accorded to Davout’s III Corps the honor of marching 

first into the Prussian capital—to the chagrin of Murat. Thus did Napoleon make amends for his less-than-charitable remark of the late afternoon eleven days earlier by a handsome gesture; he had already made a 

clear admission of the debt he owed to Davout—later awarded the title 

of Duc d’Auerstädt (1808)—in the postbattle Fifth Bulletin of the Grand 

Armée published on the fifteenth, although he did imply that it was all 

part of a master operational plan! “On our right, Marshal Davout’s Corps 

performed wonders. Not only did he contain, but he pushed back, and 

defeated, the bulk of the enemy’s troops, which were to debouch through 

Kosen. This marshal displayed distinguished bravery and firmness of 

character—the first qualities in a warrior.”43 And so they remain to the 

present, not least at the operational level of command.

The continuing pursuit was only briefly interrupted by this and similar ceremonies, for now Napoleon had determined to secure the line of 

the River Oder and to head off any Russian intervention. The new IX 

Corps was already near Glogau, and now Davout was moved northeast to 

secure Küstrin and Frankfurt on der Oder, while Lannes made for Stettin. The remainder of the army—less Ney’s VI Corps carrying out the 

siege of Magdeburg from 20 October (which would surrender to him on 

6 November)—continued northward, allowing the Prussian formations 

still in the field no rest. Hohenlohe was caught up with at Prenzlau on 28 

October and forced to surrender with 10,000 men and 64 guns, impressed 

by Murat’s bluster and bluff that fully 100,000 French troops were surrounding him. And so it went with a number of other Prussian garrisons.

This left only Blücher’s and the Duke of Weimar’s detachments unaccounted for (22,000 men in all), currently at Schwerin and the Danish 

port of Lübeck to the northwest. But Bernadotte was hot on their heels, 

with Soult (laden with loot) a few days behind him. All the Prussians were 

within the walls of Lübeck on 4 November, still hoping to find shipping 

for England. The next day, however, Chief of Staff Scharnhorst surrendered with 10,000 men, followed by his commander, Blücher, on the fifth 

with as many more at the neighboring township of Ratgau. An additional 

prize was a division of Swedish troops’ belatedly landing. Bernadotte’s 

courtesy so impressed the nobly born officers that four years later they 

would suggest their conqueror’s name for the vacant position of Crown 

Prince of Sweden. (Thus in the long term the “miserable Ponte Corvo” 

collected the jackpot that eluded all his other comrades and rivals in the 
64 historical perspectives of the operational art 

operational art perspective, there had been a number of serious errors and 

confusion during the unfolding of this short campaign. Thus, I Corps and 

III Corps received orders at the start of the operational movements that 

sent them across each other’s lines of march. A little later Augereau’s VII 

Corps was left without orders from 7–10 October and failed to keep in 

touch with V Corps over the same period. Indeed, Napoleon had moved 

off into the virtually unknown on 8 October, so inadequate had been 

intelligence coverage, and even those reports that came in hardly clarified the situation—if anything the reverse. Only on the thirteenth did 

any hard information become available, and even then some of that was 

misinterpreted. Yet, somehow, the system pulled through.

As has been mentioned earlier in this essay, Napoleon was indubitably guilty of at least six errors of judgment and calculation, as well as 

“faults of command” during 13 and 14 October alone. These six errors 

during the critical day preceding battle and that of the battle itself, were 

(it is easy to discern after the fact), taken in turn, as follows:

First, Napoleon failed to realize that Hohenlohe’s command constituted only a flank covering force. Here incomplete reconnaissance and 

habitual “fog of war” were largely to blame, but Napoleon had traveled 

to join Lannes at Jena on the thirteenth to see for himself. He conducted 

two reconnaissances, but remained convinced that he was engaging the 

main enemy army right to the end of the battle the next day.

His second misjudgment, which could have proved fatal for Davout, 

was his failure to realize that the Prussian main body was in fact moving toward Naumburg, which made Auerstädt the most important battle 

of the double engagement. Once again, there were intelligence indicators of this move, but because Napoleon miscalculated the likely date of 

battle to be 15 October at the earliest and more likely the sixteenth, and 

continued to do so until about 1500 on the fifteenth, when the “veil” was 

truly rent, he seriously miscalculated the main Prussian locations and 

prebattle intentions.

Third, the emperor failed to issue Bernadotte with a cut-and-dried 

order at 2200 on the thirteenth to accompany Davout if he was still in 

company with him. The slight possibility of placing different interpretations on his actual instructions (or to be able to pretend to do so) at least 

partially exculpates Ponte Corvo; but by no means entirely.

Fourth, Napoleon totally failed to keep in touch with either or both of 

I and III Corps during the hours of battle on the fourteenth. Granted, he 

had enough preoccupation close to hand, but it is the duty of the operational artist and commander to use all of the instrumentation at hand, not 

just to focus on the local picture. Once again, therefore, Napoleon stands 

accused of a lapse in his powers of orchestration. Berthier also bears 

some of this responsibility.
64 historical perspectives of the operational art 

operational art perspective, there had been a number of serious errors and 

confusion during the unfolding of this short campaign. Thus, I Corps and 

III Corps received orders at the start of the operational movements that 

sent them across each other’s lines of march. A little later Augereau’s VII 

Corps was left without orders from 7–10 October and failed to keep in 

touch with V Corps over the same period. Indeed, Napoleon had moved 

off into the virtually unknown on 8 October, so inadequate had been 

intelligence coverage, and even those reports that came in hardly clarified the situation—if anything the reverse. Only on the thirteenth did 

any hard information become available, and even then some of that was 

misinterpreted. Yet, somehow, the system pulled through.

As has been mentioned earlier in this essay, Napoleon was indubitably guilty of at least six errors of judgment and calculation, as well as 

“faults of command” during 13 and 14 October alone. These six errors 

during the critical day preceding battle and that of the battle itself, were 

(it is easy to discern after the fact), taken in turn, as follows:

First, Napoleon failed to realize that Hohenlohe’s command constituted only a flank covering force. Here incomplete reconnaissance and 

habitual “fog of war” were largely to blame, but Napoleon had traveled 

to join Lannes at Jena on the thirteenth to see for himself. He conducted 

two reconnaissances, but remained convinced that he was engaging the 

main enemy army right to the end of the battle the next day.

His second misjudgment, which could have proved fatal for Davout, 

was his failure to realize that the Prussian main body was in fact moving toward Naumburg, which made Auerstädt the most important battle 

of the double engagement. Once again, there were intelligence indicators of this move, but because Napoleon miscalculated the likely date of 

battle to be 15 October at the earliest and more likely the sixteenth, and 

continued to do so until about 1500 on the fifteenth, when the “veil” was 

truly rent, he seriously miscalculated the main Prussian locations and 

prebattle intentions.

Third, the emperor failed to issue Bernadotte with a cut-and-dried 

order at 2200 on the thirteenth to accompany Davout if he was still in 

company with him. The slight possibility of placing different interpretations on his actual instructions (or to be able to pretend to do so) at least 

partially exculpates Ponte Corvo; but by no means entirely.

Fourth, Napoleon totally failed to keep in touch with either or both of 

I and III Corps during the hours of battle on the fourteenth. Granted, he 

had enough preoccupation close to hand, but it is the duty of the operational artist and commander to use all of the instrumentation at hand, not 

just to focus on the local picture. Once again, therefore, Napoleon stands 

accused of a lapse in his powers of orchestration. Berthier also bears 

some of this responsibility.
66 historical perspectives of the operational art

all forces and reserves in pursuit, the attempt at intention analysis to see 

beyond the “veil,” and how “the system of campaign” did indeed reveal 

“the system of battle.” All went as planned—if not exactly as fought. 

Such, then, was the state of operational art at its highest development in 

the days before the development of the “continuous front,” railways, and 

telegraphic communication. We must surely aver that it was, all in all, 

impressive to say the very least.46

66
66 historical perspectives of the operational art

all forces and reserves in pursuit, the attempt at intention analysis to see 

beyond the “veil,” and how “the system of campaign” did indeed reveal 

“the system of battle.” All went as planned—if not exactly as fought. 

Such, then, was the state of operational art at its highest development in 

the days before the development of the “continuous front,” railways, and 

telegraphic communication. We must surely aver that it was, all in all, 

impressive to say the very least.46

66
68 historical perspectives of the operational art

28. Correspondence, vol. 13, no. 10941, pp. 309–10.

29. Correspondence, vol. 13, no. 10992, p. 344. See Carl von Clausewitz, Nachrichten

über Preussen in seiner großen Katastrophe (Berlin, 1898); Antoine H. Baron de Jomini, 

Atlas portatif ... pour la vie de Napoléon (Brussels, 1840); Chandler, Campaigns. Both 

Jean Baptiste M. E. Vachee, Napoleon at Work (London: A. and C. Black, 1914), and 

van Creveld, Command in War, concentrate on command, control, communications, and 

intelligence (C3I) aspects.

30. Colin, Les Grandes Batailles, p. 107.

31. Correspondence, vol. 13, no. 10992, p. 344.

32. Ibid., vol. 13, no. 1100, p. 348.

33. See Chandler, Campaigns, p. 475.

34. Bonnal, La Manoeuvre, p. 421.

35. Baron M. de Marbot, Mémoirs, vol. 1 (Paris, 1891), p. 297.

36. For details of the battle, see Chandler, Campaigns, pp. 479–98; MOD, Non-Technical 

Research Paper (no. 12), pp. 30–31.

37. General Rapp’s account, in Louis A. F. de Bourrienne, Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte, 

vol. 2 (London, 1844), p. 384.

38. See Chandler, Marshals, p. xlvi.

39. See Chandler, Campaigns, pp. 489–98, and for an impressive reconstruction of Auerstädt, 

W. J. Wood, Leaders and Battles—The Art of Military Leadership (Novato, Calif.: Presidio 

Press, 1984), pp. 79–106; also Reichel, l’Art de la Guerre, final part.

40. For a further account of Davout’s career, see Reichel, l’Art de la Guerre (to 

Auerstädt—a second volume was to follow, but Reichel’s sad death in 1992 halted the 

project), and Chandler, Marshals, pp. 93–117.

41. Marbot, Memoirs, I:303.

42. Correspondence, vol. 13, no. 11060, pp. 393–94.

43. Chandler, Marshals, pp. 114–15.

44. See Chandler, Campaigns, p. 457.

45. Van Creveld, Command in War, p. 96.

46. For a fuller treatment and analysis of Napoleon’s contributions to operational art, see 

Jay Luvaas, ed., Napoleon on the Art of War (New York: Free Press, 1999).
French Operational Art

1888–1940

Robert A. Doughty

Although the French acknowledged between 1888 and 1940 the existence of a level of war between the strategic and tactical levels, they 

did not believe it was fundamentally different from the other two levels. 

Essentially, they saw the operational level, or in their words grand tactics, 

as being a transition between the other two levels. From their perspective, 

the key aspect of grand tactics was the combining of units into effective 

combat organizations and employing them in a coordinated fashion toward a common goal. While devoting very little time and effort to studying the theoretical aspects of grand tactics, French military leaders and 

thinkers devoted considerable effort to developing corps, field armies, 

and army groups as combat organizations and to studying the practical 

aspects of their employment. They believed the essence of grand tactics 

concerned the employment of these large formations.

Despite their interest in large formations, the French failed to develop 

a sophisticated understanding of the operational art of war. Even worse, 

they deformed its very nature by having operational concepts distort their 

tactical methods before World War I and by having tactical concepts distort their operational methods before World War II. These distortions significantly affected the performance of the French Army in both wars.

Origins of the Operational Level of War

The evolution of the operational art is rooted in institutional and conceptual developments, for the introduction in turn of the corps, field army, 

and army group as military organizations led thinkers to develop new 

ideas about their employment. In the late eighteenth century, French military leaders conceived and nourished the concept of grand tactics when 

they addressed the problem of moving and concentrating forces on the 

battlefield. As military forces became larger on the eve of the French Revolution and as the challenge of controlling and supplying them became 

more difficult, Marshal Victor de Broglie in 1760 came up with the idea 

of breaking large armies into divisions that could move to the battlefields 

separately. By marching in a number of individual divisional columns, 
70 historical perspectives of the operational art 

rather than in one or two huge columns, an army could approach a battlefield more quickly and enter into action much more decisively.1

 Thus, the 

initial idea relating to grand tactics was an organizational one that provided better command, control, and movement of large formations.

The next step, which was conceptual, occurred when General Pierre 

de Bourcet developed a better system for controlling divisions and, more 

important, addressed the issue of fighting them. In his seminal work, Principes de la guerre de montagnes, completed in 1764–1771, de Bourcet 

analyzed the operations of an army in mountainous terrain. Since such 

terrain would compel an armed force to operate in a number of separate, 

compartmented areas, de Bourcet recognized the importance of the divisions’ being able to function on their own. His ideas came from his 

having served in the Franco-Spanish campaign against Savoy-Piedmont 

in 1744 and provided basic concepts for the employment in battle of an 

army organized on a divisional basis. In 1787–1788 the French Army 

adopted the main points of his proposal.2

Amidst the development of the new organizational structure, General 

Jacques Guibert recognized that warfare was changing and offered a definition of grand tactics. In his Essai général de tactique, which was first 

published in 1772, Guibert wrote:

I have attempted, in the preceding part, to trace the principles by which the 

different units which comprise an army should be constituted and trained.... It is 

necessary to assemble these units, combine them, make them unite in the execution of the great maneuvers in a war. It is the art of conceiving the [method of] 

execution, planning it, directing it, that one calls grand tactics.3

The next step in the evolution of French ideas about grand tactics 

came with the development of the corps. In March 1796 General Jean 

Moreau formed a provisional corps in his Army of the Rhine and Moselle,4

 and then in January 1800 Napoleon grouped his infantry divisions 

into corps, each of which had its own staff.5

 When Napoleon formed 

his Grand Armée in 1805, it had seven corps, each of which included 

two to four infantry divisions, a brigade or division of light cavalry, approximately forty cannon, and appropriate detachments of engineers and 

supply troops. In subsequent years, Napoleon’s success often came from 

his ability to move his corps over long distances in a coordinated manner 

and to flexibly employ their combination of infantry, artillery, and cavalry. With these three arms organic, a Napoleonic corps could engage an 

enemy force much larger than itself for a limited period. As Napoleon’s 

subordinate commanders became more adept at their duties, his reliance 

upon the corps system provided him with a great deal of maneuverability and offensive capability. Moreover, his converging columns of corps 

often achieved victory over opponents whose organizational structure 

and operational methods were not as modern or flexible.6
70 historical perspectives of the operational art 

rather than in one or two huge columns, an army could approach a battlefield more quickly and enter into action much more decisively.1

 Thus, the 

initial idea relating to grand tactics was an organizational one that provided better command, control, and movement of large formations.

The next step, which was conceptual, occurred when General Pierre 

de Bourcet developed a better system for controlling divisions and, more 

important, addressed the issue of fighting them. In his seminal work, Principes de la guerre de montagnes, completed in 1764–1771, de Bourcet 

analyzed the operations of an army in mountainous terrain. Since such 

terrain would compel an armed force to operate in a number of separate, 

compartmented areas, de Bourcet recognized the importance of the divisions’ being able to function on their own. His ideas came from his 

having served in the Franco-Spanish campaign against Savoy-Piedmont 

in 1744 and provided basic concepts for the employment in battle of an 

army organized on a divisional basis. In 1787–1788 the French Army 

adopted the main points of his proposal.2

Amidst the development of the new organizational structure, General 

Jacques Guibert recognized that warfare was changing and offered a definition of grand tactics. In his Essai général de tactique, which was first 

published in 1772, Guibert wrote:

I have attempted, in the preceding part, to trace the principles by which the 

different units which comprise an army should be constituted and trained.... It is 

necessary to assemble these units, combine them, make them unite in the execution of the great maneuvers in a war. It is the art of conceiving the [method of] 

execution, planning it, directing it, that one calls grand tactics.3

The next step in the evolution of French ideas about grand tactics 

came with the development of the corps. In March 1796 General Jean 

Moreau formed a provisional corps in his Army of the Rhine and Moselle,4

 and then in January 1800 Napoleon grouped his infantry divisions 

into corps, each of which had its own staff.5

 When Napoleon formed 

his Grand Armée in 1805, it had seven corps, each of which included 

two to four infantry divisions, a brigade or division of light cavalry, approximately forty cannon, and appropriate detachments of engineers and 

supply troops. In subsequent years, Napoleon’s success often came from 

his ability to move his corps over long distances in a coordinated manner 

and to flexibly employ their combination of infantry, artillery, and cavalry. With these three arms organic, a Napoleonic corps could engage an 

enemy force much larger than itself for a limited period. As Napoleon’s 

subordinate commanders became more adept at their duties, his reliance 

upon the corps system provided him with a great deal of maneuverability and offensive capability. Moreover, his converging columns of corps 

often achieved victory over opponents whose organizational structure 

and operational methods were not as modern or flexible.6
72 historical perspectives of the operational art 

less functioning field armies, and the army’s performance in combat in 

1870–1871 suffered because of the newly formed units’ inexperience. 

After 1871 French political leaders permitted the establishment of corps 

in peacetime, but fearing a possible threat to the republican government, 

many of them opposed the creation of field army headquarters.10 They 

feared another Louis Napoleon could overthrow the republican government if he had the support and prestige of higher-level army commanders 

behind him.

In 1888 France took an important step toward creating a de facto 

headquarters for field armies. The Minister of War inserted a provision 

into the army’s budget that allocated financial credits for the “inspection” 

of the nineteen army corps. After sharp debate in the Chamber of Deputies about the role and powers of these inspectors, the Minister of War was 

required to ensure that the missions for inspection were of “limited duration and constantly revocable.”11 The Chamber of Deputies and the Senate 

then adopted the measure. Some progress had occurred, but the establishment of field army headquarters in peacetime had not been permitted.

To an eager military, however, the door was open for change, and 

Charles de Freycinet, the first civilian Minister of War in the Third Republic, led the way. He declared that the changes he proposed were “inspired” by the deliberations of the request for credits for conducting inspections of corps-size units. On 26 May 1888, Freycinet submitted a 

proposed decree to the president of the Third Republic that would permit 

the establishment of field army headquarters as temporary, skeleton units 

during peacetime. The army commanders and their staffs would be officially designated but would be brought together only for short periods 

each year. The designated commanders had limited authority with “no 

right of interference in the command of the corps” and “no actual right of 

command.” Despite opposition in the Chamber of Deputies, the president 

of the republic soon approved the decree.12

Two years later another improvement occurred. A decree of 10 April 

1890 more clearly defined the authority of the officers who had been 

designated as field army commanders. They could now be charged officially with the inspection of one or more corps to determine the degree 

of their preparations for war and for mobilization. Although the inspections could only be conducted when ordered by the Minister of War, the 

power of the inspectors was great. They could “prescribe reviews and 

order, as an exercise, the immediate mobilization of the combat troops or 

[combat service] support forces of a corps, and then have them conduct 

the defense of a fort or defensive works.”13 If any corps commander had 

questions about the authority of the designated army commanders, this 

decree probably answered them.

The Freycinet reforms thus prepared the way for the establishment 

of French field armies during peacetime. As one contemporary British 
72 historical perspectives of the operational art 

less functioning field armies, and the army’s performance in combat in 

1870–1871 suffered because of the newly formed units’ inexperience. 

After 1871 French political leaders permitted the establishment of corps 

in peacetime, but fearing a possible threat to the republican government, 

many of them opposed the creation of field army headquarters.10 They 

feared another Louis Napoleon could overthrow the republican government if he had the support and prestige of higher-level army commanders 

behind him.

In 1888 France took an important step toward creating a de facto 

headquarters for field armies. The Minister of War inserted a provision 

into the army’s budget that allocated financial credits for the “inspection” 

of the nineteen army corps. After sharp debate in the Chamber of Deputies about the role and powers of these inspectors, the Minister of War was 

required to ensure that the missions for inspection were of “limited duration and constantly revocable.”11 The Chamber of Deputies and the Senate 

then adopted the measure. Some progress had occurred, but the establishment of field army headquarters in peacetime had not been permitted.

To an eager military, however, the door was open for change, and 

Charles de Freycinet, the first civilian Minister of War in the Third Republic, led the way. He declared that the changes he proposed were “inspired” by the deliberations of the request for credits for conducting inspections of corps-size units. On 26 May 1888, Freycinet submitted a 

proposed decree to the president of the Third Republic that would permit 

the establishment of field army headquarters as temporary, skeleton units 

during peacetime. The army commanders and their staffs would be officially designated but would be brought together only for short periods 

each year. The designated commanders had limited authority with “no 

right of interference in the command of the corps” and “no actual right of 

command.” Despite opposition in the Chamber of Deputies, the president 

of the republic soon approved the decree.12

Two years later another improvement occurred. A decree of 10 April 

1890 more clearly defined the authority of the officers who had been 

designated as field army commanders. They could now be charged officially with the inspection of one or more corps to determine the degree 

of their preparations for war and for mobilization. Although the inspections could only be conducted when ordered by the Minister of War, the 

power of the inspectors was great. They could “prescribe reviews and 

order, as an exercise, the immediate mobilization of the combat troops or 

[combat service] support forces of a corps, and then have them conduct 

the defense of a fort or defensive works.”13 If any corps commander had 

questions about the authority of the designated army commanders, this 

decree probably answered them.

The Freycinet reforms thus prepared the way for the establishment 

of French field armies during peacetime. As one contemporary British 
74 historical perspectives of the operational art 

wrote the later regulation explained: “Studies undertaken in France for 

about twenty years on the operations of [field] armies and army groups 

have provided evidence about a certain number of principles that dominate the employment of large units. These principles have never, until 

the present, been assembled in an official document.”20 Thus, the 1913 

regulation included the latest information available to the French Army 

about the operational level of war and reflected concepts learned through 

more than two decades of development. In essence, the 1913 manual was 

the first official publication in France dealing with the operational level 

of war and its application through operational art.

A key difference between the 1895 and 1913 regulations pertained to 

the employment of the corps. While the 1895 regulation did not emphasize operations by units larger than corps and envisaged corps acting in a 

relatively autonomous fashion, the 1913 regulation strongly emphasized 

operations by field armies while acting as part of army groups. The 1913 

regulation explained, “The objective of the maneuver of an army group is 

to impose on the enemy a ... battle under conditions which may lead to 

decisive results and end the war.”21 The regulation made it clear that the 

maneuver of an army group came from the movement and actions of field 

armies whose subordinate corps were always united and acted closely in 

concert with the other corps. Thus, the relative autonomy that was foreseen in the 1895 regulation for corps was accorded to field armies in the 

1913 regulation. French operational thinking thereby reflected the important changes in organizational structure that had occurred after 1871.

Despite the greater emphasis on units larger than corps, the influence 

of Napoleon and the “cult” of the offensive captivated French concepts 

for operations. This unfortunate development occurred even though interest in the intellectual study of war increased dramatically after 1871, 

particularly after the 1878 founding of the École Militaire Supérieure, 

which was renamed the École Supérieure de Guerre in 1880. In a remarkable about-face from the pre-1870 approach, which had frowned 

on having educated officers, the French energetically studied the many 

facets of waging war successfully.22 As officers returned eagerly to the 

academic study of warfare, they “rediscovered” the ideas of Clausewitz 

and the methods of Napoleon.23 The study of the two important figures 

went hand in hand. Since Clausewitz’s works dealt primarily with Napoleonic warfare, his ideas were used to awaken interest in one of France’s 

greatest and most successful military leaders.

In the late 1880s and the 1890s, the ideas of Clausewitz and the examples of Napoleon dominated the École Supérieure de Guerre, which 

concentrated more on operations than strategy. One of the most influential of the instructors at the War College was Henri Bonnal, who frequently lectured on Napoleonic warfare. In a 1901 work on the battle of 

Sadowa, Bonnal argued:
74 historical perspectives of the operational art 

wrote the later regulation explained: “Studies undertaken in France for 

about twenty years on the operations of [field] armies and army groups 

have provided evidence about a certain number of principles that dominate the employment of large units. These principles have never, until 

the present, been assembled in an official document.”20 Thus, the 1913 

regulation included the latest information available to the French Army 

about the operational level of war and reflected concepts learned through 

more than two decades of development. In essence, the 1913 manual was 

the first official publication in France dealing with the operational level 

of war and its application through operational art.

A key difference between the 1895 and 1913 regulations pertained to 

the employment of the corps. While the 1895 regulation did not emphasize operations by units larger than corps and envisaged corps acting in a 

relatively autonomous fashion, the 1913 regulation strongly emphasized 

operations by field armies while acting as part of army groups. The 1913 

regulation explained, “The objective of the maneuver of an army group is 

to impose on the enemy a ... battle under conditions which may lead to 

decisive results and end the war.”21 The regulation made it clear that the 

maneuver of an army group came from the movement and actions of field 

armies whose subordinate corps were always united and acted closely in 

concert with the other corps. Thus, the relative autonomy that was foreseen in the 1895 regulation for corps was accorded to field armies in the 

1913 regulation. French operational thinking thereby reflected the important changes in organizational structure that had occurred after 1871.

Despite the greater emphasis on units larger than corps, the influence 

of Napoleon and the “cult” of the offensive captivated French concepts 

for operations. This unfortunate development occurred even though interest in the intellectual study of war increased dramatically after 1871, 

particularly after the 1878 founding of the École Militaire Supérieure, 

which was renamed the École Supérieure de Guerre in 1880. In a remarkable about-face from the pre-1870 approach, which had frowned 

on having educated officers, the French energetically studied the many 

facets of waging war successfully.22 As officers returned eagerly to the 

academic study of warfare, they “rediscovered” the ideas of Clausewitz 

and the methods of Napoleon.23 The study of the two important figures 

went hand in hand. Since Clausewitz’s works dealt primarily with Napoleonic warfare, his ideas were used to awaken interest in one of France’s 

greatest and most successful military leaders.

In the late 1880s and the 1890s, the ideas of Clausewitz and the examples of Napoleon dominated the École Supérieure de Guerre, which 

concentrated more on operations than strategy. One of the most influential of the instructors at the War College was Henri Bonnal, who frequently lectured on Napoleonic warfare. In a 1901 work on the battle of 

Sadowa, Bonnal argued:
76 historical perspectives of the operational art 

fully inadequate for the static trench warfare that replaced mobile operations a few months after the beginning of the war.

The First Battles of 1914

Offensive ideas also dominated the formulation of strategy. In the 

decade before 1914, France had gradually tightened its relations with 

Russia and slowly developed a coalition strategy with Russia that relied 

on simultaneous offensives on the east and west borders of Germany. 

By forcing Germany to fight a two-front war, French military planners 

anticipated an eventual victory no matter what the outcome of the initial battles between Germany and France. In March 1910 one officer asserted, “Even if beaten the French army will have opened the way for the 

Russian offensive and assured the final success [of the two allies].”28

When General Joseph Joffre became Chief of the General Staff in 

July 1911, he shaped French strategy and doctrine to conform to the demands of the Franco-Russian Alliance and to his own preference for the 

offensive. Only six weeks after becoming Chief of the General Staff, he 

published the first change to Plan XVI29 and in February 1914 replaced it 

with Plan XVII. Though the new plan was a concentration plan and not 

a war plan,30 the main body of the document stated, “The intention of the 

commander-in-chief is to deliver, with all forces assembled, an attack 

against the German armies.”31 While refusing to reveal the details of his 

campaign strategy or the objectives of his operations, Joffre organized 

and prepared French forces to attack north or south of Metz-Thionville or 

north into Belgium toward Arlon and Neufchâteau. Depending on German actions, the French could attack into either Alsace-Lorraine or Belgium or both.

When the Germans began their attack against France in August 1914, 

they adhered to the outline of Count Alfred von Schlieffen’s plan and attempted to conduct a gigantic turning movement deep into the rear of the 

Allied forces. While maintaining minimum but sufficient forces on their 

left flank and center, the Germans concentrated the great mass of their 

forces on their right wing and planned on moving these forces through 

central Belgium and then north and west around Paris. Their attack began 

with a coup de main on the Belgian fortifications around Liège.32

During the twelve days it took the Germans to clear these fortifications, General Joffre began revealing elements of his closely held strategy, first by launching a small, ineffective offensive into Alsace on his 

extreme right flank on 7 August.33 This operation not only signaled to 

Russia France’s intentions to fulfill its obligations to the Franco-Russian Alliance for an early offensive and protected the flank of the subsequent attack by First and Second Armies, it also boosted the morale 

of the French people. On 8 August Joffre revealed his entire operational 
76 historical perspectives of the operational art 

fully inadequate for the static trench warfare that replaced mobile operations a few months after the beginning of the war.

The First Battles of 1914

Offensive ideas also dominated the formulation of strategy. In the 

decade before 1914, France had gradually tightened its relations with 

Russia and slowly developed a coalition strategy with Russia that relied 

on simultaneous offensives on the east and west borders of Germany. 

By forcing Germany to fight a two-front war, French military planners 

anticipated an eventual victory no matter what the outcome of the initial battles between Germany and France. In March 1910 one officer asserted, “Even if beaten the French army will have opened the way for the 

Russian offensive and assured the final success [of the two allies].”28

When General Joseph Joffre became Chief of the General Staff in 

July 1911, he shaped French strategy and doctrine to conform to the demands of the Franco-Russian Alliance and to his own preference for the 

offensive. Only six weeks after becoming Chief of the General Staff, he 

published the first change to Plan XVI29 and in February 1914 replaced it 

with Plan XVII. Though the new plan was a concentration plan and not 

a war plan,30 the main body of the document stated, “The intention of the 

commander-in-chief is to deliver, with all forces assembled, an attack 

against the German armies.”31 While refusing to reveal the details of his 

campaign strategy or the objectives of his operations, Joffre organized 

and prepared French forces to attack north or south of Metz-Thionville or 

north into Belgium toward Arlon and Neufchâteau. Depending on German actions, the French could attack into either Alsace-Lorraine or Belgium or both.

When the Germans began their attack against France in August 1914, 

they adhered to the outline of Count Alfred von Schlieffen’s plan and attempted to conduct a gigantic turning movement deep into the rear of the 

Allied forces. While maintaining minimum but sufficient forces on their 

left flank and center, the Germans concentrated the great mass of their 

forces on their right wing and planned on moving these forces through 

central Belgium and then north and west around Paris. Their attack began 

with a coup de main on the Belgian fortifications around Liège.32

During the twelve days it took the Germans to clear these fortifications, General Joffre began revealing elements of his closely held strategy, first by launching a small, ineffective offensive into Alsace on his 

extreme right flank on 7 August.33 This operation not only signaled to 

Russia France’s intentions to fulfill its obligations to the Franco-Russian Alliance for an early offensive and protected the flank of the subsequent attack by First and Second Armies, it also boosted the morale 

of the French people. On 8 August Joffre revealed his entire operational 
78 historical perspectives of the operational art 

chief of the German General Staff, decided the forces on his left wing 

should conduct an early counterattack, thereby limiting the French penetration into Germany. After the French First and Second Armies began 

their attacks, he strengthened Crown Prince Rupprecht on his left wing 

with six more divisions. The German counterattack caught the French by 

surprise. While the French First Army withdrew in relatively good order, 

Second Army had two corps that, according to Joffre, “fell back under 

conditions that almost resembled a rout.”37 Only the strong performance 

of General Foch’s XXth Corps prevented disaster.38 By 22 August First 

and Second Armies had withdrawn to their starting position.

During the first days of First and Second Armies’ advance into Alsace, Joffre became aware of the Germans’ moving farther west through 

Belgium than previously anticipated, and he responded by moving Fifth 

Army farther to his left. He expected Fifth Army, as well as the Belgians 

and the soon-to-arrive British Expeditionary Forces (BEF), to meet the 

German forces on his left flank. He also thought that such a deep movement would result in even fewer enemy forces in eastern Belgium and 

make the task of his Third and Fourth Armies easier. Late on 20 August, 

the day the Germans unleashed their counterattack against First and Second Armies in Alsace-Lorraine, Joffre ordered Third and Fourth Armies 

to attack.39 He expected the two armies to advance the following day in 

a northeasterly direction in eastern Belgium toward Longwy, Virton, and 

Neufchâteau40 and to strike marching German columns (which were supposed to be heading west) in the flank or rear and rout them. Confident of 

success, he told the two army commanders, “The enemy will be attacked 

wherever he is encountered.”41

Meanwhile, the German Fourth and Fifth Armies had crossed the 

Ardennes in eastern Belgium and bided their time, waiting for the First, 

Second, and Third German Armies on their right to sweep through central Belgium. As they waited, the troops dug entrenchments and organized strong defensive positions. On the twenty-second, the French Third 

Army blindly bumped into the German Fifth Army near Longwy and the 

Luxembourg border. Though the terrain was hilly and heavily forested, 

the French had paid little attention to having advance or flank guards. 

Hoping to hit an advancing German army in the flank, the French instead 

stumbled into a killing zone and suffered thousands of casualties. Just as 

in the Lorraine offensive, the French infantry failed to coordinate their 

actions with those of the artillery and often did not bother to suppress 

machine-gun fire before advancing. True to their doctrine to the bloody 

end, they tried to dig out the Germans with bayonets, but were decimated 

by machine guns and artillery fire. Farther to the northwest, the French 

Fourth Army was no more lucky than the Third. Following several disastrous actions, the commander of Fourth Army used the word “disorderly” 

when he reported to the Grand Quartier General (GQG) that he was 
78 historical perspectives of the operational art 

chief of the German General Staff, decided the forces on his left wing 

should conduct an early counterattack, thereby limiting the French penetration into Germany. After the French First and Second Armies began 

their attacks, he strengthened Crown Prince Rupprecht on his left wing 

with six more divisions. The German counterattack caught the French by 

surprise. While the French First Army withdrew in relatively good order, 

Second Army had two corps that, according to Joffre, “fell back under 

conditions that almost resembled a rout.”37 Only the strong performance 

of General Foch’s XXth Corps prevented disaster.38 By 22 August First 

and Second Armies had withdrawn to their starting position.

During the first days of First and Second Armies’ advance into Alsace, Joffre became aware of the Germans’ moving farther west through 

Belgium than previously anticipated, and he responded by moving Fifth 

Army farther to his left. He expected Fifth Army, as well as the Belgians 

and the soon-to-arrive British Expeditionary Forces (BEF), to meet the 

German forces on his left flank. He also thought that such a deep movement would result in even fewer enemy forces in eastern Belgium and 

make the task of his Third and Fourth Armies easier. Late on 20 August, 

the day the Germans unleashed their counterattack against First and Second Armies in Alsace-Lorraine, Joffre ordered Third and Fourth Armies 

to attack.39 He expected the two armies to advance the following day in 

a northeasterly direction in eastern Belgium toward Longwy, Virton, and 

Neufchâteau40 and to strike marching German columns (which were supposed to be heading west) in the flank or rear and rout them. Confident of 

success, he told the two army commanders, “The enemy will be attacked 

wherever he is encountered.”41

Meanwhile, the German Fourth and Fifth Armies had crossed the 

Ardennes in eastern Belgium and bided their time, waiting for the First, 

Second, and Third German Armies on their right to sweep through central Belgium. As they waited, the troops dug entrenchments and organized strong defensive positions. On the twenty-second, the French Third 

Army blindly bumped into the German Fifth Army near Longwy and the 

Luxembourg border. Though the terrain was hilly and heavily forested, 

the French had paid little attention to having advance or flank guards. 

Hoping to hit an advancing German army in the flank, the French instead 

stumbled into a killing zone and suffered thousands of casualties. Just as 

in the Lorraine offensive, the French infantry failed to coordinate their 

actions with those of the artillery and often did not bother to suppress 

machine-gun fire before advancing. True to their doctrine to the bloody 

end, they tried to dig out the Germans with bayonets, but were decimated 

by machine guns and artillery fire. Farther to the northwest, the French 

Fourth Army was no more lucky than the Third. Following several disastrous actions, the commander of Fourth Army used the word “disorderly” 

when he reported to the Grand Quartier General (GQG) that he was 
80 historical perspectives of the operational art 

dun. To strengthen his left flank, he assembled two new armies. The new 

Sixth Army assembled under General Michel J. Maunoury around Paris; 

the new Ninth Army assembled under General Ferdinand Foch behind the 

retreating Fourth and Fifth Armies and soon entered the line when a gap 

appeared between the two armies.44

Other changes increased French effectiveness. With regard to tactics, 

Joffre informed his army commanders that the infantry should attack 

only after artillery preparation, and he forbade mass attacks.45 This bit 

of tactical wisdom had been learned only after nearly 300,000 casualties. Joffre also continued to weed out the command structure, including the commanders of Third and Fifth Armies. While dozens of brigade 

and division commanders were also relieved,46 sometimes unjustly, the 

movement of officers such as General Louis Franchet d’Espèrey into the 

command structure signaled the promotion of hard-nosed, self-confident 

fighters. It also signaled the demotion of officers who had done well in 

the peacetime army but who had not done well in combat.47

While Joffre acted to strengthen his left, the German operational 

plan continued to change. The key modification was the decision by the 

German First Army commander, General Alexander von Kluck, to move 

his army around the eastern edge of Paris, rather than encircling it by 

moving his army around the western edge. As the gigantic Schlieffen 

wheel continued to turn, Kluck’s decision exposed the German left flank 

to an attack from Paris and fundamentally altered the German operational concept.48

On 2 September the French government placed General Joseph Gallieni in charge of defending Paris. After Maunoury’s Sixth Army entered 

the fortified city and came under Gallieni’s command, its strength slowly 

increased as reserve and colonial units arrived to join it. The French initially focused on defending the city, but as the strength of Sixth Army 

increased, and as the German right flank became more exposed toward 

the English Channel, the opportunity for decisive action appeared.

On 4 September Gallieni dispatched several aircraft to reconnoiter 

the area north and west of Paris. When the pilots returned, they informed 

him that four corps in Kluck’s First Army had crossed the Marne River 

northeast of Paris and that only one corps remained to protect the entire 

German flank. On the same day, Franchet d’Espèrey met with the British, 

and after he promised that elements in Paris would protect the BEF’s left 

flank, they agreed to participate in an offensive.49 Later that evening Joffre received a message from Franchet d’Espèrey concerning his meeting 

with the British and also engaged in a heated telephone conversation with 

Gallieni, who demanded that a counterattack be made quickly against the 

vulnerable German flank. Though the extent of Gallieni’s influence is not 

clear, Joffre decided the counterattack would take place on the morning 

of 6 September.50
80 historical perspectives of the operational art 

dun. To strengthen his left flank, he assembled two new armies. The new 

Sixth Army assembled under General Michel J. Maunoury around Paris; 

the new Ninth Army assembled under General Ferdinand Foch behind the 

retreating Fourth and Fifth Armies and soon entered the line when a gap 

appeared between the two armies.44

Other changes increased French effectiveness. With regard to tactics, 

Joffre informed his army commanders that the infantry should attack 

only after artillery preparation, and he forbade mass attacks.45 This bit 

of tactical wisdom had been learned only after nearly 300,000 casualties. Joffre also continued to weed out the command structure, including the commanders of Third and Fifth Armies. While dozens of brigade 

and division commanders were also relieved,46 sometimes unjustly, the 

movement of officers such as General Louis Franchet d’Espèrey into the 

command structure signaled the promotion of hard-nosed, self-confident 

fighters. It also signaled the demotion of officers who had done well in 

the peacetime army but who had not done well in combat.47

While Joffre acted to strengthen his left, the German operational 

plan continued to change. The key modification was the decision by the 

German First Army commander, General Alexander von Kluck, to move 

his army around the eastern edge of Paris, rather than encircling it by 

moving his army around the western edge. As the gigantic Schlieffen 

wheel continued to turn, Kluck’s decision exposed the German left flank 

to an attack from Paris and fundamentally altered the German operational concept.48

On 2 September the French government placed General Joseph Gallieni in charge of defending Paris. After Maunoury’s Sixth Army entered 

the fortified city and came under Gallieni’s command, its strength slowly 

increased as reserve and colonial units arrived to join it. The French initially focused on defending the city, but as the strength of Sixth Army 

increased, and as the German right flank became more exposed toward 

the English Channel, the opportunity for decisive action appeared.

On 4 September Gallieni dispatched several aircraft to reconnoiter 

the area north and west of Paris. When the pilots returned, they informed 

him that four corps in Kluck’s First Army had crossed the Marne River 

northeast of Paris and that only one corps remained to protect the entire 

German flank. On the same day, Franchet d’Espèrey met with the British, 

and after he promised that elements in Paris would protect the BEF’s left 

flank, they agreed to participate in an offensive.49 Later that evening Joffre received a message from Franchet d’Espèrey concerning his meeting 

with the British and also engaged in a heated telephone conversation with 

Gallieni, who demanded that a counterattack be made quickly against the 

vulnerable German flank. Though the extent of Gallieni’s influence is not 

clear, Joffre decided the counterattack would take place on the morning 

of 6 September.50
82 historical perspectives of the operational art 

“race to the sea” resulted in a long line of entrenchments running roughly 

from Nieuport on the English Channel, south to Noyon (100 kilometers 

northeast of Paris), east to Verdun, and then southeast toward Colmar. 

While Joffre had not saved France from a long and bloody war and had 

made some inexcusable mistakes in the opening phases of the campaign, 

he had prevented the Germans from winning a decisive victory. In essence, the ability of the French Army to perform at the operational level 

enabled him to achieve the “miracle of the Marne.”

The Nivelle Offensive

From late 1914 through late 1917, the French continued to launch 

huge offensives with objectives deep in the enemy’s rear. To achieve a 

penetration, they concentrated massive amounts of men and materiel in 

desperate attempts to break through the extensive German defensives. 

Most of the assaults, however, yielded little more than long lists of casualties, and gains were measured in meters, rather than kilometers.

From the first desperate months of war, military leaders on both sides 

recognized the effectiveness of artillery in suppressing enemy fires and 

reducing friendly casualties,53 and with each passing month the role of 

artillery became more and more important. As the amount of artillery fire 

in support of attacks began to be measured in the millions of rounds, the 

battlefield came to resemble a moonscape. Craters, trenches, and barbed 

wire served to delay the advance of the infantry, but they also served to 

delay the advance of artillery, which was extremely heavy and could easily become bogged down. Since the infantry could not advance without 

artillery support, the pace of an advance was set less by the infantry than 

by the ability of the artillery to displace forward and continue to provide 

supporting fires. Such displacements required time, thereby adding intervals or phases to attacks and making them step-by-step, methodical operations. To make matters more difficult, an army on the attack sometimes 

had to build roads through an area before it could make a successful advance. In contrast, the defenders’ efforts to rush reserve forces into areas 

threatened by a penetration were generally not impeded by such delays.

Because of constraints on mobility, fighting at the operational level 

during World War I was greatly influenced by the ability of a defender — usually the Germans on the western front — to reinforce a threatened sector faster than an attacker could pass through it. Using railroads 

and roads, a defender could move reinforcements easily and did not have 

to contend with the destruction an attacker faced. French commanders 

quickly recognized the importance of somehow tying down a defender’s 

reserves, so reinforcements could not be shifted into the area where an 

attack was being launched. The primary method for contending with the 

Germans’ reserves was through the launching of multiple attacks, usu82 historical perspectives of the operational art 

“race to the sea” resulted in a long line of entrenchments running roughly 

from Nieuport on the English Channel, south to Noyon (100 kilometers 

northeast of Paris), east to Verdun, and then southeast toward Colmar. 

While Joffre had not saved France from a long and bloody war and had 

made some inexcusable mistakes in the opening phases of the campaign, 

he had prevented the Germans from winning a decisive victory. In essence, the ability of the French Army to perform at the operational level 

enabled him to achieve the “miracle of the Marne.”

The Nivelle Offensive

From late 1914 through late 1917, the French continued to launch 

huge offensives with objectives deep in the enemy’s rear. To achieve a 

penetration, they concentrated massive amounts of men and materiel in 

desperate attempts to break through the extensive German defensives. 

Most of the assaults, however, yielded little more than long lists of casualties, and gains were measured in meters, rather than kilometers.

From the first desperate months of war, military leaders on both sides 

recognized the effectiveness of artillery in suppressing enemy fires and 

reducing friendly casualties,53 and with each passing month the role of 

artillery became more and more important. As the amount of artillery fire 

in support of attacks began to be measured in the millions of rounds, the 

battlefield came to resemble a moonscape. Craters, trenches, and barbed 

wire served to delay the advance of the infantry, but they also served to 

delay the advance of artillery, which was extremely heavy and could easily become bogged down. Since the infantry could not advance without 

artillery support, the pace of an advance was set less by the infantry than 

by the ability of the artillery to displace forward and continue to provide 

supporting fires. Such displacements required time, thereby adding intervals or phases to attacks and making them step-by-step, methodical operations. To make matters more difficult, an army on the attack sometimes 

had to build roads through an area before it could make a successful advance. In contrast, the defenders’ efforts to rush reserve forces into areas 

threatened by a penetration were generally not impeded by such delays.

Because of constraints on mobility, fighting at the operational level 

during World War I was greatly influenced by the ability of a defender — usually the Germans on the western front — to reinforce a threatened sector faster than an attacker could pass through it. Using railroads 

and roads, a defender could move reinforcements easily and did not have 

to contend with the destruction an attacker faced. French commanders 

quickly recognized the importance of somehow tying down a defender’s 

reserves, so reinforcements could not be shifted into the area where an 

attack was being launched. The primary method for contending with the 

Germans’ reserves was through the launching of multiple attacks, usu84 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Aisne River between Reims and Soissons. Recognizing that the intervals 

required for artillery preparation between successive assaults provided 

the defenders time to strengthen their positions and concentrate reserves, 

he concluded that the French should seek a rapid penetration under circumstances that prevented the enemy from reinforcing his defenses. To 

obtain this rapid penetration, Nivelle planned on using vast amounts of 

artillery (particularly from long-range, heavy artillery recently added to 

France’s inventory) to obliterate an enemy position throughout its depth. 

By concentrating simultaneous barrages on successive lines of German 

defenses, and by preceding the advancing infantry with a rolling barrage, he expected the infantry to rush through holes blown into enemy 

lines. He intended to punch through German defenses in one blow and 

capture the heights of the Chemin des Dames to the north of the Aisne 

in only twenty-four to forty-eight hours.59 Less optimistic than the new 

commander of French forces, Pétain recognized the difficulties of applying a tactical technique to the operational level of war and warned, “Even 

the waters of the Lake of Geneva would have but little effect if dispersed 

over the length and breadth of the Sahara Desert.”60

Other difficulties came from the Germans’ retiring from the Noyon 

salient, the shoulder of which ran parallel to the Aisne, and constructing 

a shorter defensive line to its rear. The Germans named this new line the 

Siegfried Position, but the Allies called it the Hindenburg Line. Adding to Nivelle’s troubles, the Germans also obtained crucial intelligence 

about his offensive and organized their positions into elastic defenses 

that placed only a minimum number of infantry in forward trenches. An 

important part of their method was the placing of troops on the reverse 

slopes of hills so they could obtain some protection from the flat-trajectory artillery fire of the Allies. They also reinforced the threatened sector 

with an additional field army.

Despite indications that the Germans had reorganized their defenses 

and expected an attack on the Chemin des Dames, Nivelle insisted on 

launching the offensive. On 1 April, he wrote: “It is necessary to maintain the qualities of violence, brutality, and swiftness. The success of the 

breakthrough lies in speed and in surprise, caused by the rapid and sudden rush of our infantry onto the third and fourth positions. No consideration should intervene which will weaken the élan of the attack.”61

Ignoring criticisms from Pétain and others,62 Nivelle scheduled the attack 

for 10 April, then delayed it until the fourteenth, and finally launched 

it on the sixteenth. Along a front of approximately sixty kilometers, he 

massed two armies for the attack and kept two armies in reserve, totaling 

1,400,000 men in fifty-two divisions. In support of the four armies, the 

French had approximately 1,650 mortars and accompanying guns; 1,800 

75-mm. guns; and 1,700 heavy artillery pieces. Stocks of ammunition 

included 24 million rounds of 75-mm. and 9 million rounds of heavy 
84 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Aisne River between Reims and Soissons. Recognizing that the intervals 

required for artillery preparation between successive assaults provided 

the defenders time to strengthen their positions and concentrate reserves, 

he concluded that the French should seek a rapid penetration under circumstances that prevented the enemy from reinforcing his defenses. To 

obtain this rapid penetration, Nivelle planned on using vast amounts of 

artillery (particularly from long-range, heavy artillery recently added to 

France’s inventory) to obliterate an enemy position throughout its depth. 

By concentrating simultaneous barrages on successive lines of German 

defenses, and by preceding the advancing infantry with a rolling barrage, he expected the infantry to rush through holes blown into enemy 

lines. He intended to punch through German defenses in one blow and 

capture the heights of the Chemin des Dames to the north of the Aisne 

in only twenty-four to forty-eight hours.59 Less optimistic than the new 

commander of French forces, Pétain recognized the difficulties of applying a tactical technique to the operational level of war and warned, “Even 

the waters of the Lake of Geneva would have but little effect if dispersed 

over the length and breadth of the Sahara Desert.”60

Other difficulties came from the Germans’ retiring from the Noyon 

salient, the shoulder of which ran parallel to the Aisne, and constructing 

a shorter defensive line to its rear. The Germans named this new line the 

Siegfried Position, but the Allies called it the Hindenburg Line. Adding to Nivelle’s troubles, the Germans also obtained crucial intelligence 

about his offensive and organized their positions into elastic defenses 

that placed only a minimum number of infantry in forward trenches. An 

important part of their method was the placing of troops on the reverse 

slopes of hills so they could obtain some protection from the flat-trajectory artillery fire of the Allies. They also reinforced the threatened sector 

with an additional field army.

Despite indications that the Germans had reorganized their defenses 

and expected an attack on the Chemin des Dames, Nivelle insisted on 

launching the offensive. On 1 April, he wrote: “It is necessary to maintain the qualities of violence, brutality, and swiftness. The success of the 

breakthrough lies in speed and in surprise, caused by the rapid and sudden rush of our infantry onto the third and fourth positions. No consideration should intervene which will weaken the élan of the attack.”61

Ignoring criticisms from Pétain and others,62 Nivelle scheduled the attack 

for 10 April, then delayed it until the fourteenth, and finally launched 

it on the sixteenth. Along a front of approximately sixty kilometers, he 

massed two armies for the attack and kept two armies in reserve, totaling 

1,400,000 men in fifty-two divisions. In support of the four armies, the 

French had approximately 1,650 mortars and accompanying guns; 1,800 

75-mm. guns; and 1,700 heavy artillery pieces. Stocks of ammunition 

included 24 million rounds of 75-mm. and 9 million rounds of heavy 
86 historical perspectives of the operational art 

During the rest of the day on the 16th and the days of the 17th and 18th, combat 

assumes the form of a series of partial attacks, preceded as much as possible by an artillery bombardment of the enemy’s positions and executed under the control of the local 

commander according to the availability of munitions and grenades.... Combat for the 

units of the corps is terminated during the night of the 18–19th.65

Although the fighting continued until 7 May, the Nivelle offensive had 

failed dismally. After only three days of fighting, Nivelle concluded that Fifth 

and Sixth armies could not break through the strong German defenses and 

modified his plan. He ordered Fourth Army, which was on the right of Fifth 

Army, to attack in a northwesterly direction, while Fifth Army attacked to the 

northeast. He hoped these attacks would encircle Reims and slice off a large 

part of the German positions. But this effort was also doomed to failure. The 

Germans had assembled additional forces in the sector, and the attacks had 

little chance of success.

A week after the launching of Nivelle’s offensive, Paris became alarmed at 

Nivelle’s efforts to continue the offensive despite its costs and apparent failure. 

The casualties during the first week were approximately 117,000, including 

32,000 dead. Perhaps more important, the senseless losses had sapped the 

morale of the French soldiers and contributed significantly to the mutinies of 

1917.66

Pétain’s Limited Offensives

Following the disastrous operation, Nivelle was relieved and replaced by 

General Pétain, whose first task was to end the mutinies and then restore the 

French soldiers’ fighting spirit. As part of his reforms, Pétain abandoned the 

notion of breaking through German defenses and began emphasizing limited 

offensives. On 19 May 1917, he published Directive No. 1, which outlined the 

new method of attacking. The directive stated:

Instead of great attacks in depth with distant objectives, it is preferable to 

conduct attacks with limited objectives, unleashed quickly on a front as large as 

permitted by the number and caliber of available artillery. For this concept to be 

realized, the attacks must be:

1) Conducted with as few infantry as possible and with the maximum amount of artillery.

2) Preceded by surprise which will provide the chance of acting with strong or weak forces 

and obtaining important results. It should be noted that surprise can be obtained only if 

the attack sector ... is allowed to be quiet for several weeks or even months before the 

operation begins.

3) Applied successively on different parts of the front, chosen from those that the enemy has 

significant reason not to abandon readily.

4) Followed rapidly by other attacks which fix the enemy and deprive him of his freedom 

of action.67
86 historical perspectives of the operational art 

During the rest of the day on the 16th and the days of the 17th and 18th, combat 

assumes the form of a series of partial attacks, preceded as much as possible by an artillery bombardment of the enemy’s positions and executed under the control of the local 

commander according to the availability of munitions and grenades.... Combat for the 

units of the corps is terminated during the night of the 18–19th.65

Although the fighting continued until 7 May, the Nivelle offensive had 

failed dismally. After only three days of fighting, Nivelle concluded that Fifth 

and Sixth armies could not break through the strong German defenses and 

modified his plan. He ordered Fourth Army, which was on the right of Fifth 

Army, to attack in a northwesterly direction, while Fifth Army attacked to the 

northeast. He hoped these attacks would encircle Reims and slice off a large 

part of the German positions. But this effort was also doomed to failure. The 

Germans had assembled additional forces in the sector, and the attacks had 

little chance of success.

A week after the launching of Nivelle’s offensive, Paris became alarmed at 

Nivelle’s efforts to continue the offensive despite its costs and apparent failure. 

The casualties during the first week were approximately 117,000, including 

32,000 dead. Perhaps more important, the senseless losses had sapped the 

morale of the French soldiers and contributed significantly to the mutinies of 

1917.66

Pétain’s Limited Offensives

Following the disastrous operation, Nivelle was relieved and replaced by 

General Pétain, whose first task was to end the mutinies and then restore the 

French soldiers’ fighting spirit. As part of his reforms, Pétain abandoned the 

notion of breaking through German defenses and began emphasizing limited 

offensives. On 19 May 1917, he published Directive No. 1, which outlined the 

new method of attacking. The directive stated:

Instead of great attacks in depth with distant objectives, it is preferable to 

conduct attacks with limited objectives, unleashed quickly on a front as large as 

permitted by the number and caliber of available artillery. For this concept to be 

realized, the attacks must be:

1) Conducted with as few infantry as possible and with the maximum amount of artillery.

2) Preceded by surprise which will provide the chance of acting with strong or weak forces 

and obtaining important results. It should be noted that surprise can be obtained only if 

the attack sector ... is allowed to be quiet for several weeks or even months before the 

operation begins.

3) Applied successively on different parts of the front, chosen from those that the enemy has 

significant reason not to abandon readily.

4) Followed rapidly by other attacks which fix the enemy and deprive him of his freedom 

of action.67
88 historical perspectives of the operational art 

French First Army was composed primarily of French units, with only 

the American 1st Division making an indirect contribution to the French 

success with the capture of Cantigny in June 1918. As such, the battle 

represented an extremely important achievement of French units during 

the Great War.

During the battle, General Debeney commanded a force of fifteen 

divisions (divided into four corps), supported by more than 1,600 artillery pieces and two battalions of light tanks.72 The initial concept was for 

a limited offensive by the French First Army to support an attack by the 

British Fourth Army under General Sir Henry Rawlinson. But General 

Debeney recognized that his army had an opportunity to strike a deadly 

blow at the Germans to his front. Rather than make a massive frontal 

assault, Debeney resolved to strike with a French corps on his field army’s left flank (near the British Fourth Army’s area of attack) and seize 

key terrain that would destroy the equilibrium of the enemy’s defenses. 

He would follow this attack with a second attack in the same general 

area and encourage the Germans to reinforce the threatened area. As the 

enemy reinforced his units on First Army’s left flank, the French would 

suddenly attack with two corps on First Army’s right flank.73 By using 

successive operations, the French could take advantage of the Germans’ 

having shifted forces to the point of initial attack.

As Debeney had planned, the battle began with four French corps on 

line, and despite difficult resistance the two corps on the left soon pushed 

back the enemy defenders. When the attack on the French left was followed by an attack on the right, the sudden commitment of the two corps 

on the right caught the Germans off guard. Since they had already concentrated most of their reserves on the French left, the Germans could not 

respond to the unexpected maneuver and suffered a major defeat.

Following World War I, the battle of Montdidier became the basis for 

officers’ studying of operational methods. The French severely criticized 

the disastrous methods used from 1914 to 1917 and cited the controlled 

and deliberate operations at Montdidier as a model of centralized control 

and of effective planning and execution. When General Debeney reestablished the curriculum at the War College, he included the important 

battle fought by the field army he commanded. Since he later became a 

contributing author to the 1922 Provisional Instructions for the Tactical 

Employment of Large Units74 and served as Chief of the General Staff of 

the French Army from 1923 to 1930, the model of his successful operation had a remarkable influence throughout the Army.

To study this battle, students at the War College after 1918 used a 

book written by Maj. Marius Daille, an assistant professor of military history at the War College. They often spent four days at the end of May in 

their second school year walking the Montdidier battlefield and studying 

the details of the attack.75 Maj. Daille’s analysis of the battle warned the 
88 historical perspectives of the operational art 

French First Army was composed primarily of French units, with only 

the American 1st Division making an indirect contribution to the French 

success with the capture of Cantigny in June 1918. As such, the battle 

represented an extremely important achievement of French units during 

the Great War.

During the battle, General Debeney commanded a force of fifteen 

divisions (divided into four corps), supported by more than 1,600 artillery pieces and two battalions of light tanks.72 The initial concept was for 

a limited offensive by the French First Army to support an attack by the 

British Fourth Army under General Sir Henry Rawlinson. But General 

Debeney recognized that his army had an opportunity to strike a deadly 

blow at the Germans to his front. Rather than make a massive frontal 

assault, Debeney resolved to strike with a French corps on his field army’s left flank (near the British Fourth Army’s area of attack) and seize 

key terrain that would destroy the equilibrium of the enemy’s defenses. 

He would follow this attack with a second attack in the same general 

area and encourage the Germans to reinforce the threatened area. As the 

enemy reinforced his units on First Army’s left flank, the French would 

suddenly attack with two corps on First Army’s right flank.73 By using 

successive operations, the French could take advantage of the Germans’ 

having shifted forces to the point of initial attack.

As Debeney had planned, the battle began with four French corps on 

line, and despite difficult resistance the two corps on the left soon pushed 

back the enemy defenders. When the attack on the French left was followed by an attack on the right, the sudden commitment of the two corps 

on the right caught the Germans off guard. Since they had already concentrated most of their reserves on the French left, the Germans could not 

respond to the unexpected maneuver and suffered a major defeat.

Following World War I, the battle of Montdidier became the basis for 

officers’ studying of operational methods. The French severely criticized 

the disastrous methods used from 1914 to 1917 and cited the controlled 

and deliberate operations at Montdidier as a model of centralized control 

and of effective planning and execution. When General Debeney reestablished the curriculum at the War College, he included the important 

battle fought by the field army he commanded. Since he later became a 

contributing author to the 1922 Provisional Instructions for the Tactical 

Employment of Large Units74 and served as Chief of the General Staff of 

the French Army from 1923 to 1930, the model of his successful operation had a remarkable influence throughout the Army.

To study this battle, students at the War College after 1918 used a 

book written by Maj. Marius Daille, an assistant professor of military history at the War College. They often spent four days at the end of May in 

their second school year walking the Montdidier battlefield and studying 

the details of the attack.75 Maj. Daille’s analysis of the battle warned the 
90 historical perspectives of the operational art 

“Maneuvering” Masses of Fire

Between the two world wars, the French made no dramatic changes 

in the organization of their corps, field armies, and army groups, but they 

did carefully analyze possible changes in their employment. Given the 

obvious increase in amounts and accuracy of firepower, they expected a 

future war to be even more deadly and consuming than the Great War 

had been, and they did not wish to be unprepared. Despite an intense effort that included numerous field exercises, tests, and sometimes sharp 

debate, the operational methods they used in the battles of 1940 represented only modest changes from those of the past and proved inadequate for the demands of mobile warfare that was waged and thrust 

upon them by the Germans.

As the French developed their operational doctrine, they remained 

concerned primarily with the effects of firepower and placed increased 

emphasis on centralized control by higher-level commanders, particularly of the artillery.79 The French had begun the Great War with a doctrine in which mobile artillery provided rapid fire during an attack; they 

had ended the war with a doctrine emphasizing massive fire prior to and 

during an attack and requiring artillery to be under the control of division and higher commanders. The concept of centralizing artillery assets 

corresponded with the concept of maneuvering masses of fire, which became an extremely important part of French operational-level doctrine. 

Such control was necessary for maneuver, according to the French, since 

it enabled the commander to concentrate his fires on the decisive point 

in battle. The decisive point, however, was defined by larger-unit commanders, and maneuver was viewed in terms of the movement of larger, 

rather than smaller units. In other words, concerns at the operational level 

overshadowed those at the tactical level.

Throughout the interwar period, the concept of maneuvering masses 

of fire became ever more important. General Frédéric G. Herr, Inspector 

General of Artillery at the end of World War I, noted that if the commander should decentralize his artillery, he would lose all control over 

the battle and become “disarmed.” By passing control of the battle to his 

subordinates, the higher-level commander could not maneuver and the 

battle would degenerate into a series of “isolated, disjointed, sterile local 

actions.”80 The 1926 Regulation on Maneuver of the Artillery warned, 

“Finally, the systemic allocation of all artillery to subordinate elements 

must be avoided; it constitutes an abdication of command.”81

While the French recognized the need for decentralization during 

an advance, military leaders preferred having larger-unit commanders 

control major portions of the artillery. In an October 1922 meeting of 

the Superior Council of War, Marshal Pétain referred to some of this 

artillery as a “strategic reserve, suitable for great displacement.”82 Such 
90 historical perspectives of the operational art 

“Maneuvering” Masses of Fire

Between the two world wars, the French made no dramatic changes 

in the organization of their corps, field armies, and army groups, but they 

did carefully analyze possible changes in their employment. Given the 

obvious increase in amounts and accuracy of firepower, they expected a 

future war to be even more deadly and consuming than the Great War 

had been, and they did not wish to be unprepared. Despite an intense effort that included numerous field exercises, tests, and sometimes sharp 

debate, the operational methods they used in the battles of 1940 represented only modest changes from those of the past and proved inadequate for the demands of mobile warfare that was waged and thrust 

upon them by the Germans.

As the French developed their operational doctrine, they remained 

concerned primarily with the effects of firepower and placed increased 

emphasis on centralized control by higher-level commanders, particularly of the artillery.79 The French had begun the Great War with a doctrine in which mobile artillery provided rapid fire during an attack; they 

had ended the war with a doctrine emphasizing massive fire prior to and 

during an attack and requiring artillery to be under the control of division and higher commanders. The concept of centralizing artillery assets 

corresponded with the concept of maneuvering masses of fire, which became an extremely important part of French operational-level doctrine. 

Such control was necessary for maneuver, according to the French, since 

it enabled the commander to concentrate his fires on the decisive point 

in battle. The decisive point, however, was defined by larger-unit commanders, and maneuver was viewed in terms of the movement of larger, 

rather than smaller units. In other words, concerns at the operational level 

overshadowed those at the tactical level.

Throughout the interwar period, the concept of maneuvering masses 

of fire became ever more important. General Frédéric G. Herr, Inspector 

General of Artillery at the end of World War I, noted that if the commander should decentralize his artillery, he would lose all control over 

the battle and become “disarmed.” By passing control of the battle to his 

subordinates, the higher-level commander could not maneuver and the 

battle would degenerate into a series of “isolated, disjointed, sterile local 

actions.”80 The 1926 Regulation on Maneuver of the Artillery warned, 

“Finally, the systemic allocation of all artillery to subordinate elements 

must be avoided; it constitutes an abdication of command.”81

While the French recognized the need for decentralization during 

an advance, military leaders preferred having larger-unit commanders 

control major portions of the artillery. In an October 1922 meeting of 

the Superior Council of War, Marshal Pétain referred to some of this 

artillery as a “strategic reserve, suitable for great displacement.”82 Such 
92 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of the French field manual on large units. While the 1913 edition was 

entitled Regulation on the Conduct of Large Units, the 1936 edition was 

entitled Instructions of the Tactical Employment of Large Units.

86 French 

concepts for the operational level thus rested on an extremely shaky 

foundation.

The Methodical Battle

By the beginning of World War II, the centerpiece in French operational thinking was what they called the bataille conduite, or methodical 

battle,87 which bore a strong resemblance to Pétain’s battle at La Malmaison and Debeney’s at Montdidier. By this term the French meant a 

rigidly controlled operation in which units and weapons were carefully 

marshaled and then employed in combat. Such a battle was conducted 

deliberately and step-by-step, with units obediently moving between 

phase lines and adhering to strictly scheduled timetables as they moved 

toward relatively shallow objectives. With few radios available, these 

control measures facilitated the employment of massive amounts of artillery in support of the infantry. Such methods, the French believed, 

were essential for the coherent employment of the enormous amounts 

of men and materiel demanded by modern combat. They also kept the 

locus of decision making at higher command levels and provided for 

strongly centralized control to coordinate the actions of numerous subordinates. No audacious ideas such as those propounded by Nivelle or 

Joffre could ever thrive in headquarters manned by officers intensely 

schooled in such rigid methods.

Through the interwar period, French officers focused primarily on 

the methodical battle. In September 1938 a lecturer at the Center of 

Higher Military Studies described an operation of a field army consisting of five corps with fifteen divisions along a front of sixty kilometers. 

His description included a step-by-step approach to organizing the forces 

and synchronizing their actions in battle. His solution for how the forces 

should be employed included having the main attack launched by six 

divisions, each of which had a front of about twenty-two kilometers. The 

lecturer also suggested concentrating artillery assets, enabling the attacking force to have a high density of artillery tubes along each kilometer of 

attack frontage. As for the depth of the objective, the lecturer explained 

that it should not be deeper than one-half the length of the attack frontage—about seventy-two kilometers.88

Unfortunately for France, this attack more closely resembled the 

battles of 1918 than those of May–June 1940. Though French doctrine 

placed some value on mobility, the methodical battle represented only 

a slight improvement over the static method employed before 1918 and 

signaled a decline in the French sense of maneuver. Simultaneous or suc92 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of the French field manual on large units. While the 1913 edition was 

entitled Regulation on the Conduct of Large Units, the 1936 edition was 

entitled Instructions of the Tactical Employment of Large Units.

86 French 

concepts for the operational level thus rested on an extremely shaky 

foundation.

The Methodical Battle

By the beginning of World War II, the centerpiece in French operational thinking was what they called the bataille conduite, or methodical 

battle,87 which bore a strong resemblance to Pétain’s battle at La Malmaison and Debeney’s at Montdidier. By this term the French meant a 

rigidly controlled operation in which units and weapons were carefully 

marshaled and then employed in combat. Such a battle was conducted 

deliberately and step-by-step, with units obediently moving between 

phase lines and adhering to strictly scheduled timetables as they moved 

toward relatively shallow objectives. With few radios available, these 

control measures facilitated the employment of massive amounts of artillery in support of the infantry. Such methods, the French believed, 

were essential for the coherent employment of the enormous amounts 

of men and materiel demanded by modern combat. They also kept the 

locus of decision making at higher command levels and provided for 

strongly centralized control to coordinate the actions of numerous subordinates. No audacious ideas such as those propounded by Nivelle or 

Joffre could ever thrive in headquarters manned by officers intensely 

schooled in such rigid methods.

Through the interwar period, French officers focused primarily on 

the methodical battle. In September 1938 a lecturer at the Center of 

Higher Military Studies described an operation of a field army consisting of five corps with fifteen divisions along a front of sixty kilometers. 

His description included a step-by-step approach to organizing the forces 

and synchronizing their actions in battle. His solution for how the forces 

should be employed included having the main attack launched by six 

divisions, each of which had a front of about twenty-two kilometers. The 

lecturer also suggested concentrating artillery assets, enabling the attacking force to have a high density of artillery tubes along each kilometer of 

attack frontage. As for the depth of the objective, the lecturer explained 

that it should not be deeper than one-half the length of the attack frontage—about seventy-two kilometers.88

Unfortunately for France, this attack more closely resembled the 

battles of 1918 than those of May–June 1940. Though French doctrine 

placed some value on mobility, the methodical battle represented only 

a slight improvement over the static method employed before 1918 and 

signaled a decline in the French sense of maneuver. Simultaneous or suc94 historical perspectives of the operational art 

army on the offensive would not be dramatically different from that during the Great War. Subsequent events at Sedan in May 1940 soon demonstrated the fallacy of this assumption.

The Battle of Sedan

With the opening of World War II, French military leaders prepared 

to fight a series of methodical battles as part of their defensive strategy. While holding along the fortifications of the Maginot Line on the 

northeastern frontier, and while placing a minimum number of forces 

along the Ardennes, General Gamelin planned for French forces to rush 

north into central and western Belgium. The French believed the German main attack would come à la Schlieffen through the broad avenue 

of approach known as the Gembloux Gap that extended through central 

Belgium from Liège to Gembloux to Mons. To meet the anticipated German attack, Gamelin concentrated his most mobile forces along the border of central and western Belgium and prepared them to move forward 

rapidly.91 After these forces entered Belgium, he wanted them to avoid 

an encounter battle. That is, he wanted French forces to move forward 

and establish a strong defensive position before the Germans arrived. 

After weakening the enemy and building up French and Allied forces, he 

intended to resume the offensive and achieve victory.

As for how far forward French forces would move into Belgium, 

Gamelin had several alternatives, but by May 1940 he had settled on 

moving them to a line that ran along the Meuse River from Sedan to 

Namur, across to Wavre, along the Dyle River, to Antwerp. Of the alternatives available, a defense along the Namur–Dyle River–Antwerp line 

would be about seventy or eighty kilometers shorter.92 By May 1940 the 

French and British were poised to carry out the Allied operational concept and move forward to the Dyle line. Army Group 1 had responsibility 

for the area between the English Channel and the western edge of the 

Maginot Line. From left to right in Army Group 1, Seventh Army, British Expeditionary Forces, First Army, and Ninth Army prepared to move 

forward and occupy the Dyle line, while Second Army (on the right of 

Ninth Army) remained in position in the Sedan sector.

Second Army was the easternmost field army in Army Group 1 and 

had responsibility for a front that extended from west of Sedan to Longuyon, a straight-line distance of about sixty-five kilometers but actually about seventy-five kilometers because of the tying of the defense to 

favorable terrain. Its defensive sector included portions of the Maginot 

Line and the area to its left, which had relatively few fortifications. Unlike the other field armies in the west, which planned on moving into 

Belgium when the Germans attacked, Second Army did not have to move 

forward and occupy new positions. While it remained in place, its west94 historical perspectives of the operational art 

army on the offensive would not be dramatically different from that during the Great War. Subsequent events at Sedan in May 1940 soon demonstrated the fallacy of this assumption.

The Battle of Sedan

With the opening of World War II, French military leaders prepared 

to fight a series of methodical battles as part of their defensive strategy. While holding along the fortifications of the Maginot Line on the 

northeastern frontier, and while placing a minimum number of forces 

along the Ardennes, General Gamelin planned for French forces to rush 

north into central and western Belgium. The French believed the German main attack would come à la Schlieffen through the broad avenue 

of approach known as the Gembloux Gap that extended through central 

Belgium from Liège to Gembloux to Mons. To meet the anticipated German attack, Gamelin concentrated his most mobile forces along the border of central and western Belgium and prepared them to move forward 

rapidly.91 After these forces entered Belgium, he wanted them to avoid 

an encounter battle. That is, he wanted French forces to move forward 

and establish a strong defensive position before the Germans arrived. 

After weakening the enemy and building up French and Allied forces, he 

intended to resume the offensive and achieve victory.

As for how far forward French forces would move into Belgium, 

Gamelin had several alternatives, but by May 1940 he had settled on 

moving them to a line that ran along the Meuse River from Sedan to 

Namur, across to Wavre, along the Dyle River, to Antwerp. Of the alternatives available, a defense along the Namur–Dyle River–Antwerp line 

would be about seventy or eighty kilometers shorter.92 By May 1940 the 

French and British were poised to carry out the Allied operational concept and move forward to the Dyle line. Army Group 1 had responsibility 

for the area between the English Channel and the western edge of the 

Maginot Line. From left to right in Army Group 1, Seventh Army, British Expeditionary Forces, First Army, and Ninth Army prepared to move 

forward and occupy the Dyle line, while Second Army (on the right of 

Ninth Army) remained in position in the Sedan sector.

Second Army was the easternmost field army in Army Group 1 and 

had responsibility for a front that extended from west of Sedan to Longuyon, a straight-line distance of about sixty-five kilometers but actually about seventy-five kilometers because of the tying of the defense to 

favorable terrain. Its defensive sector included portions of the Maginot 

Line and the area to its left, which had relatively few fortifications. Unlike the other field armies in the west, which planned on moving into 

Belgium when the Germans attacked, Second Army did not have to move 

forward and occupy new positions. While it remained in place, its west96 historical perspectives of the operational art 

river and advanced extremely slowly against strong opposition. Because 

of the difficulties encountered by the 2d and 10th Panzer Divisions, the 

penetration was extremely narrow and very vulnerable. That night German engineers worked feverishly to build bridges across the Meuse so 

additional forces could be rushed across and the bridgehead expanded.

Reinforcing the Sedan Sector

Before the Germans reached the Meuse, the French High Command 

took significant steps to strengthen the Sedan sector. Neither General Alphonse Georges (who commanded the French forces along the northern 

and northeastern frontiers) nor General Gaston Billotte (who commanded 

Army Group 1, which included Second Army plus other field armies west 

to the English Channel) believed the Germans would make their main attack through the area of Sedan. Both apparently considered the German 

forces in the Ardennes part of a secondary effort aiming farther north 

and contributing to the main German effort through the Gembloux Gap. 

Nevertheless, the possibility existed of a German thrust moving around 

the left wing of the Maginot Line and then circling behind the important 

fortification through the Stenay Gap. Consequently, in a classic colmater

operation, the high-level commanders began moving units toward Sedan 

to reinforce the sector west of the Maginot Line not long after the Germans entered Belgium.

General Huntziger, who commanded Second Army, notified X Corps 

on the night of 11 May that the 71st Division would be placed at its disposition and should enter the front line. The X Corps ordered the 71st 

Division to move forward into the main position of resistance to the right 

of the 55th Division.97 Most of the units of the 71st moved into position 

on the night of 12–13 May and were still settling into position on the 

thirteenth when the Germans crossed the Meuse. On the morning of 12 

May, Second Army placed two artillery regiments, which were already 

in the vicinity of Sedan, under the control of X Corps.98 Increasing the 

artillery support for a threatened sector accorded completely with French 

doctrine, for such an action added to the defensive capability of the sector 

while placing sufficient forces on hand to conduct a counterattack with 

artillery fires. Moving the 71st Division and the two artillery regiments 

forward, however, left Second Army with extremely weak reserves.

Second Army also began moving additional infantry and tank forces 

into the sector and preparing for a counterattack by these forces against 

a possible German penetration. On 12 May at 1105 it sent out a warning 

order about the 4th and 7th Tank Battalions’ coming under the control of 

X Corps. The two tank battalions came under X Corps’ control at 0030 

on 13 May, about half an hour before the Germans attacked across the 

Meuse.99 The X Corps also sent infantry forward. On the night of 10–11 
96 historical perspectives of the operational art 

river and advanced extremely slowly against strong opposition. Because 

of the difficulties encountered by the 2d and 10th Panzer Divisions, the 

penetration was extremely narrow and very vulnerable. That night German engineers worked feverishly to build bridges across the Meuse so 

additional forces could be rushed across and the bridgehead expanded.

Reinforcing the Sedan Sector

Before the Germans reached the Meuse, the French High Command 

took significant steps to strengthen the Sedan sector. Neither General Alphonse Georges (who commanded the French forces along the northern 

and northeastern frontiers) nor General Gaston Billotte (who commanded 

Army Group 1, which included Second Army plus other field armies west 

to the English Channel) believed the Germans would make their main attack through the area of Sedan. Both apparently considered the German 

forces in the Ardennes part of a secondary effort aiming farther north 

and contributing to the main German effort through the Gembloux Gap. 

Nevertheless, the possibility existed of a German thrust moving around 

the left wing of the Maginot Line and then circling behind the important 

fortification through the Stenay Gap. Consequently, in a classic colmater

operation, the high-level commanders began moving units toward Sedan 

to reinforce the sector west of the Maginot Line not long after the Germans entered Belgium.

General Huntziger, who commanded Second Army, notified X Corps 

on the night of 11 May that the 71st Division would be placed at its disposition and should enter the front line. The X Corps ordered the 71st 

Division to move forward into the main position of resistance to the right 

of the 55th Division.97 Most of the units of the 71st moved into position 

on the night of 12–13 May and were still settling into position on the 

thirteenth when the Germans crossed the Meuse. On the morning of 12 

May, Second Army placed two artillery regiments, which were already 

in the vicinity of Sedan, under the control of X Corps.98 Increasing the 

artillery support for a threatened sector accorded completely with French 

doctrine, for such an action added to the defensive capability of the sector 

while placing sufficient forces on hand to conduct a counterattack with 

artillery fires. Moving the 71st Division and the two artillery regiments 

forward, however, left Second Army with extremely weak reserves.

Second Army also began moving additional infantry and tank forces 

into the sector and preparing for a counterattack by these forces against 

a possible German penetration. On 12 May at 1105 it sent out a warning 

order about the 4th and 7th Tank Battalions’ coming under the control of 

X Corps. The two tank battalions came under X Corps’ control at 0030 

on 13 May, about half an hour before the Germans attacked across the 

Meuse.99 The X Corps also sent infantry forward. On the night of 10–11 
98 historical perspectives of the operational art 

plans being completed for the employment of six additional divisions 

(including the 71st), plus two regiments of artillery and a corps headquarters, and with all units already moving and soon to be in place, the 

French seemed well prepared for an enemy thrust against Sedan. Significantly, however, the major focus of the preparation—except for the 

ill-fated counterattacks by the 55th Division—had been to prevent a 

counterclockwise encirclement coming from east of Sedan toward the 

southeast. From Huntziger’s perspective, the threat seemed to be a push 

through Second Army and then a push or turn southeast toward the rear 

of the Maginot Line. He did not anticipate the Germans’ pivoting west, 

racing to the English Channel, and severing Army Group 1 from the remaining French forces.105

Failing to Seal the Breach

During the night of 13–14 May, the penetration by the German 1st 

Infantry Regiment remained narrow and small, but General Heinz Guderian, commander of XIX Panzer Corps, rushed additional troops across 

the Meuse and began expanding the vulnerable bridgehead. During the 

same night the French took action to halt the German forces. Four hours 

after the Germans began crossing the Meuse, the X Corps commander, 

General Grandsard, called the 55th Division commander, General Lafontaine, and told him that the two infantry regiments and two tank battalions were placed under his command and were to be used to establish 

a defensive line between Chehéry, Bulson, and Haraucourt. Half an hour 

later, a messenger from X Corps delivered a message to General Lafontaine to conduct a counterattack with these units.106

Despite the vulnerability of the German penetration, the commander 

of the 55th Division, General Lafontaine, delayed launching a counterattack. Though additional forces from the reserves of Second Army had 

been made available to him, he preferred to have his infantry occupy 

defensive positions and to launch a counterattack with artillery fire. Having been schooled for years in the procedures of colmater for halting an 

enemy penetration, he had no desire to hurl his infantry forward. Because 

of his hesitation and his preference for a counterattack by artillery, Lafontaine did not issue an order for counterattack with infantry and tanks 

until about nine hours after his corps commander had instructed him to 

counterattack.107

Around 0630 on the fourteenth the 55th Division’s counterattack 

from Chémery toward Chehéry and from Maisoncelle toward Bulson by 

the 213th Infantry Regiment and the 7th Tank Battalion began moving 

forward slowly, but the Germans soon pushed the French forces back. 

A short while later, the 55th Division launched another counterattack 

farther east with the 205th Regiment and 4th Tank Battalion, but it fared 
98 historical perspectives of the operational art 

plans being completed for the employment of six additional divisions 

(including the 71st), plus two regiments of artillery and a corps headquarters, and with all units already moving and soon to be in place, the 

French seemed well prepared for an enemy thrust against Sedan. Significantly, however, the major focus of the preparation—except for the 

ill-fated counterattacks by the 55th Division—had been to prevent a 

counterclockwise encirclement coming from east of Sedan toward the 

southeast. From Huntziger’s perspective, the threat seemed to be a push 

through Second Army and then a push or turn southeast toward the rear 

of the Maginot Line. He did not anticipate the Germans’ pivoting west, 

racing to the English Channel, and severing Army Group 1 from the remaining French forces.105

Failing to Seal the Breach

During the night of 13–14 May, the penetration by the German 1st 

Infantry Regiment remained narrow and small, but General Heinz Guderian, commander of XIX Panzer Corps, rushed additional troops across 

the Meuse and began expanding the vulnerable bridgehead. During the 

same night the French took action to halt the German forces. Four hours 

after the Germans began crossing the Meuse, the X Corps commander, 

General Grandsard, called the 55th Division commander, General Lafontaine, and told him that the two infantry regiments and two tank battalions were placed under his command and were to be used to establish 

a defensive line between Chehéry, Bulson, and Haraucourt. Half an hour 

later, a messenger from X Corps delivered a message to General Lafontaine to conduct a counterattack with these units.106

Despite the vulnerability of the German penetration, the commander 

of the 55th Division, General Lafontaine, delayed launching a counterattack. Though additional forces from the reserves of Second Army had 

been made available to him, he preferred to have his infantry occupy 

defensive positions and to launch a counterattack with artillery fire. Having been schooled for years in the procedures of colmater for halting an 

enemy penetration, he had no desire to hurl his infantry forward. Because 

of his hesitation and his preference for a counterattack by artillery, Lafontaine did not issue an order for counterattack with infantry and tanks 

until about nine hours after his corps commander had instructed him to 

counterattack.107

Around 0630 on the fourteenth the 55th Division’s counterattack 

from Chémery toward Chehéry and from Maisoncelle toward Bulson by 

the 213th Infantry Regiment and the 7th Tank Battalion began moving 

forward slowly, but the Germans soon pushed the French forces back. 

A short while later, the 55th Division launched another counterattack 

farther east with the 205th Regiment and 4th Tank Battalion, but it fared 
100 historical perspectives of the operational art 

stead of boldly charging ahead, the two divisions became involved in bitter and costly fighting in the heights of Mont Dieu. By the evening of the 

fifteenth, after substantial reinforcements by the Germans, it was clear 

that another opportunity had been lost.111

Though General Georges did not yet know the results of the anticipated counterattacks on the fourteenth by X Corps (with two infantry 

regiments and two tank battalions) and on the fifteenth by XXI Corps 

(with the 3d Motorized and 3d Armored Divisions), he began planning 

on the night of 13–14 May for the possibility of a German penetration 

between Second and Ninth Armies. With the right of Ninth Army touching Dom-le-Mesnil along the Meuse (nine kilometers west of Sedan) 

and the left of Second Army touching Omont (ten kilometers west of 

Chémery), an opening of about twelve kilometers soon existed between 

the two armies. After the collapse of the 55th Division and the insertion 

of the 3d Motorized Infantry and the 3d Armored Divisions by Second 

Army into positions along the Mont Dieu, elements of the hard-pressed 

and tired 5th Light Cavalry Division and 3d Brigade of Spahis attempted 

to fill the gap between the 3d Motorized Division and the 53d Infantry 

Division, which was on the extreme right of Ninth Army. Yet, even before General Guderian’s XIX Panzer Corps pivoted west it was clear that 

additional forces had to be moved forward to strengthen the two sorely 

pressed cavalry units.

In the middle of the night, General Robert Touchon received a telephone call ordering him to report to Georges’ office the following morning. During two meetings on the fourteenth, Georges informed him of his 

intention to place Touchon in charge of a provisional field army that would 

“colmater the breach [in the] vicinity of Sedan.” Revealing a late-blooming concern with the possibility of the Germans’ heading west, Georges 

wanted Touchon’s forces to be employed so that the avenue of advance 

between Sedan and Laon could be “interdicted.”112 This discussion is the 

first indication of a high-level French concern with a German move or 

pivot to the west. It may have come from the recognition that the Germans 

crossing the Meuse near Dinant, Monthermé, and Sedan could combine 

their forces and pose a serious threat to the French center. Georges also 

explained that the German “pocket” had become much larger and was 

continuing to expand at an alarming rate. Touchon was told that he must 

act quickly and “assist General Huntziger in sealing the breach.”113

At 1500 on the fourteenth, Touchon left for Senuc, where he met with 

Huntziger. Despite the German gains, the situation probably did not appear impossible to Touchon, for by midnight he had two corps—consisting of two corps headquarters (XXIII and XLI), four divisions (including 

the 2d Armored), and additional units—under his control.114 Though the 

Germans had penetrated French defenses and had advanced much more 

rapidly than expected, the experience of World War I suggested that their 
100 historical perspectives of the operational art 

stead of boldly charging ahead, the two divisions became involved in bitter and costly fighting in the heights of Mont Dieu. By the evening of the 

fifteenth, after substantial reinforcements by the Germans, it was clear 

that another opportunity had been lost.111

Though General Georges did not yet know the results of the anticipated counterattacks on the fourteenth by X Corps (with two infantry 

regiments and two tank battalions) and on the fifteenth by XXI Corps 

(with the 3d Motorized and 3d Armored Divisions), he began planning 

on the night of 13–14 May for the possibility of a German penetration 

between Second and Ninth Armies. With the right of Ninth Army touching Dom-le-Mesnil along the Meuse (nine kilometers west of Sedan) 

and the left of Second Army touching Omont (ten kilometers west of 

Chémery), an opening of about twelve kilometers soon existed between 

the two armies. After the collapse of the 55th Division and the insertion 

of the 3d Motorized Infantry and the 3d Armored Divisions by Second 

Army into positions along the Mont Dieu, elements of the hard-pressed 

and tired 5th Light Cavalry Division and 3d Brigade of Spahis attempted 

to fill the gap between the 3d Motorized Division and the 53d Infantry 

Division, which was on the extreme right of Ninth Army. Yet, even before General Guderian’s XIX Panzer Corps pivoted west it was clear that 

additional forces had to be moved forward to strengthen the two sorely 

pressed cavalry units.

In the middle of the night, General Robert Touchon received a telephone call ordering him to report to Georges’ office the following morning. During two meetings on the fourteenth, Georges informed him of his 

intention to place Touchon in charge of a provisional field army that would 

“colmater the breach [in the] vicinity of Sedan.” Revealing a late-blooming concern with the possibility of the Germans’ heading west, Georges 

wanted Touchon’s forces to be employed so that the avenue of advance 

between Sedan and Laon could be “interdicted.”112 This discussion is the 

first indication of a high-level French concern with a German move or 

pivot to the west. It may have come from the recognition that the Germans 

crossing the Meuse near Dinant, Monthermé, and Sedan could combine 

their forces and pose a serious threat to the French center. Georges also 

explained that the German “pocket” had become much larger and was 

continuing to expand at an alarming rate. Touchon was told that he must 

act quickly and “assist General Huntziger in sealing the breach.”113

At 1500 on the fourteenth, Touchon left for Senuc, where he met with 

Huntziger. Despite the German gains, the situation probably did not appear impossible to Touchon, for by midnight he had two corps—consisting of two corps headquarters (XXIII and XLI), four divisions (including 

the 2d Armored), and additional units—under his control.114 Though the 

Germans had penetrated French defenses and had advanced much more 

rapidly than expected, the experience of World War I suggested that their 
102 historical perspectives of the operational art 

cepts distorted the French view of the operational level of warfare and 

profoundly affected the performance of the army in the two world wars. 

In sum, the French approach to the operational level of warfare never approached the sophistication of operational art.

After the Franco-Prussian War, the French implemented important 

institutional changes that facilitated their adherence to an operational 

doctrine strongly focused on the offensive. By 1914 Joffre and other 

military leaders expected the battlefield to be more lethal than that of the 

past, but they prepared field armies to maneuver in a manner reminiscent of Napoleon’s employment of corps. Despite heavy losses inflicted 

by the Germans, the ability of the French units to maneuver contributed 

to Joffre’s success in the “miracle of the Marne.” The establishment of 

a continuous line of strong and extensive defenses on the western front 

after September 1914 reduced the possibility of maneuver. Nevertheless, the French did not abandon their hopes of achieving a penetration 

and continued using huge numbers of men and materiel in vain attempts 

to force their way through the German defenses. After the collapse of 

Nivelle’s offensive in April 1917, Pétain began launching limited offensives and demonstrated at La Malmaison in October 1917 how significant gains could be made with such offensives. In August 1918, Debeney 

launched his carefully sequenced attacks at Montdidier and drove the 

Germans back.

Debeney’s operational methods, which relied on tightly controlled 

and successive attacks along a broad front, differed dramatically from 

those with which the French had begun the war, but they became the 

model for the conduct of operations in the interwar period. Although the 

French devoted considerable time and effort to improving their operational doctrine from 1919 to 1939, they did not develop fundamentally 

new methods. When the Germans attacked in May 1940, they expected 

to fight a series of methodical battles—reminiscent of Debeney’s methods at Montdidier—in which huge masses of artillery would provide 

them an important advantage. They also expected the battlefield to be 

relatively shallow and anticipated moving reserves and placing them in 

front of attacking enemy units to seal penetrations. While such methods 

may have worked against an enemy using methodical techniques, they 

had little chance of success against a highly mobile enemy attacking 

deep into a defensive position and using supporting fires throughout the 

depth of that position.

As the French developed their ability from 1888 to 1940 to perform at the operational level, they moved from one extreme to another. 

In the opening battles of World War I, they emphasized maneuver and 

minimized the importance of firepower. Though some ill-conceived and 

poorly coordinated operations cost thousands of casualties, the ability 

of the French units to maneuver enabled Joffre to respond successfully 
102 historical perspectives of the operational art 

cepts distorted the French view of the operational level of warfare and 

profoundly affected the performance of the army in the two world wars. 

In sum, the French approach to the operational level of warfare never approached the sophistication of operational art.

After the Franco-Prussian War, the French implemented important 

institutional changes that facilitated their adherence to an operational 

doctrine strongly focused on the offensive. By 1914 Joffre and other 

military leaders expected the battlefield to be more lethal than that of the 

past, but they prepared field armies to maneuver in a manner reminiscent of Napoleon’s employment of corps. Despite heavy losses inflicted 

by the Germans, the ability of the French units to maneuver contributed 

to Joffre’s success in the “miracle of the Marne.” The establishment of 

a continuous line of strong and extensive defenses on the western front 

after September 1914 reduced the possibility of maneuver. Nevertheless, the French did not abandon their hopes of achieving a penetration 

and continued using huge numbers of men and materiel in vain attempts 

to force their way through the German defenses. After the collapse of 

Nivelle’s offensive in April 1917, Pétain began launching limited offensives and demonstrated at La Malmaison in October 1917 how significant gains could be made with such offensives. In August 1918, Debeney 

launched his carefully sequenced attacks at Montdidier and drove the 

Germans back.

Debeney’s operational methods, which relied on tightly controlled 

and successive attacks along a broad front, differed dramatically from 

those with which the French had begun the war, but they became the 

model for the conduct of operations in the interwar period. Although the 

French devoted considerable time and effort to improving their operational doctrine from 1919 to 1939, they did not develop fundamentally 

new methods. When the Germans attacked in May 1940, they expected 

to fight a series of methodical battles—reminiscent of Debeney’s methods at Montdidier—in which huge masses of artillery would provide 

them an important advantage. They also expected the battlefield to be 

relatively shallow and anticipated moving reserves and placing them in 

front of attacking enemy units to seal penetrations. While such methods 

may have worked against an enemy using methodical techniques, they 

had little chance of success against a highly mobile enemy attacking 

deep into a defensive position and using supporting fires throughout the 

depth of that position.

As the French developed their ability from 1888 to 1940 to perform at the operational level, they moved from one extreme to another. 

In the opening battles of World War I, they emphasized maneuver and 

minimized the importance of firepower. Though some ill-conceived and 

poorly coordinated operations cost thousands of casualties, the ability 

of the French units to maneuver enabled Joffre to respond successfully 
Notes

1. Robert S. Quimby, The Background of Napoleonic Warfare (New York: Columbia 

University Press, 1957), pp. 94–97. The forerunner of the division was Marshal Maurice 

de Saxe’s “legion,” which was supported with artillery and could function separately or 

as part of an army.

2. Pierre de Bourcet, Principes de la guerre de montagnes (Paris, 1888), passim; 

Quimby, Napoleonic Warfare, pp. 175–84; Steven T. Ross, “The Development of the 

Combat Division in Eighteenth-Century French Armies,” French Historical Studies 4 

(1965): 84–94.

3. Francois-Apolline de Guibert, Écrits militaires, 1772–1790 (Paris: Copernic, 1977), 

p. 167.

4. Gunther E. Rothenberg, The Art of Warfare in the Age of Napoleon (Bloomington: 

Indiana University Press, 1978), pp. 109, 128.

5. Ltrs to Général Berthier, 25 Jan 1800, no. 4552, pp. 136–38, and 1 Mar 1800, no. 

4626, pp. 196–98, both in Correspondence de Napoléon Ier, vol. 6 (Paris, 1860) (hereafter 

cited as Correspondence); John R. Elting, Swords Around the Throne: Napoleon’s Grande

Armée (New York, 1988), pp. 49, 58–59.

6. David G. Chandler, The Campaigns of Napoleon (New York: Macmillan, 1966), pp. 

184–91, 332–33. Napoleon divided his Grande Armée into armies, usually consisting of 

about three mixed corps, plus one or two cavalry corps.

7. Quoted in Chandler, Campaigns of Napoleon, p. 184. See also “Napoleon, 

Operational Art and the Jena Campaign,” by David Chandler, in this volume.

8. Correspondence, vol. 3, no. 1976 (1859), p. 216.

9. Douglas Porch, Army and Revolution: France 1815–1848 (London, 1974), p. 29; 

Michael E. Howard, The Franco-Prussian War: The German Invasion of France, 1870–

1871 (New York: Macmillan, 1962), pp. 15–17.

10. Journal Officiel de la République Française (1873), p. 5281; Général du Barail, Mes 

souvenirs, vol. 3 (Paris, 1896), p. 459.

11. Journal Officiel de la République Française: Chambre Débats (1888), pp. 791, 

817.

12. Ibid., pp. 2177–78; Charles de Freycinet, Souvenirs, vol. 2 (Paris, 1914), p. 405.

13. Journal Officiel (1890), pp. 1869–70.

14. Charles W. Dilke, “The French Armies,” The Fortnightly Review 56, no. 299 (1 

November 1891): 610.

15. Journal Officiel (1899), p. 1487.

16. Freycinet, Souvenirs, 2: 445.

17. Dilke, “French Armies,” pp. 597, 620.

18. Freycinet, Souvenirs, 2: 470.

19. France, Ministère de la Guerre (MG), Décret du 28 mai 1895 portant règlement sur 

le service des armées en campagne (Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1895), p. 30.

20. France, MG, Décret du 28 octobre 1913 portant règlement sur la conduite des 

grandes unités (Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1913), p. 47.

21. Ibid., p. 18.

104 historical perspectives of the operational art
Notes

1. Robert S. Quimby, The Background of Napoleonic Warfare (New York: Columbia 

University Press, 1957), pp. 94–97. The forerunner of the division was Marshal Maurice 

de Saxe’s “legion,” which was supported with artillery and could function separately or 

as part of an army.

2. Pierre de Bourcet, Principes de la guerre de montagnes (Paris, 1888), passim; 

Quimby, Napoleonic Warfare, pp. 175–84; Steven T. Ross, “The Development of the 

Combat Division in Eighteenth-Century French Armies,” French Historical Studies 4 

(1965): 84–94.

3. Francois-Apolline de Guibert, Écrits militaires, 1772–1790 (Paris: Copernic, 1977), 

p. 167.

4. Gunther E. Rothenberg, The Art of Warfare in the Age of Napoleon (Bloomington: 

Indiana University Press, 1978), pp. 109, 128.

5. Ltrs to Général Berthier, 25 Jan 1800, no. 4552, pp. 136–38, and 1 Mar 1800, no. 

4626, pp. 196–98, both in Correspondence de Napoléon Ier, vol. 6 (Paris, 1860) (hereafter 

cited as Correspondence); John R. Elting, Swords Around the Throne: Napoleon’s Grande

Armée (New York, 1988), pp. 49, 58–59.

6. David G. Chandler, The Campaigns of Napoleon (New York: Macmillan, 1966), pp. 

184–91, 332–33. Napoleon divided his Grande Armée into armies, usually consisting of 

about three mixed corps, plus one or two cavalry corps.

7. Quoted in Chandler, Campaigns of Napoleon, p. 184. See also “Napoleon, 

Operational Art and the Jena Campaign,” by David Chandler, in this volume.

8. Correspondence, vol. 3, no. 1976 (1859), p. 216.

9. Douglas Porch, Army and Revolution: France 1815–1848 (London, 1974), p. 29; 

Michael E. Howard, The Franco-Prussian War: The German Invasion of France, 1870–

1871 (New York: Macmillan, 1962), pp. 15–17.

10. Journal Officiel de la République Française (1873), p. 5281; Général du Barail, Mes 

souvenirs, vol. 3 (Paris, 1896), p. 459.

11. Journal Officiel de la République Française: Chambre Débats (1888), pp. 791, 

817.

12. Ibid., pp. 2177–78; Charles de Freycinet, Souvenirs, vol. 2 (Paris, 1914), p. 405.

13. Journal Officiel (1890), pp. 1869–70.

14. Charles W. Dilke, “The French Armies,” The Fortnightly Review 56, no. 299 (1 

November 1891): 610.

15. Journal Officiel (1899), p. 1487.

16. Freycinet, Souvenirs, 2: 445.

17. Dilke, “French Armies,” pp. 597, 620.

18. Freycinet, Souvenirs, 2: 470.

19. France, Ministère de la Guerre (MG), Décret du 28 mai 1895 portant règlement sur 

le service des armées en campagne (Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1895), p. 30.

20. France, MG, Décret du 28 octobre 1913 portant règlement sur la conduite des 

grandes unités (Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1913), p. 47.

21. Ibid., p. 18.

104 historical perspectives of the operational art
106 historical perspectives of the operational art 

43. Hermann J. von Kuhl, The Marne Campaign, 1914 (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: 

Command and General Staff College Press, 1936), p. 31.

44. Joffre, Mémoires, 1: 320, 324, 336–37; Foch, Memoirs, pp. 34–35, 41–58.

45. GQG, Note pour toutes les armées, 24 août 1914, Les armées françaises, tome 1, 

vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 1, an. no. 158, pp. 128–29.

46. For an analysis of the division commanders relieved, see Commandement des 

division du 1er août 1914 au 1er novembre 1916, 25 novembre 1919, passim, Section 

historique du armee de terre (SHAT) 5N269.

47. Joffre, Mémoires, 1: 301–02, 350.

48. Kuhl, Marne Campaign, p. 142.

49. Ve Armée, Propositions pour l’offensive, 4 sep 14, Les armées françaises, tome 1, 

vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 2, an. no. 2398, pp. 704–05; Ve Armée, Commandant Ve armée à 

grand Q.G., 4 sep 14, Les armées françaises, tome 1, vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 2, an. no. 2401, 

p. 706.

50. Joffre, Mémoires, 1: 379–91; Pierre Lyet, Joffre et Gallieni a la Marne (Paris, 1938), 

pp. 40–54.

51. Kuhl, Marne Campaign, pp. 150–51.

52. James E. Edmonds, History of the Great War: Military Operations, France and 

Belgium, 1914, vol. 1 (London: Macmillan and Co., 1933), pp. 299–300, 310, 319, 322–

24, 332–334, 338–39.

53. See Grand Quartier Général des Armées de l’Est, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, Notes pour 

les Armées, 2 janvier 1915, pp. 3–4, SHAT 16N1676.

54. James K. Hogue, “Puissance de Feu: The Struggle for a New Artillery Doctrine in 

the French Army, 1914–1916,” Master’s Thesis, Ohio State University, 1988, pp. 51–52.

55. Ve Armée, Les armées françaises, vol. 4, pt. 3, p. 382.

56. Jean de Pierrefeu, L’Offensive du 16 avril (Paris, 1919), p. 17; IIe Armée, IIe armée 

à GQG, GAC, 2 nov 16, Les armées françaises, tome 4, vol. 3, Annexes, vol. 2, an. no. 

1449, p. 545; Ve Armée, Les armées françaises, tome 4, vol. 3, p. 404.

57. Stephen F. Yunker, “‘I Have the Formula’: The Evolution of the Tactical Doctrine of 

General Robert Nivelle,” Military Review 54, no. 6 (June 1974): 17.

58. IIe Armée, Note pour les groupements, 9 juin 1916, Les armées françaises, tome 4, 

vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 1, an. no. 1077, pp. 1423–25.

59. Rapport de la Commission d’Enquête instituée par lettre Ministérielle No. 18,194, du 

14 juillet 1917, Le général de division Brugère, Chargé de missions spéciales, à Monsieur 

le President du Conseil, Ministre de la Guerre, 4 octobre 1917, p. 7, SHAT 5N255.

60. Sir Edward L. Spears, Prelude to Victory (London: J. Cape, 1939), pp. 345–46.

61. Quoted in Pierrefeu, L’Offensive, p. 41.

62. Stephen Ryan, Pétain the Soldier (New York, 1969), pp. 111–13.

63. Marie L. V. H. Corda, La Guerre Mondiale (1914–1918) (Paris, 1922), p. 210.

64. Ibid., p. 211.

65. Général Blondet, “Rapport sur les opérations du 2ème Corps Colonial du 16 au 18 

avril,” in Pierrefeu, L’Offensive, pp. 83–84.

66. Ryan, Pétain, pp. 114–15; Guy Pedroncini, Pétain: Général en Chef, 1917–1918

(Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1974), pp. 19–21, 25–34.

67. Grand quartier général des armées du nord et du nord-est, É.M., 3ème Bureau, Pour 

les commandants et groupes d’armées et armées seulement, Directive no. 1, no. 17356, 

19 mai 1917, P.R.O. WO 158/48/9.

68. Pedroncini, Pétain, pp.100–08. The density of French artillery was about one gun 

for every 6.5 meters of front.
106 historical perspectives of the operational art 

43. Hermann J. von Kuhl, The Marne Campaign, 1914 (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: 

Command and General Staff College Press, 1936), p. 31.

44. Joffre, Mémoires, 1: 320, 324, 336–37; Foch, Memoirs, pp. 34–35, 41–58.

45. GQG, Note pour toutes les armées, 24 août 1914, Les armées françaises, tome 1, 

vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 1, an. no. 158, pp. 128–29.

46. For an analysis of the division commanders relieved, see Commandement des 

division du 1er août 1914 au 1er novembre 1916, 25 novembre 1919, passim, Section 

historique du armee de terre (SHAT) 5N269.

47. Joffre, Mémoires, 1: 301–02, 350.

48. Kuhl, Marne Campaign, p. 142.

49. Ve Armée, Propositions pour l’offensive, 4 sep 14, Les armées françaises, tome 1, 

vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 2, an. no. 2398, pp. 704–05; Ve Armée, Commandant Ve armée à 

grand Q.G., 4 sep 14, Les armées françaises, tome 1, vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 2, an. no. 2401, 

p. 706.

50. Joffre, Mémoires, 1: 379–91; Pierre Lyet, Joffre et Gallieni a la Marne (Paris, 1938), 

pp. 40–54.

51. Kuhl, Marne Campaign, pp. 150–51.

52. James E. Edmonds, History of the Great War: Military Operations, France and 

Belgium, 1914, vol. 1 (London: Macmillan and Co., 1933), pp. 299–300, 310, 319, 322–

24, 332–334, 338–39.

53. See Grand Quartier Général des Armées de l’Est, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, Notes pour 

les Armées, 2 janvier 1915, pp. 3–4, SHAT 16N1676.

54. James K. Hogue, “Puissance de Feu: The Struggle for a New Artillery Doctrine in 

the French Army, 1914–1916,” Master’s Thesis, Ohio State University, 1988, pp. 51–52.

55. Ve Armée, Les armées françaises, vol. 4, pt. 3, p. 382.

56. Jean de Pierrefeu, L’Offensive du 16 avril (Paris, 1919), p. 17; IIe Armée, IIe armée 

à GQG, GAC, 2 nov 16, Les armées françaises, tome 4, vol. 3, Annexes, vol. 2, an. no. 

1449, p. 545; Ve Armée, Les armées françaises, tome 4, vol. 3, p. 404.

57. Stephen F. Yunker, “‘I Have the Formula’: The Evolution of the Tactical Doctrine of 

General Robert Nivelle,” Military Review 54, no. 6 (June 1974): 17.

58. IIe Armée, Note pour les groupements, 9 juin 1916, Les armées françaises, tome 4, 

vol. 2, Annexes, vol. 1, an. no. 1077, pp. 1423–25.

59. Rapport de la Commission d’Enquête instituée par lettre Ministérielle No. 18,194, du 

14 juillet 1917, Le général de division Brugère, Chargé de missions spéciales, à Monsieur 

le President du Conseil, Ministre de la Guerre, 4 octobre 1917, p. 7, SHAT 5N255.

60. Sir Edward L. Spears, Prelude to Victory (London: J. Cape, 1939), pp. 345–46.

61. Quoted in Pierrefeu, L’Offensive, p. 41.

62. Stephen Ryan, Pétain the Soldier (New York, 1969), pp. 111–13.

63. Marie L. V. H. Corda, La Guerre Mondiale (1914–1918) (Paris, 1922), p. 210.

64. Ibid., p. 211.

65. Général Blondet, “Rapport sur les opérations du 2ème Corps Colonial du 16 au 18 

avril,” in Pierrefeu, L’Offensive, pp. 83–84.

66. Ryan, Pétain, pp. 114–15; Guy Pedroncini, Pétain: Général en Chef, 1917–1918

(Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1974), pp. 19–21, 25–34.

67. Grand quartier général des armées du nord et du nord-est, É.M., 3ème Bureau, Pour 

les commandants et groupes d’armées et armées seulement, Directive no. 1, no. 17356, 

19 mai 1917, P.R.O. WO 158/48/9.

68. Pedroncini, Pétain, pp.100–08. The density of French artillery was about one gun 

for every 6.5 meters of front.
108 historical perspectives of the operational art

95. France, Assemblée Nationale, Commission d’enquête sur les evenements survenus en 

France de 1933 a 1945, Annexes, Témoignages et documents recueillis par la commission 

d’enquête parlementaire (hereafter Commission ... Témoignages), Testimony of General 

Lacaille, vol. 4 (Paris, 1952), p. 927.

96. Rapport du Général Lafontaine, 55eme D.I., 18 mai 1940, SHAT 32N251; Rapport 

du Lieutenant Colonel Pinaud, 147ème R.I.F., 24 mai 1940, SHAT 34N145.

97. Angora à 10ème C.A., 11 mai 1940, 22h.20, SHAT 29N49; Ilème Armée, É.-M., 

3ème Bureau, No. 4662/3–Op, 11 mai 1940, SHAT 29N49.

98. IIème Armée, 3éme Bureau, É.-M., No. 4665/3–Op, 12 mai 1940, 7h.30; IIème 

Armée, 3ème Bureau, É.-M., No. 4668/3–Op, 12 mai 19140, 9h.35; IIème Armée, 3ème 

Bureau, É.-M., No. 4674/3–Op, 12 mai 1940, 11h.20, all in SHAT 29N49.

99. IIème Armée, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, No. 4663/3–Op, 11 mai 1940, 23h., SHAT 29N49; 

IIème Armée, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, No. 4672/3–Op, 12 mai 1940, 11h.05, SHAT 29N85; 

IIème Armée, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, No. 4669/3–Op, 13 mai 1940, 14H.30, SHAT 29N85.

100. Journal des marches et opérations du 21ème C.A. par le Général Flavigny du 3 mai 

au 24 juin 1940 (hereafter Général Flavigny, 21ème C.A., J.M.O.), (n.d.), pp. 6–8, SHAT 

30N225.

101. Journal du Cabinet du Général Georges, 12 mai 1940, p. 2, SHAT 27N148.

102. IIème Armée, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, No. 4697/3–Op, 13h.30, SHAT 29N49.

103. Chef de Bataillon Ragot, Compte-Rendu sur les opérations de la 3ème D.I.M., n.d., 

p. 8, SHAT 32N8.

104. Commission ... Témoignages, Testimony of General Devaux, vol. 5, p. 1334 (Devaux 

served as chief of staff of the 3d Armored Division); Journal du cabinet du Général 

Georges, 12 mai 1940, pp. 10–12.

105. IIème Armée, É.-M., 3ème Bureau, No. 4713/3–Op, 14 mai 1940, 13h., SHAT 

29N49.

106. Général C. Grandsard, 10ème Corps d’armée, pp. 143–44; Ltr, Lieut. Col. Cachou, 

4 mars 1942, p. 2, SHAT 30N82.

107. Général Lafontaine, Renseignements sur la 55ème Division, p. 2, SHAT 32N251.

108. Rapport du Lieut. Col. Labarthe, 213ème R.I., n.d., SHAT 34N165; Rapport du 

Chef de Bataillon Giordani, 7ème B.C., 23 juin 1941, SHAT 34N165; Rapport du Lieut. 

Col. Montvignier Monnet, 204ème R.I., 27 décembre 1940, SHAT 34N164; Rapport du 

Chef de Bataillon Auffret, 2/205ème R.I., 20 mai 1940, SHAT 34N164.

109. Denis Richards, Royal Air Force, 3 vols. (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 

1953), 1: 120.

110. Francois d’Astier de la Vigerie, Le Ciel n’était pas vide (Paris, 1952), pp. 107, 109; 

Jeffrey A. Gunsburg, Divided and Conquered: The French High Command and the Defeat 

of the West, 1940 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1979), p. 201.

111. J. A. L. R. Flavigny, 21ème C.A., J.M.O., n.d., SHAT 30N225; Rapport du Général 

Brocard, 3ème D.C.R., n.d., SHAT 32N470.

112. Détachement d’Armée, Journal des Marches et Opérations, 14 mai 1940, SHAT 

29N321.

113. Ibid.

114. C.C.F.N.E., É.-M., 3ème Bureau, No. 1495/3–Op, 15 mai 1940, 7h.15, SHAT 

27N155.

115. Ltr, Général Etcheberrigaray, 27 juillet 1943, S.H.A.T. 32N248; 2ème Division 

Cuirassée, No. 45/5–CD, 5 juillet 1940, SHAT 32N461; Rapport d’opérations de la 2ème 

Division Cuirassée (13–21 mai 1940), 16 juin 1941, SHAT 32N462.
Part Two: Germany


112 historical perspectives of the operational art

today. He was arguably the first to connect tactics to strategy through the 

operational conduct of war.

Günter R. Roth carries Moltke’s contribution through the German 

Chief of the General Staff, Alfred Graf von Schlieffen, one step farther 

into the twentieth century. Schlieffen studied and developed the means 

to move million-man armies in a synchronized, preplanned way to outflank an opponent. Unfortunately, he undermined Moltke’s efforts to tie 

strategy, operational conduct, and tactics together by emphasizing that 

operations alone could solve strategic dilemmas. Roth traces Schlieffen’s 

effect on German operational planning and execution. With the development of the tank, plane, and radio, Blitzkrieg was born. Field Marshal 

Erich von Manstein’s employment of these means in a campaign illustrated his understanding of operational conduct and its direction.

Karl-Heinz Frieser traces Manstein’s operational concept for the 

campaign against France in 1940. Frieser points out that the strategic 

aim—the defeat of Allied forces—was achieved by the operational 

method of making a breakthrough and deep penetration at Sedan. Frieser 

uses the revolving door analogy to explain the campaign, with French 

and British forces pushing into Belgium—precisely as the Germans 

wanted—and the German forces pushing this same door by cutting 

through the Ardennes toward the Channel. Manstein’s operational concept—brilliantly focused and executed—demonstrated his understanding of operational art and its application.
112 historical perspectives of the operational art

today. He was arguably the first to connect tactics to strategy through the 

operational conduct of war.

Günter R. Roth carries Moltke’s contribution through the German 

Chief of the General Staff, Alfred Graf von Schlieffen, one step farther 

into the twentieth century. Schlieffen studied and developed the means 

to move million-man armies in a synchronized, preplanned way to outflank an opponent. Unfortunately, he undermined Moltke’s efforts to tie 

strategy, operational conduct, and tactics together by emphasizing that 

operations alone could solve strategic dilemmas. Roth traces Schlieffen’s 

effect on German operational planning and execution. With the development of the tank, plane, and radio, Blitzkrieg was born. Field Marshal 

Erich von Manstein’s employment of these means in a campaign illustrated his understanding of operational conduct and its direction.

Karl-Heinz Frieser traces Manstein’s operational concept for the 

campaign against France in 1940. Frieser points out that the strategic 

aim—the defeat of Allied forces—was achieved by the operational 

method of making a breakthrough and deep penetration at Sedan. Frieser 

uses the revolving door analogy to explain the campaign, with French 

and British forces pushing into Belgium—precisely as the Germans 

wanted—and the German forces pushing this same door by cutting 

through the Ardennes toward the Channel. Manstein’s operational concept—brilliantly focused and executed—demonstrated his understanding of operational art and its application.
114 historical perspectives of the operational art 

was an avid supporter of maneuver, particularly as a means of unhinging 

one’s adversaries, both psychologically and physically. At the same time 

he confronted the problem of defending a nation that was centrally located. Given its geo-strategic position on the European Continent, Germany 

could be attacked simultaneously from various approaches and by a combination of forces. Over Moltke’s lifetime he evolved a series of offensedefense war plans that focused on the destruction of enemy forces. He 

also became a proponent of the doctrine of deterrence, maintaining the 

means and will to wage war as an effective way of persuading one’s enemies not to attack. Like contemporary military planners, Moltke faced issues involving both the qualitative and quantitative aspects of technological change. Doctrine, in his view, had to provide the balance between the 

realities of the battlefield and the requirements for modernization; force 

structure was finite and dependent on human and materiel resources. 

Moreover, war—as well as campaign planning and execution—had to 

take into account political and economic factors. Theoretical differences 

over short war versus long war, defense versus offense, attrition versus 

maneuver, and attack versus defense were all debated in military circles 

in Moltke’s day just as they are in our own. Most important, Moltke as 

a leader and a perennial student of military history reconciled these debates, an achievement that led to his success in war.

Traditionally, the Germans are credited with delineating three levels 

of warfare: the strategic and tactical levels (as represented by the conduct of war and battle, respectively) and the operational level that Moltke 

conceptualized and situated between the conduct of war and battle. One 

way of considering the operational level and analyzing how it came into 

being is to seek answers to the following series of questions. What makes 

the operational level unique? Did Moltke recognize it as a distinct level? 

Is there a difference in applying the principles of war at the strategic and 

tactical levels as opposed to the operational level? Is this uniqueness, and 

hence its discovery, due to differences in the use of terrain, the employment of reserves, and the application of technology? How do functions 

such as intelligence, deception, maneuver, operational fires, and logistics 

relate to the operational level? Does the nature of command as applied 

to the operational level differ significantly from its role vis-à-vis the strategic and tactical level? The answers to each of these questions can be 

elucidated within the context of the career and writings of Field Marshal 

Moltke. By examining the origins of the operational level of war it can 

be demonstrated that there is something inherently different about this 

aspect of military doctrine. Moltke was the first to recognize this difference and introduced the term “operational direction” into the vocabulary 

of modern warfare.
114 historical perspectives of the operational art 

was an avid supporter of maneuver, particularly as a means of unhinging 

one’s adversaries, both psychologically and physically. At the same time 

he confronted the problem of defending a nation that was centrally located. Given its geo-strategic position on the European Continent, Germany 

could be attacked simultaneously from various approaches and by a combination of forces. Over Moltke’s lifetime he evolved a series of offensedefense war plans that focused on the destruction of enemy forces. He 

also became a proponent of the doctrine of deterrence, maintaining the 

means and will to wage war as an effective way of persuading one’s enemies not to attack. Like contemporary military planners, Moltke faced issues involving both the qualitative and quantitative aspects of technological change. Doctrine, in his view, had to provide the balance between the 

realities of the battlefield and the requirements for modernization; force 

structure was finite and dependent on human and materiel resources. 

Moreover, war—as well as campaign planning and execution—had to 

take into account political and economic factors. Theoretical differences 

over short war versus long war, defense versus offense, attrition versus 

maneuver, and attack versus defense were all debated in military circles 

in Moltke’s day just as they are in our own. Most important, Moltke as 

a leader and a perennial student of military history reconciled these debates, an achievement that led to his success in war.

Traditionally, the Germans are credited with delineating three levels 

of warfare: the strategic and tactical levels (as represented by the conduct of war and battle, respectively) and the operational level that Moltke 

conceptualized and situated between the conduct of war and battle. One 

way of considering the operational level and analyzing how it came into 

being is to seek answers to the following series of questions. What makes 

the operational level unique? Did Moltke recognize it as a distinct level? 

Is there a difference in applying the principles of war at the strategic and 

tactical levels as opposed to the operational level? Is this uniqueness, and 

hence its discovery, due to differences in the use of terrain, the employment of reserves, and the application of technology? How do functions 

such as intelligence, deception, maneuver, operational fires, and logistics 

relate to the operational level? Does the nature of command as applied 

to the operational level differ significantly from its role vis-à-vis the strategic and tactical level? The answers to each of these questions can be 

elucidated within the context of the career and writings of Field Marshal 

Moltke. By examining the origins of the operational level of war it can 

be demonstrated that there is something inherently different about this 

aspect of military doctrine. Moltke was the first to recognize this difference and introduced the term “operational direction” into the vocabulary 

of modern warfare.
116 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Turkish artillery, but the request came too late in light of the Sultan’s defeat at Nezib. Moltke shared in this defeat, but in the process learned the 

importance of terrain, training, planning, concentration of effort, and the 

massing of artillery firepower.

In December 1839, after four years abroad and tempered by the experience of defeat in action, Moltke returned home in broken health. 

When he left Berlin in 1834 he was said to already display the “courtier’s, 

scholar’s, soldier’s, eye, tongue, and sword.” On his return he also possessed a mind that had been expanded through a variety of new, demanding experiences in foreign climes. In recognition of his achievements in 

the service of the Sultan, Moltke was awarded Prussia’s highest military 

decoration, the Pour le Mérite. Posted once again to general staff duty, 

he served in Berlin and subsequently became aide to the crown prince, 

an assignment that afforded him an opportunity to gain considerable influence in higher military circles. As during other periods in his career, 

Moltke remained an autodidact, educating himself through continuous 

study and application of his readings to his professional situation.

Service on the general staff required Moltke to have two horses. In 

order to buy these mounts he sought an outside source of income and 

took on the formidable task of translating Edward Gibbon’s monumental twelve-volume classic, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 

He also wrote a novel and a number of travel works as well as reflections on his Turkish service and a campaign analysis of the defeat he 

had experienced. Both his travelogues and letters became best sellers and 

yielded enough money for him to obtain the proper mounts.3 The publication of Moltke’s letters and the images he captured in his writings were 

sufficiently romantic to win the heart of a young woman who, although 

unknown to this promising officer, had fallen in love with him. Eventually, however, they met, became engaged, and were married. As a couple, 

Maria Moltke and the future field marshal complemented each other very 

well, but heartbreakingly she died in 1868 before her husband’s operational genius was fully recognized and rewarded.

Moltke was a talented artist who drew many of the sights he saw as he 

traveled and chronicled his varied experiences in word pictures. His books 

are rich in sketches and other illustrations, which accurately complement 

the corresponding passages found in his narratives. Moltke’s ability as a 

surveyor and mapmaker also were impressive, and these were skills that 

he continued to rely on throughout his life. By traveling he grew to appreciate different regional cultures and national traditions, which he then 

studied with increasing interest. He was keenly aware of major political 

events and followed developments abroad such as the Polish Revolution, 

the Dutch and Belgian problems, and the Turkish-Russian war. Moltke 

also possessed an understanding of the growing role of technology in 

society. He studied and analyzed railroads, for instance, writing in such 
116 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Turkish artillery, but the request came too late in light of the Sultan’s defeat at Nezib. Moltke shared in this defeat, but in the process learned the 

importance of terrain, training, planning, concentration of effort, and the 

massing of artillery firepower.

In December 1839, after four years abroad and tempered by the experience of defeat in action, Moltke returned home in broken health. 

When he left Berlin in 1834 he was said to already display the “courtier’s, 

scholar’s, soldier’s, eye, tongue, and sword.” On his return he also possessed a mind that had been expanded through a variety of new, demanding experiences in foreign climes. In recognition of his achievements in 

the service of the Sultan, Moltke was awarded Prussia’s highest military 

decoration, the Pour le Mérite. Posted once again to general staff duty, 

he served in Berlin and subsequently became aide to the crown prince, 

an assignment that afforded him an opportunity to gain considerable influence in higher military circles. As during other periods in his career, 

Moltke remained an autodidact, educating himself through continuous 

study and application of his readings to his professional situation.

Service on the general staff required Moltke to have two horses. In 

order to buy these mounts he sought an outside source of income and 

took on the formidable task of translating Edward Gibbon’s monumental twelve-volume classic, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 

He also wrote a novel and a number of travel works as well as reflections on his Turkish service and a campaign analysis of the defeat he 

had experienced. Both his travelogues and letters became best sellers and 

yielded enough money for him to obtain the proper mounts.3 The publication of Moltke’s letters and the images he captured in his writings were 

sufficiently romantic to win the heart of a young woman who, although 

unknown to this promising officer, had fallen in love with him. Eventually, however, they met, became engaged, and were married. As a couple, 

Maria Moltke and the future field marshal complemented each other very 

well, but heartbreakingly she died in 1868 before her husband’s operational genius was fully recognized and rewarded.

Moltke was a talented artist who drew many of the sights he saw as he 

traveled and chronicled his varied experiences in word pictures. His books 

are rich in sketches and other illustrations, which accurately complement 

the corresponding passages found in his narratives. Moltke’s ability as a 

surveyor and mapmaker also were impressive, and these were skills that 

he continued to rely on throughout his life. By traveling he grew to appreciate different regional cultures and national traditions, which he then 

studied with increasing interest. He was keenly aware of major political 

events and followed developments abroad such as the Polish Revolution, 

the Dutch and Belgian problems, and the Turkish-Russian war. Moltke 

also possessed an understanding of the growing role of technology in 

society. He studied and analyzed railroads, for instance, writing in such 
118 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Chief of the General Staff

In 1845 Moltke was named personal adjutant to Prince Henry of Prussia. While he was traveling with the prince in Italy, he surveyed Rome, 

which resulted in a map that was later published. In 1846 Prince Henry 

died and Moltke was posted to the staff of the Eighth Army Corps at 

Koblenz with headquarters at Magdeburg. He remained in this assignment for seven years and received two promotions, to lieutenant colonel 

in 1850 and to colonel in the following year. In 1855 he was appointed 

as first adjutant to Prince Frederick-Wilhelm (later regent and emperor) 

whom he accompanied on visits to England, France, and Russia. Prince 

Frederick-Wilhelm commanded a regiment at Breslau, and it was there 

that Moltke served for a year before being promoted to major general 

in 1856. In October 1857 King Frederick-Wilhelm IV became gravely 

ill and Prince Frederick-Wilhelm became regent. Within a few days, the 

prince regent selected Moltke for the post of chief of the general staff of 

the Prussian Army, an appointment that was confirmed in the New Year.

As chief of the general staff Moltke began his greatest period of activity. At fifty-seven years of age, he adopted strategic, operational, and 

tactical methods for a number of areas such as changes in armament, 

communication, and mobility; training and education of commanders 

and staff officers; preparation of campaign plans; and mobilization plans. 

In 1859 the Austrian-French-Italian war required mobilizing the Prussian Army, which revealed serious deficiencies. The subsequent reorganization of the army by the king and War Minister von Roon enabled 

them to nearly double its strength. Moltke followed the events of the 

Italian campaign closely and later published a history of this conflict.6 

As early as December 1862 Moltke had been consulted on the political 

turmoil over Denmark, which was becoming acute. His approach to the 

situation focused on the war’s objective (Kriegsobjekt)—the defeat of 

Denmark—and the operational objective, namely the destruction of the 

Danish Army. Moltke’s written note to the War Minister and his subsequent operational campaign concept tied this political (war’s) objective 

to the operational objective.7 The principal difficulty that Prussia faced 

was defeating Denmark as quickly as possible. Moltke thought there 

would be difficulty in bringing war to a decisive conclusion since Danish 

forces could retire to offshore islands and, by controlling sea approaches, 

thereby avoid attack. His plan outlined a turning movement of the Danish Army before the Eider and Schleswig, which was keyed to intercept 

the retreating army. When the war began in February 1864 Moltke was 

not dispatched with the field armies but instead remained in Berlin. In 

his absence and as events unfolded, the plan was not properly executed 

and the Danes managed to escape to their fortresses of Düppel and Fredericia, each of which commanded a line of communication to an island. 
118 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Chief of the General Staff

In 1845 Moltke was named personal adjutant to Prince Henry of Prussia. While he was traveling with the prince in Italy, he surveyed Rome, 

which resulted in a map that was later published. In 1846 Prince Henry 

died and Moltke was posted to the staff of the Eighth Army Corps at 

Koblenz with headquarters at Magdeburg. He remained in this assignment for seven years and received two promotions, to lieutenant colonel 

in 1850 and to colonel in the following year. In 1855 he was appointed 

as first adjutant to Prince Frederick-Wilhelm (later regent and emperor) 

whom he accompanied on visits to England, France, and Russia. Prince 

Frederick-Wilhelm commanded a regiment at Breslau, and it was there 

that Moltke served for a year before being promoted to major general 

in 1856. In October 1857 King Frederick-Wilhelm IV became gravely 

ill and Prince Frederick-Wilhelm became regent. Within a few days, the 

prince regent selected Moltke for the post of chief of the general staff of 

the Prussian Army, an appointment that was confirmed in the New Year.

As chief of the general staff Moltke began his greatest period of activity. At fifty-seven years of age, he adopted strategic, operational, and 

tactical methods for a number of areas such as changes in armament, 

communication, and mobility; training and education of commanders 

and staff officers; preparation of campaign plans; and mobilization plans. 

In 1859 the Austrian-French-Italian war required mobilizing the Prussian Army, which revealed serious deficiencies. The subsequent reorganization of the army by the king and War Minister von Roon enabled 

them to nearly double its strength. Moltke followed the events of the 

Italian campaign closely and later published a history of this conflict.6 

As early as December 1862 Moltke had been consulted on the political 

turmoil over Denmark, which was becoming acute. His approach to the 

situation focused on the war’s objective (Kriegsobjekt)—the defeat of 

Denmark—and the operational objective, namely the destruction of the 

Danish Army. Moltke’s written note to the War Minister and his subsequent operational campaign concept tied this political (war’s) objective 

to the operational objective.7 The principal difficulty that Prussia faced 

was defeating Denmark as quickly as possible. Moltke thought there 

would be difficulty in bringing war to a decisive conclusion since Danish 

forces could retire to offshore islands and, by controlling sea approaches, 

thereby avoid attack. His plan outlined a turning movement of the Danish Army before the Eider and Schleswig, which was keyed to intercept 

the retreating army. When the war began in February 1864 Moltke was 

not dispatched with the field armies but instead remained in Berlin. In 

his absence and as events unfolded, the plan was not properly executed 

and the Danes managed to escape to their fortresses of Düppel and Fredericia, each of which commanded a line of communication to an island. 
120 historical perspectives of the operational art 

witz. However, he had read On War after it appeared in limited circulation in 1832. Certainly, in Moltke’s view, the destruction of enemy forces 

meant destruction of an opponent’s center of gravity; more will be said 

on his strategic and operational thinking in due course. Moltke inferred 

that strategy was the practical art of adopting means to ends; as such, 

he developed and applied the methods of Frederick and Napoleon to the 

changing conditions that he faced. As the first to realize the strength of 

the defensive in light of modern weaponry, he believed an enveloping attack was stronger than a frontal one. Moltke also worked out a method of 

marching separately and concentrating upon the battlefield. He reasoned 

that only one army corps could move on a single road each day; if two or 

three corps were on the road at the same time it would mean that the second and third corps could not be made use of if the battle was to the front. 

Indeed, Moltke observed that concentrating several corps to a battle was 

“a calamity.” Multiple corps could not be fed for more than a day or two, 

and they would have a perilous time marching or moving. To Moltke, 

a large force must be broken up into manageable parts or armies; the 

commander should be authorized to regulate its movements and actions 

subject to instructions received from the commander-in-chief regarding 

the direction and purpose of the operations.

The campaign of 1866 illustrates Moltke’s strategic vision. The political objective was to exclude Austria from Germany. Shortly after taking 

office as chief of the general staff, he wrote that “the war between Austria 

and Prussia will draw all of Europe into the battle.”9

 His basic concept of 

operation never changed insofar as the military objective was concerned: 

to defeat the Austrian Army. In plan after plan from 1860 to 1866, Moltke 

analyzed the strategic situation, evaluated the terrain, correlated forces, 

and then formulated a series of deployments.10 Central to Moltke’s force 

evaluation was splitting the Austrian effort so as to tie down their forces 

in northern Italy by employing the Italian Army. Moltke conferred with 

Bismarck on this issue a number of times. Only when a political-military 

alliance was made with Italy would the Prussian Army be able to engage 

the Austrians. If this precondition was met, then Moltke could risk denuding western Prussian territory in order to concentrate against Austria. 

The question was where to concentrate: Moltke worked on a number of 

options, all of which assumed not only an alliance with Italy but also 

resolute decisions on mobilization. Yet King Wilhelm of Prussia did not 

want to provoke Austria and bring about a German civil war that could 

have an uncertain outcome. Hence, while Moltke’s plans recognized the 

political and military objective, the real need was for rapid mobilization and the execution of a concentrated effort to ensure a short war. 

Moreover, Moltke had to work under constraints; for instance, relations 

between Prussia and its Rhine provinces had to be preserved, particularly 

since it was assumed that Bavaria and Saxony were allied with Austria.
120 historical perspectives of the operational art 

witz. However, he had read On War after it appeared in limited circulation in 1832. Certainly, in Moltke’s view, the destruction of enemy forces 

meant destruction of an opponent’s center of gravity; more will be said 

on his strategic and operational thinking in due course. Moltke inferred 

that strategy was the practical art of adopting means to ends; as such, 

he developed and applied the methods of Frederick and Napoleon to the 

changing conditions that he faced. As the first to realize the strength of 

the defensive in light of modern weaponry, he believed an enveloping attack was stronger than a frontal one. Moltke also worked out a method of 

marching separately and concentrating upon the battlefield. He reasoned 

that only one army corps could move on a single road each day; if two or 

three corps were on the road at the same time it would mean that the second and third corps could not be made use of if the battle was to the front. 

Indeed, Moltke observed that concentrating several corps to a battle was 

“a calamity.” Multiple corps could not be fed for more than a day or two, 

and they would have a perilous time marching or moving. To Moltke, 

a large force must be broken up into manageable parts or armies; the 

commander should be authorized to regulate its movements and actions 

subject to instructions received from the commander-in-chief regarding 

the direction and purpose of the operations.

The campaign of 1866 illustrates Moltke’s strategic vision. The political objective was to exclude Austria from Germany. Shortly after taking 

office as chief of the general staff, he wrote that “the war between Austria 

and Prussia will draw all of Europe into the battle.”9

 His basic concept of 

operation never changed insofar as the military objective was concerned: 

to defeat the Austrian Army. In plan after plan from 1860 to 1866, Moltke 

analyzed the strategic situation, evaluated the terrain, correlated forces, 

and then formulated a series of deployments.10 Central to Moltke’s force 

evaluation was splitting the Austrian effort so as to tie down their forces 

in northern Italy by employing the Italian Army. Moltke conferred with 

Bismarck on this issue a number of times. Only when a political-military 

alliance was made with Italy would the Prussian Army be able to engage 

the Austrians. If this precondition was met, then Moltke could risk denuding western Prussian territory in order to concentrate against Austria. 

The question was where to concentrate: Moltke worked on a number of 

options, all of which assumed not only an alliance with Italy but also 

resolute decisions on mobilization. Yet King Wilhelm of Prussia did not 

want to provoke Austria and bring about a German civil war that could 

have an uncertain outcome. Hence, while Moltke’s plans recognized the 

political and military objective, the real need was for rapid mobilization and the execution of a concentrated effort to ensure a short war. 

Moreover, Moltke had to work under constraints; for instance, relations 

between Prussia and its Rhine provinces had to be preserved, particularly 

since it was assumed that Bavaria and Saxony were allied with Austria.
M

ap 2

River Moldau

River

Elbe

River Iser

R vi

er B si rt zti R.

Cidlina

Prague

Münchengrätz

Podol

Gitschin

Sadowa Josephstadt

Königgrätz

Dresden

Gorlitz

Schweidnitz

XXXX

XXX

1

II

XXXX

XXXX

XXXX

I

VON

HERWARTH

46,000

PRINCE

FREDERICK CHARLES

93,000

AUSTRIANS

SAXONS

24,000

VON BENEDEK

AUSTRIANS

250,0 0 0

CROWN PRINCE

including 1 Corps

OF PRUSSIA

115,0 0 0

T H E C AM PA I G N I N B O H EM I A , 1866A rmy Con c en t r a tion Ar e a s and Mol t k e’s Pl an o f Ad v an c e

Elbe

Miles

0 10 20 30 40

PRUSSIA SAXONY

B

O

H

E

M I A

S I L E S I A

MORAVIA

N
M

ap 2

River Moldau

River

Elbe

River Iser

R vi

er B si rt zti R.

Cidlina

Prague

Münchengrätz

Podol

Gitschin

Sadowa Josephstadt

Königgrätz

Dresden

Gorlitz

Schweidnitz

XXXX

XXX

1

II

XXXX

XXXX

XXXX

I

VON

HERWARTH

46,000

PRINCE

FREDERICK CHARLES

93,000

AUSTRIANS

SAXONS

24,000

VON BENEDEK

AUSTRIANS

250,0 0 0

CROWN PRINCE

including 1 Corps

OF PRUSSIA

115,0 0 0

T H E C AM PA I G N I N B O H EM I A , 1866A rmy Con c en t r a tion Ar e a s and Mol t k e’s Pl an o f Ad v an c e

Elbe

Miles

0 10 20 30 40

PRUSSIA SAXONY

B

O

H

E

M I A

S I L E S I A

MORAVIA

N
124 historical perspectives of the operational art 

nor strategist; will want assistance in running an army.”13 On 30 June 

Benedek wrote to his wife about “this desperate situation [in which] 

in a few hours a great battle will be joined. I may never see you again. 

Better I should meet a bullet.” Benedek felt that he had been beaten 

before the battle began, while Moltke, by contrast, made unhesitating, 

confident decisions with the full backing of the king.

Among the many conclusions that Moltke drew from the campaign 

were that the infantry, artillery, and cavalry had not worked well together on the tactical level. He thought the cavalry had not satisfactorily performed its screening, security, and reconnaissance functions. 

Henceforth, each division and corps was to employ its cavalry in those 

functions rather than holding them back to carry out saber-wielding 

charges. The artillery had not been concentrated enough, had changed 

its position too frequently, and had lacked mass; in addition, it had kept 

its trains to the rear of the column and therefore usually ran out of ammunition during the culmination of the battle. While Moltke thought 

the infantry had fought well, he believed that they should be more 

flexibly handled. As far as operational conduct was concerned, Moltke 

thought commanders at higher levels did not know how to work with 

the combat arms. Accordingly, he commissioned a thorough study of 

the 1866 campaign, the results of which were astounding for a victorious campaign.

In July 1868 Moltke gave the king a highly sensitive memorandum on the results of the 1866 campaign. Moltke explained that he 

did not wish to criticize the specific units, but rather in an analytical 

way to learn from and improve their performance. He then spoke his 

mind: The cavalry must perform security and reconnaissance; the artillery must be concentrated; the infantry must not rely only on superior 

weaponry; order of battle must be standardized; and combined actions 

must be improved. Also, since he believed that cavalry was crucial for 

operational conduct, it must develop the situation. The artillery must 

be massed to provide fire support. The engineers in a war of maneuver 

must be used early and not left in the rear of the march column. Above 

all, commanders must be able to integrate the combined activities of the 

combat arms.14 The final part of this remarkable memorandum contains 

a critique of division and corps actions. The king’s marginal notes indicate his support of Moltke’s observations. In June 1869, under cover 

of a letter, the king returned the document, which led to the publication 

of a new regulation for the conduct of operations. Moltke was responsible for writing a large portion of this regulation, which opens with a 

rhetorical flourish, to wit:

The field of reality for the army is war, but its development and its ordinary 

life falls in time of peace. This paradox brings out the difficulty of purposeful 
124 historical perspectives of the operational art 

nor strategist; will want assistance in running an army.”13 On 30 June 

Benedek wrote to his wife about “this desperate situation [in which] 

in a few hours a great battle will be joined. I may never see you again. 

Better I should meet a bullet.” Benedek felt that he had been beaten 

before the battle began, while Moltke, by contrast, made unhesitating, 

confident decisions with the full backing of the king.

Among the many conclusions that Moltke drew from the campaign 

were that the infantry, artillery, and cavalry had not worked well together on the tactical level. He thought the cavalry had not satisfactorily performed its screening, security, and reconnaissance functions. 

Henceforth, each division and corps was to employ its cavalry in those 

functions rather than holding them back to carry out saber-wielding 

charges. The artillery had not been concentrated enough, had changed 

its position too frequently, and had lacked mass; in addition, it had kept 

its trains to the rear of the column and therefore usually ran out of ammunition during the culmination of the battle. While Moltke thought 

the infantry had fought well, he believed that they should be more 

flexibly handled. As far as operational conduct was concerned, Moltke 

thought commanders at higher levels did not know how to work with 

the combat arms. Accordingly, he commissioned a thorough study of 

the 1866 campaign, the results of which were astounding for a victorious campaign.

In July 1868 Moltke gave the king a highly sensitive memorandum on the results of the 1866 campaign. Moltke explained that he 

did not wish to criticize the specific units, but rather in an analytical 

way to learn from and improve their performance. He then spoke his 

mind: The cavalry must perform security and reconnaissance; the artillery must be concentrated; the infantry must not rely only on superior 

weaponry; order of battle must be standardized; and combined actions 

must be improved. Also, since he believed that cavalry was crucial for 

operational conduct, it must develop the situation. The artillery must 

be massed to provide fire support. The engineers in a war of maneuver 

must be used early and not left in the rear of the march column. Above 

all, commanders must be able to integrate the combined activities of the 

combat arms.14 The final part of this remarkable memorandum contains 

a critique of division and corps actions. The king’s marginal notes indicate his support of Moltke’s observations. In June 1869, under cover 

of a letter, the king returned the document, which led to the publication 

of a new regulation for the conduct of operations. Moltke was responsible for writing a large portion of this regulation, which opens with a 

rhetorical flourish, to wit:

The field of reality for the army is war, but its development and its ordinary 

life falls in time of peace. This paradox brings out the difficulty of purposeful 
126 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The commander minimize orders, he should imagine the entire operation and if 

too many orders are issued the subordinates begin to lose their overall concept. 

It is very likely that with too many orders, the most important will be lost.... The 

higher the commander, the shorter and simpler the orders must be.... The concept 

must not be lost sight of.16

In these orders there must not be motivation, anticipation and conjecture: it is 

crucial for the subordinate to understand the purpose of the operation, and then to 

work for its realization even if it means working against the actual orders. Within 

the view of the higher commander it is necessary to only tell the subordinate what 

is necessary to accomplish the purpose.17

Here Moltke’s view of operational direction clearly emerged as 

well as his concept of the conduct of operations. Security and reconnaissance, functions of cavalry, became all important to Moltke, so as 

to protect the main body and to gather information on the enemy’s main 

concentrations. Obviously, he was indicating his assessment of what 

had gone wrong in 1866 and also was questioning the validity of the 

historical function of the cavalry, the charge.18 The regulation recognized the value of infantry firepower and the advantage of the Prussian 

needle gun, a subject on which he had previously written.19 He envisioned a flexible working relationship among infantry, rangers, cavalry, 

and artillery.20 On balance, this new regulation was an unequivocal 

statement on the need for infantry, cavalry, and artillery to collaborate 

on the battlefield: combined arms functioning together. In particular, 

Moltke believed artillery should be massed to fire in concentration.21

According to Moltke, “the purpose of war is to accomplish the needs 

of policy through the use of combat.” This was a fair restatement of 

Clausewitz’s famous dictum that war was the continuation of politics by 

other means. Moltke continued: “Battle is the way to break the enemy’s 

will.” Although Moltke wrote about pursuit, he wanted battle to be used 

to achieve a distinct objective. “Only the destruction of the main forces 

of the enemy can lead to the realization of the main aims.” Therefore 

it must be recognized that both the purpose and the art of command 

differ when applied to large and small forces; what is right for one is 

not right for the other. Space and time have different meanings on the 

level of larger units as opposed to that of smaller units. For example, 

mobility, the personal intervention of commanders, and the meaning of 

terrain are different. Moltke thought it better to continue to emphasize 

the maintenance of initiative and momentum. There was a reaffirmation 

of the principle of marching to the sound of the guns.22

To recapitulate, it is rare for a victorious army to conduct a review 

of its action and attempt to improve upon the previous campaign. With 

considerable risk, Moltke took on this task so that the next campaign 

and war might be conducted more effectively. This regulation—and 
126 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The commander minimize orders, he should imagine the entire operation and if 

too many orders are issued the subordinates begin to lose their overall concept. 

It is very likely that with too many orders, the most important will be lost.... The 

higher the commander, the shorter and simpler the orders must be.... The concept 

must not be lost sight of.16

In these orders there must not be motivation, anticipation and conjecture: it is 

crucial for the subordinate to understand the purpose of the operation, and then to 

work for its realization even if it means working against the actual orders. Within 

the view of the higher commander it is necessary to only tell the subordinate what 

is necessary to accomplish the purpose.17

Here Moltke’s view of operational direction clearly emerged as 

well as his concept of the conduct of operations. Security and reconnaissance, functions of cavalry, became all important to Moltke, so as 

to protect the main body and to gather information on the enemy’s main 

concentrations. Obviously, he was indicating his assessment of what 

had gone wrong in 1866 and also was questioning the validity of the 

historical function of the cavalry, the charge.18 The regulation recognized the value of infantry firepower and the advantage of the Prussian 

needle gun, a subject on which he had previously written.19 He envisioned a flexible working relationship among infantry, rangers, cavalry, 

and artillery.20 On balance, this new regulation was an unequivocal 

statement on the need for infantry, cavalry, and artillery to collaborate 

on the battlefield: combined arms functioning together. In particular, 

Moltke believed artillery should be massed to fire in concentration.21

According to Moltke, “the purpose of war is to accomplish the needs 

of policy through the use of combat.” This was a fair restatement of 

Clausewitz’s famous dictum that war was the continuation of politics by 

other means. Moltke continued: “Battle is the way to break the enemy’s 

will.” Although Moltke wrote about pursuit, he wanted battle to be used 

to achieve a distinct objective. “Only the destruction of the main forces 

of the enemy can lead to the realization of the main aims.” Therefore 

it must be recognized that both the purpose and the art of command 

differ when applied to large and small forces; what is right for one is 

not right for the other. Space and time have different meanings on the 

level of larger units as opposed to that of smaller units. For example, 

mobility, the personal intervention of commanders, and the meaning of 

terrain are different. Moltke thought it better to continue to emphasize 

the maintenance of initiative and momentum. There was a reaffirmation 

of the principle of marching to the sound of the guns.22

To recapitulate, it is rare for a victorious army to conduct a review 

of its action and attempt to improve upon the previous campaign. With 

considerable risk, Moltke took on this task so that the next campaign 

and war might be conducted more effectively. This regulation—and 
Map 3

Seine R

Vienne R

Seine R

Loir R

Seine R

Oise R

Aisne R

Yonne R

Loire R

Cher R

Yonne R

Loire R

Eure R

Loire R

Loing R

Somme R

Ao R

Lys R

Schelde R

Dend

Oise R

Calais

Boulogne

Dieppe

Rouen

Beauvais

Amiens

Compiegne

Soissons

Laon

Epernay

Melun

Étampes

Paris

Orleans

Bourges

St. Amand

Chotellerault

Tours Angers

Le Mans

Alencon

Vendomé

Chartres 

Troyes

Auxerre

Moulins

Nevers

Argentan

Caen

Le Havre

Arras

St. Quentin

G

Lille

BE

E n g l i s h C h a n n

NORTHWESTERN FRANCE

FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR, 1870–1871

Concentration and Initial Operations

July–August 1870

SCALE OF MILES

0 10 20 30 40 50

N

e l
Map 3

Seine R

Vienne R

Seine R

Loir R

Seine R

Oise R

Aisne R

Yonne R

Loire R

Cher R

Yonne R

Loire R

Eure R

Loire R

Loing R

Somme R

Ao R

Lys R

Schelde R

Dend

Oise R

Calais

Boulogne

Dieppe

Rouen

Beauvais

Amiens

Compiegne

Soissons

Laon

Epernay

Melun

Étampes

Paris

Orleans

Bourges

St. Amand

Chotellerault

Tours Angers

Le Mans

Alencon

Vendomé

Chartres 

Troyes

Auxerre

Moulins

Nevers

Argentan

Caen

Le Havre

Arras

St. Quentin

G

Lille

BE

E n g l i s h C h a n n

NORTHWESTERN FRANCE

FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR, 1870–1871

Concentration and Initial Operations

July–August 1870

SCALE OF MILES

0 10 20 30 40 50

N

e l
130 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Should the French take the initiative before the German armies were 

prepared, as seemed likely, and advance from Metz in the direction of 

Mainz, Moltke would merely pull back a few miles closer to Mainz. This 

planned variant was actually adopted, even though the anticipated French 

invasion did not take place. Moltke’s operational plan called for the three 

advancing armies to make a right wheel so the First Army on the right 

would reach the banks of the Moselle opposite Metz while the Second and 

Third Armies pushed forward. The Third Army would defeat French forces near Strasburg, and the Second Army would strike at the Moselle near 

Pont-à-Mousson. If the French Army should be found during this advance 

in front of the Second Army, it would be attacked in front by the Second 

Army and in the flank by the First or the Third armies or both. If it should 

be found on or north of the line from Saarburg to Luneville, it could still 

be attacked from two sides by the Second and Third Armies working in 

unison. Moltke used the great right wheel to attack the principal French 

Army from such a direction as to drive it north and cut its communications 

with Paris. The fortress of Metz was to be observed, and the main German 

forces, after defeating the main French army, were to march on Paris.

This plan was carried out in broad outline, but the battle of Wörth 

was brought on prematurely. It did not lead to the capture of MacMahon’s 

army, which was the intention, but only to its defeat and hasty retreat to 

Chalons. Moltke also did not plan the battle of Spichern. He wanted to 

keep Bazaine’s army on the Saar until he could attack it with the Second 

Army in front and the First Army on its left flank while the Third Army 

brought up the rear. However, these unintended victories did not disconcert Moltke. He carried out his advance on Pont-à-Mousson, where he 

covered the Moselle with the First and Second Armies, then faced north 

and wheeled round, so that the effect of the battle of Gravelotte was to 

drive Bazaine into the fortress of Metz and cut him off from Paris. 

Nothing shows Moltke’s insights and strength of purpose in a clearer 

light than his determination not to intervene in the attack on 18 August at 

a time when many strategists would have thought that an operational victory made a tactical victory unnecessary. King Wilhelm ordered this last 

local attack at Gravelotte, with heavy loss that Moltke blamed himself 

for not preventing. During the following night, Moltke decided to leave 

one army to guard Bazaine and Metz while setting out with the two other 

armies toward Paris. His southerly army led so that if MacMahon’s army 

should be found, the main blow might be delivered from the south and 

MacMahon would be driven to the north.

On 25 August MacMahon’s army was located while it was moving 

northeast to relieve Bazaine at Metz. When Moltke was satisfied with the 

accuracy of his intelligence, he ordered the German columns to turn to 

the north instead of west. MacMahon’s right wing was attacked at Beaumont while he attempted to cross the Meuse, which checked his advance 
130 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Should the French take the initiative before the German armies were 

prepared, as seemed likely, and advance from Metz in the direction of 

Mainz, Moltke would merely pull back a few miles closer to Mainz. This 

planned variant was actually adopted, even though the anticipated French 

invasion did not take place. Moltke’s operational plan called for the three 

advancing armies to make a right wheel so the First Army on the right 

would reach the banks of the Moselle opposite Metz while the Second and 

Third Armies pushed forward. The Third Army would defeat French forces near Strasburg, and the Second Army would strike at the Moselle near 

Pont-à-Mousson. If the French Army should be found during this advance 

in front of the Second Army, it would be attacked in front by the Second 

Army and in the flank by the First or the Third armies or both. If it should 

be found on or north of the line from Saarburg to Luneville, it could still 

be attacked from two sides by the Second and Third Armies working in 

unison. Moltke used the great right wheel to attack the principal French 

Army from such a direction as to drive it north and cut its communications 

with Paris. The fortress of Metz was to be observed, and the main German 

forces, after defeating the main French army, were to march on Paris.

This plan was carried out in broad outline, but the battle of Wörth 

was brought on prematurely. It did not lead to the capture of MacMahon’s 

army, which was the intention, but only to its defeat and hasty retreat to 

Chalons. Moltke also did not plan the battle of Spichern. He wanted to 

keep Bazaine’s army on the Saar until he could attack it with the Second 

Army in front and the First Army on its left flank while the Third Army 

brought up the rear. However, these unintended victories did not disconcert Moltke. He carried out his advance on Pont-à-Mousson, where he 

covered the Moselle with the First and Second Armies, then faced north 

and wheeled round, so that the effect of the battle of Gravelotte was to 

drive Bazaine into the fortress of Metz and cut him off from Paris. 

Nothing shows Moltke’s insights and strength of purpose in a clearer 

light than his determination not to intervene in the attack on 18 August at 

a time when many strategists would have thought that an operational victory made a tactical victory unnecessary. King Wilhelm ordered this last 

local attack at Gravelotte, with heavy loss that Moltke blamed himself 

for not preventing. During the following night, Moltke decided to leave 

one army to guard Bazaine and Metz while setting out with the two other 

armies toward Paris. His southerly army led so that if MacMahon’s army 

should be found, the main blow might be delivered from the south and 

MacMahon would be driven to the north.

On 25 August MacMahon’s army was located while it was moving 

northeast to relieve Bazaine at Metz. When Moltke was satisfied with the 

accuracy of his intelligence, he ordered the German columns to turn to 

the north instead of west. MacMahon’s right wing was attacked at Beaumont while he attempted to cross the Meuse, which checked his advance 
Map 4

Seine R

Vienne R

Seine R

Loir R

Seine R

Oise R

Aisne R

Yonne R

Loire R

Cher R

Yonne R

Loire R

Eure R

Loire R

Loing R

Somme R

Ao R

Lys R

Schelde R

Dend

Sambr

Oise R

SIEGE OF PARIS

French threat 

fortress in Vosg

threat to main G

munications

Gambetta’s newly formed army

deals set back to German forces.

Arrival of First Army from Metz

saves critical situation.

Calais

Boulogne

Dieppe

Rouen

Beauvais

Amiens

Compiegne

Soissons

Laon

Epernay

Melun

Étampes

Paris

Orleans

Bourges

St. Amand

Chotellerault

Tours Angers

Le Mans

Alencon

Chartres 

Troyes

Auxerre

Moulins

Nevers

Argentan

Caen

Le Havre

Arras

St. Quentin

G

Lille

BE

NORTHWESTERN FRANCE

FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR, 1870–1871

Siege of Paris and Continuation of the War

By the Government of National Defense

September 1870– January 1871

SCALE OF MILES

0 10 20 30 40 50

N

E n g l i s h C h a n n e l

LOC

LOC
Map 4

Seine R

Vienne R

Seine R

Loir R

Seine R

Oise R

Aisne R

Yonne R

Loire R

Cher R

Yonne R

Loire R

Eure R

Loire R

Loing R

Somme R

Ao R

Lys R

Schelde R

Dend

Sambr

Oise R

SIEGE OF PARIS

French threat 

fortress in Vosg

threat to main G

munications

Gambetta’s newly formed army

deals set back to German forces.

Arrival of First Army from Metz

saves critical situation.

Calais

Boulogne

Dieppe

Rouen

Beauvais

Amiens

Compiegne

Soissons

Laon

Epernay

Melun

Étampes

Paris

Orleans

Bourges

St. Amand

Chotellerault

Tours Angers

Le Mans

Alencon

Chartres 

Troyes

Auxerre

Moulins

Nevers

Argentan

Caen

Le Havre

Arras

St. Quentin

G

Lille

BE

NORTHWESTERN FRANCE

FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR, 1870–1871

Siege of Paris and Continuation of the War

By the Government of National Defense

September 1870– January 1871

SCALE OF MILES

0 10 20 30 40 50

N

E n g l i s h C h a n n e l

LOC

LOC
134 historical perspectives of the operational art 

creates a new situation. A new situation calls for new measures. No operational 

plan can reach out with certainty beyond the encounter with the main force of the 

enemy. Only the layman believes that.

The commander of a campaign must keep the military objective in mind.... 

Throughout the entire campaign the situation will change. He must be able to 

react to these changes. It will require not premeditated action, but spontaneous 

decision, guided by military tact.... [The commander] must penetrate the fog of 

uncertainty, to comprehend the given, to guess the unknown, to reach quick decisions and then forcibly and unhesitatingly to execute.

In this contest of wills there enters a third factor: chance, weather, illness, 

railroad accidents, faulty comprehension, deception; all factors of chance enter 

into the balance.... [Nevertheless] will power, and rich calculation, use of chance, 

recalculation and constancy of the objective and reaching a timely—even if not 

the best decision—will be crucial.

No amount of military theoretical knowledge will prepare the commander, 

rather it is contained within his own character. A free, practical education, steeped 

in experience, schooled in military examples either from experience and military 

history and from practical individual experience. Upon the shoulder of the commander rests the responsibility for victory or defeat.

Responsibility may break a commander, constancy and luck have a lot to do 

with it.

When at the beginning of an operation, everything is uncertain other than 

what the commander brings in will and competence, strategy cannot bring principles and systemic rules which have any practical worth.

Archduke Charles said: “Strategy is a science, tactics is an art.” He points 

to the science of the higher command, the art is to carry out strategic principles. 

Clausewitz said: “Strategy is the use of battle for the purpose of war.” In the execution it is strategy that uses tactics as the means of battle. To win in leading the 

army to the place of battle “may be the new reality.” Looked at another way “each 

success in battle is a building process.” Before tactical success, strategy is silent, 

but it uses it in a new situation. Strategy is a system of expedients. It is more than 

a science, it is the carry-over of knowledge to practical life, the continuation of the 

objective with each changing circumstance, and it is the art of conducting operations under the pressure of circumstance.24

Herein lies Moltke’s theory of operational conduct. Contained in this 

short essay is the concept of strategic aim, and the operational direction 

to accomplish it. Will, education, planning, and constancy: these were the 

main themes as Moltke saw it.

“Theoretical knowledge will not of itself lead to victory, but it cannot 

be ignored”; so Moltke quotes the German military theorist Willison. He 

continues: “From knowledge to doing is just one step, but from knowing 

to doing is a giant leap. The best lessons for the future are drawn from our 

own experience; but since this may be meager, we must use the study of 

the military historical experience of others.”25 Moltke did not write theory 

and his “Essay on Strategy” is an exception to the rule. The essay was 

revised in a number of iterations in various publications and, like Moltke’s 
134 historical perspectives of the operational art 

creates a new situation. A new situation calls for new measures. No operational 

plan can reach out with certainty beyond the encounter with the main force of the 

enemy. Only the layman believes that.

The commander of a campaign must keep the military objective in mind.... 

Throughout the entire campaign the situation will change. He must be able to 

react to these changes. It will require not premeditated action, but spontaneous 

decision, guided by military tact.... [The commander] must penetrate the fog of 

uncertainty, to comprehend the given, to guess the unknown, to reach quick decisions and then forcibly and unhesitatingly to execute.

In this contest of wills there enters a third factor: chance, weather, illness, 

railroad accidents, faulty comprehension, deception; all factors of chance enter 

into the balance.... [Nevertheless] will power, and rich calculation, use of chance, 

recalculation and constancy of the objective and reaching a timely—even if not 

the best decision—will be crucial.

No amount of military theoretical knowledge will prepare the commander, 

rather it is contained within his own character. A free, practical education, steeped 

in experience, schooled in military examples either from experience and military 

history and from practical individual experience. Upon the shoulder of the commander rests the responsibility for victory or defeat.

Responsibility may break a commander, constancy and luck have a lot to do 

with it.

When at the beginning of an operation, everything is uncertain other than 

what the commander brings in will and competence, strategy cannot bring principles and systemic rules which have any practical worth.

Archduke Charles said: “Strategy is a science, tactics is an art.” He points 

to the science of the higher command, the art is to carry out strategic principles. 

Clausewitz said: “Strategy is the use of battle for the purpose of war.” In the execution it is strategy that uses tactics as the means of battle. To win in leading the 

army to the place of battle “may be the new reality.” Looked at another way “each 

success in battle is a building process.” Before tactical success, strategy is silent, 

but it uses it in a new situation. Strategy is a system of expedients. It is more than 

a science, it is the carry-over of knowledge to practical life, the continuation of the 

objective with each changing circumstance, and it is the art of conducting operations under the pressure of circumstance.24

Herein lies Moltke’s theory of operational conduct. Contained in this 

short essay is the concept of strategic aim, and the operational direction 

to accomplish it. Will, education, planning, and constancy: these were the 

main themes as Moltke saw it.

“Theoretical knowledge will not of itself lead to victory, but it cannot 

be ignored”; so Moltke quotes the German military theorist Willison. He 

continues: “From knowledge to doing is just one step, but from knowing 

to doing is a giant leap. The best lessons for the future are drawn from our 

own experience; but since this may be meager, we must use the study of 

the military historical experience of others.”25 Moltke did not write theory 

and his “Essay on Strategy” is an exception to the rule. The essay was 

revised in a number of iterations in various publications and, like Moltke’s 
136 historical perspectives of the operational art 

addition, Moltke required that wars other than those fought by Germany 

be studied in detail, including the Russo-Turkish war of 1878–1879. He 

brought the military history section of the general staff alive with special historical studies and other activities that chronicled and analyzed all 

manner of military campaigns.

Perhaps most importantly, he established campaign planning—or 

the imagination of future war—as a field of military specialization in 

its own right. These plans were based on analyses of the experience of 

others coupled with the requirements of the present to achieve success 

in future war. Moltke practiced his brand of mentorship in this area and 

Prusso-German campaign plans contained operational objectives. He 

would reevaluate each aspect of a campaign plan in order to test his 

concept. Moltke’s theoretical construct of the why and the how of waging war came from this medium. After Moltke’s death in 1891, the German General Staff codified these practical writings in three volumes 

entitled War Studies: The Operational Preparations for Battle, The Tactical Preparations for Battle, and The Battle. The first volume, War 

Studies, contains separate sections on war policy in peace and war, the 

roles of strategy and policy, the relationship between war’s object and 

the operational objective, operational planning, high level command, 

operational basis, flank position, and fortresses, railroads, telegraph, 

and logistics, as well as examples drawn from recent European military history. The Tactical Preparations for Battle covers order of battle, 

transmission of orders, security and reconnaissance, marches, concentration, termination, and historical examples. In The Battle—the third 

and last volume—there is a reworked version of Moltke’s “Essay on 

Strategy” and also sections devoted to battle and battle characteristics, 

disengagement, retreat and pursuit, lucky and unlucky commanders, 

and historical examples.

In all he did, Moltke differentiates between war’s object and the operational objective. In most cases the operational objective is the destruction of the enemy’s army, whereas war’s object may be the occupation of 

the enemy’s capital or more limited objectives. He cited the illustration of 

the Danish war, when the siege at Düppel was lifted by assault although 

Jutland was not immediately invaded and the 1866 war, when the army 

did not continue its advance because of a political decision. In Moltke’s 

view, “no operational plan reaches out with certainty beyond the first 

engagement with the enemy.”

His plans did not neglect things such as weather and included other 

inadvertent occurrences such as accidents, etc. Moltke described his concept of planning by turning to those campaigns in which he had a hand, 

most significantly, the 1870 campaign that underwent changes from its 

outset. The zone of concentrations for the three armies was to have been 

close to the border, but because the French mobilized quickly, if only 
136 historical perspectives of the operational art 

addition, Moltke required that wars other than those fought by Germany 

be studied in detail, including the Russo-Turkish war of 1878–1879. He 

brought the military history section of the general staff alive with special historical studies and other activities that chronicled and analyzed all 

manner of military campaigns.

Perhaps most importantly, he established campaign planning—or 

the imagination of future war—as a field of military specialization in 

its own right. These plans were based on analyses of the experience of 

others coupled with the requirements of the present to achieve success 

in future war. Moltke practiced his brand of mentorship in this area and 

Prusso-German campaign plans contained operational objectives. He 

would reevaluate each aspect of a campaign plan in order to test his 

concept. Moltke’s theoretical construct of the why and the how of waging war came from this medium. After Moltke’s death in 1891, the German General Staff codified these practical writings in three volumes 

entitled War Studies: The Operational Preparations for Battle, The Tactical Preparations for Battle, and The Battle. The first volume, War 

Studies, contains separate sections on war policy in peace and war, the 

roles of strategy and policy, the relationship between war’s object and 

the operational objective, operational planning, high level command, 

operational basis, flank position, and fortresses, railroads, telegraph, 

and logistics, as well as examples drawn from recent European military history. The Tactical Preparations for Battle covers order of battle, 

transmission of orders, security and reconnaissance, marches, concentration, termination, and historical examples. In The Battle—the third 

and last volume—there is a reworked version of Moltke’s “Essay on 

Strategy” and also sections devoted to battle and battle characteristics, 

disengagement, retreat and pursuit, lucky and unlucky commanders, 

and historical examples.

In all he did, Moltke differentiates between war’s object and the operational objective. In most cases the operational objective is the destruction of the enemy’s army, whereas war’s object may be the occupation of 

the enemy’s capital or more limited objectives. He cited the illustration of 

the Danish war, when the siege at Düppel was lifted by assault although 

Jutland was not immediately invaded and the 1866 war, when the army 

did not continue its advance because of a political decision. In Moltke’s 

view, “no operational plan reaches out with certainty beyond the first 

engagement with the enemy.”

His plans did not neglect things such as weather and included other 

inadvertent occurrences such as accidents, etc. Moltke described his concept of planning by turning to those campaigns in which he had a hand, 

most significantly, the 1870 campaign that underwent changes from its 

outset. The zone of concentrations for the three armies was to have been 

close to the border, but because the French mobilized quickly, if only 
138 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Of course the Operational Commander will need to keep his main aim constantly in mind. There will be changing circumstances so that these will not be 

known with certainty. He will encounter changed circumstances and he needs to 

think through their consequences on his main goal. All the actions of war are not 

concerned with premeditated execution of a plan, but rather spontaneous action, 

guided by military knowledge and skill.

What is at issue is to be able to see through the fog-enshrouded uncertainty, 

to see the real situation, to guess at the unknown, to reach quick decisions and then 

to execute with alacrity and constancy.27

Accordingly, he taught repeatedly that “strategy is a system of expedients.” There is a difference between war’s object and the operational objective; the latter may be the destruction of the enemy force but, nonetheless, the task of strategy is to determine the operational conduct of the 

war. In this line of reasoning one comes to grips with the way in which 

Moltke differentiated the three levels of war.

Moltke’s method of teaching followed from his appreciation of the 

operational concept. He was convinced that a mistake in the plan of concentration would not be corrected throughout the entire course of a campaign. But with proper planning—carried out through training, organization, adequate transportation, etc.—all elements of a campaign would 

come together and result in success.

In wars everything is different. Our will encounters the independent will of 

the opponent, so that the operation hangs not only from our own intention, but 

also from the intention of the opponent. The first we know; the second we can only 

surmise. To find out the reality of the opponent’s intention is the only basis upon 

which to act. The enemy’s best course of action may be a way of finding reality.

To limit the opponent’s will through our own strong initiative can be done, but 

to break his will can only be done through tactical means in battle.

But only will can steer and guide the operations. Influenced by divided council—no matter how well intentioned—the Will will lose clarity and purpose of 

direction.

The material and moral consequences of each large battle will have consequences that will create an entirely new situation.... This changed and new situation will then call for a new direction. The aim of the destruction of the enemy 

can only be reached by continual adjustment of these changed directions.... Everything comes to this: to be able to recognize the changed situation, and order the 

foreseeable course and prepare it energetically. The tactical fall-out from battle 

can lead to the place of making strategically important decisions, these cannot be 

foreseen in the operational plan.28

This led Moltke to conclude by repeating Napoleon’s axiom, “I never 

plan beyond the first battle.”29

By calculating the will of the commander Moltke began to tie together the object, the strategy for the attainment of this object through 

operations, and the tactical conduct of battle. He adhered to the follow138 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Of course the Operational Commander will need to keep his main aim constantly in mind. There will be changing circumstances so that these will not be 

known with certainty. He will encounter changed circumstances and he needs to 

think through their consequences on his main goal. All the actions of war are not 

concerned with premeditated execution of a plan, but rather spontaneous action, 

guided by military knowledge and skill.

What is at issue is to be able to see through the fog-enshrouded uncertainty, 

to see the real situation, to guess at the unknown, to reach quick decisions and then 

to execute with alacrity and constancy.27

Accordingly, he taught repeatedly that “strategy is a system of expedients.” There is a difference between war’s object and the operational objective; the latter may be the destruction of the enemy force but, nonetheless, the task of strategy is to determine the operational conduct of the 

war. In this line of reasoning one comes to grips with the way in which 

Moltke differentiated the three levels of war.

Moltke’s method of teaching followed from his appreciation of the 

operational concept. He was convinced that a mistake in the plan of concentration would not be corrected throughout the entire course of a campaign. But with proper planning—carried out through training, organization, adequate transportation, etc.—all elements of a campaign would 

come together and result in success.

In wars everything is different. Our will encounters the independent will of 

the opponent, so that the operation hangs not only from our own intention, but 

also from the intention of the opponent. The first we know; the second we can only 

surmise. To find out the reality of the opponent’s intention is the only basis upon 

which to act. The enemy’s best course of action may be a way of finding reality.

To limit the opponent’s will through our own strong initiative can be done, but 

to break his will can only be done through tactical means in battle.

But only will can steer and guide the operations. Influenced by divided council—no matter how well intentioned—the Will will lose clarity and purpose of 

direction.

The material and moral consequences of each large battle will have consequences that will create an entirely new situation.... This changed and new situation will then call for a new direction. The aim of the destruction of the enemy 

can only be reached by continual adjustment of these changed directions.... Everything comes to this: to be able to recognize the changed situation, and order the 

foreseeable course and prepare it energetically. The tactical fall-out from battle 

can lead to the place of making strategically important decisions, these cannot be 

foreseen in the operational plan.28

This led Moltke to conclude by repeating Napoleon’s axiom, “I never 

plan beyond the first battle.”29

By calculating the will of the commander Moltke began to tie together the object, the strategy for the attainment of this object through 

operations, and the tactical conduct of battle. He adhered to the follow140 historical perspectives of the operational art 

conduct would unhinge this strength and create a new situation; this was 

what constituted the uniqueness of the operational level.

Moltke believed in the value of flanking positions. In view of the 

strength of the defensive, a frontal attack was too costly. Hence he continued the practice of finding flanking positions. His campaign plans, 

staff rides, and historic examples attempted to create situations in which 

the flanks were open, particularly when the size of the force was such 

that a continuous line confronted an attacker. Moltke recognized that operational conduct was to attack with advantage of time through space to 

create open flanks. Moltke combined the capability of railways to enable 

his forces to concentrate faster than those of the enemy did and hence use 

of this form of transportation made the initial calculation of operational 

conduct possible.

The phrase “march separately and concentrate on the battlefield” thus 

signified the concept of time, mass, and space, as well as the strategic, 

operational, and tactical levels. Moltke also stated:

Incomparably more favorable will things shape themselves if on the day on 

the field of battle itself, in other words, if the operations have been conducted in 

such a manner that a final short march from different points leads all the available forces simultaneously upon the front and flanks of the adversary. In that case 

strategy has done the best it can hope to attain, and great results must be the consequence.30

The Concept of Operational Direction

While the king commanded the Prussian Army, Moltke issued directives. During the 1870 war, Moltke was authorized to issue orders in the 

name of the king. Moltke’s concept of operational direction was recognition of, and became the substance of, the operational level of war. Directive authority demanded a different approach to the conduct of operations; 

it was inherent in the organizational nature of the general staff. After the 

defeat at Jena, the general staff was formed to guard against royal and 

princely incompetence. The war planner advised the commander in execution of the plan of operation. Spencer Wilkinson, the British military 

critic, described the German general staff as the “brain of an Army.”31

The general staff at levels down through division knew the intent of the 

operation and, through a system of rotational assignments at unit level 

and with the main staff in Berlin, were guaranteed to have knowledge of 

the concept of operations. Thus Moltke educated and trained an entire 

generation of officers.

The size of Moltke’s staff astonished Phil Sheridan, the American 

general and Civil War commander, who in 1870 met Moltke overlooking 

Gravelotte as he provided direction to his forces. In particular, General 

Sheridan was struck by Moltke’s grasp of the situation and ability to brief 
140 historical perspectives of the operational art 

conduct would unhinge this strength and create a new situation; this was 

what constituted the uniqueness of the operational level.

Moltke believed in the value of flanking positions. In view of the 

strength of the defensive, a frontal attack was too costly. Hence he continued the practice of finding flanking positions. His campaign plans, 

staff rides, and historic examples attempted to create situations in which 

the flanks were open, particularly when the size of the force was such 

that a continuous line confronted an attacker. Moltke recognized that operational conduct was to attack with advantage of time through space to 

create open flanks. Moltke combined the capability of railways to enable 

his forces to concentrate faster than those of the enemy did and hence use 

of this form of transportation made the initial calculation of operational 

conduct possible.

The phrase “march separately and concentrate on the battlefield” thus 

signified the concept of time, mass, and space, as well as the strategic, 

operational, and tactical levels. Moltke also stated:

Incomparably more favorable will things shape themselves if on the day on 

the field of battle itself, in other words, if the operations have been conducted in 

such a manner that a final short march from different points leads all the available forces simultaneously upon the front and flanks of the adversary. In that case 

strategy has done the best it can hope to attain, and great results must be the consequence.30

The Concept of Operational Direction

While the king commanded the Prussian Army, Moltke issued directives. During the 1870 war, Moltke was authorized to issue orders in the 

name of the king. Moltke’s concept of operational direction was recognition of, and became the substance of, the operational level of war. Directive authority demanded a different approach to the conduct of operations; 

it was inherent in the organizational nature of the general staff. After the 

defeat at Jena, the general staff was formed to guard against royal and 

princely incompetence. The war planner advised the commander in execution of the plan of operation. Spencer Wilkinson, the British military 

critic, described the German general staff as the “brain of an Army.”31

The general staff at levels down through division knew the intent of the 

operation and, through a system of rotational assignments at unit level 

and with the main staff in Berlin, were guaranteed to have knowledge of 

the concept of operations. Thus Moltke educated and trained an entire 

generation of officers.

The size of Moltke’s staff astonished Phil Sheridan, the American 

general and Civil War commander, who in 1870 met Moltke overlooking 

Gravelotte as he provided direction to his forces. In particular, General 

Sheridan was struck by Moltke’s grasp of the situation and ability to brief 
142 historical perspectives of the operational art 

authorities were the king, chancellor, war minister, and Moltke himself, 

all located in Mainz. From there they were in a good position to observe 

and direct the unfolding campaign. As a rule Moltke relied on the loosereins approach: operational direction with intent and guiding position 

throughout the campaign.

When great success was anticipated, Moltke used the tight-reins approach with very specific orders, even if it meant overruling the independence of the army commander. He continually emphasized in these 

detailed orders adherence to and an understanding of the concept of operations. Moltke orchestrated the movement of three armies in consonance 

with this concept. In 1870 the border crossings were left to the army 

commanders, but when large French forces were encountered he would 

unhesitatingly introduce closer and closer coordination, even down to 

corps level: this was a very tight rein. For instance, Moltke instituted oral 

explanations by general staff officers to amplify telegraphic and written 

orders. This tight rein did not extend to forces engaged in battle. Once 

the battle was joined Moltke did not give operational directions on the 

tactical level.

Moltke was well aware of the utility of his method and discussed the 

commander’s relationship with command authorities at the national level 

in the following terms:

The unluckiest of commanders is the one who has a control element imposed 

upon him. Every day, every hour, to be required to explain concepts, plans, and 

intentions to delegates of the highest authority or to have a telegraph wire in 

one’s back—this is most unfortunate. Thereby the commander must lose selfconfidence, initiative, decision, and daring; without these he can’t wage war. A

daring decision will only be made by one man.33

Fortunately, this is not the kind of relationship that Moltke had with King 

Wilhelm, Chancellor Bismarck, and War Minister Albrecht von Roon.

Moltke then turned to where the nation’s command authorities should 

be located with respect to the operational commander: “It is always very 

easy to give positive orders from afar. If the highest political authority 

is not with the Army, then that authority must give the operational commander a free hand. War cannot be waged from the ‘green table.’ Decisive decisions can only be weighed.”34

Moltke enjoyed a positive relationship with the king, chancellor, and 

war minister, as previously noted. In the wars of 1866 and 1870, they 

were together for a greater part of the campaign and Moltke’s operational direction was not encumbered by their presence. One noticeable 

fracture in this relationship of trust between Wilhelm, Bismarck, Roon, 

and Moltke occurred over the bombardment in the siege of Paris. (Some 

modern historians have argued that it was at this point that Moltke “invented” the operational level of war to keep interfering command au142 historical perspectives of the operational art 

authorities were the king, chancellor, war minister, and Moltke himself, 

all located in Mainz. From there they were in a good position to observe 

and direct the unfolding campaign. As a rule Moltke relied on the loosereins approach: operational direction with intent and guiding position 

throughout the campaign.

When great success was anticipated, Moltke used the tight-reins approach with very specific orders, even if it meant overruling the independence of the army commander. He continually emphasized in these 

detailed orders adherence to and an understanding of the concept of operations. Moltke orchestrated the movement of three armies in consonance 

with this concept. In 1870 the border crossings were left to the army 

commanders, but when large French forces were encountered he would 

unhesitatingly introduce closer and closer coordination, even down to 

corps level: this was a very tight rein. For instance, Moltke instituted oral 

explanations by general staff officers to amplify telegraphic and written 

orders. This tight rein did not extend to forces engaged in battle. Once 

the battle was joined Moltke did not give operational directions on the 

tactical level.

Moltke was well aware of the utility of his method and discussed the 

commander’s relationship with command authorities at the national level 

in the following terms:

The unluckiest of commanders is the one who has a control element imposed 

upon him. Every day, every hour, to be required to explain concepts, plans, and 

intentions to delegates of the highest authority or to have a telegraph wire in 

one’s back—this is most unfortunate. Thereby the commander must lose selfconfidence, initiative, decision, and daring; without these he can’t wage war. A

daring decision will only be made by one man.33

Fortunately, this is not the kind of relationship that Moltke had with King 

Wilhelm, Chancellor Bismarck, and War Minister Albrecht von Roon.

Moltke then turned to where the nation’s command authorities should 

be located with respect to the operational commander: “It is always very 

easy to give positive orders from afar. If the highest political authority 

is not with the Army, then that authority must give the operational commander a free hand. War cannot be waged from the ‘green table.’ Decisive decisions can only be weighed.”34

Moltke enjoyed a positive relationship with the king, chancellor, and 

war minister, as previously noted. In the wars of 1866 and 1870, they 

were together for a greater part of the campaign and Moltke’s operational direction was not encumbered by their presence. One noticeable 

fracture in this relationship of trust between Wilhelm, Bismarck, Roon, 

and Moltke occurred over the bombardment in the siege of Paris. (Some 

modern historians have argued that it was at this point that Moltke “invented” the operational level of war to keep interfering command au144 historical perspectives of the operational art 

had been defeated at Sedan, the war continued because the French nation refused to admit defeat. New armies continued to be trained to oppose the Prussian invader; the Prussians besieging Paris were themselves 

attacked. The dispute between Bismarck and Moltke over the conduct 

of the siege gets to the heart of the matter; and Moltke understood this 

all too well when he quoted a letter from Clausewitz to Müffling: “It 

is the task of strategy to prevent policy from requiring of it those tasks 

which are against the nature of war, that because of not knowing about 

the working of the [military] instrument, will bring about failure in its 

utilization.”38

Moltke regarded Bismarck’s insistence on the bombardment of Paris 

as demanding that the military instrument be employed to do what it 

could not accomplish. He argued that Bismarck was meddling in operational matters, but the king was of another mind and ordered Moltke to 

bombard Paris.39 Even with the bombardment, the war continued. Moltke 

recognized that greater and greater strength would be required and requested raising one hundred new battalions for continuation of the war. 

Fortunately, the raw French levies were defeated before equally untested 

German troops were called upon to fight, and an armistice was negotiated 

whereby France acknowledged defeat.

The field marshal realized that he was seeing a new form of warfare: 

no longer a cabinet war but the beginning of national, total war. When a 

young general staff officer, Colmar von der Goltz, published his history 

of the Franco-Prussian war under the title of The Nation in Arms, Moltke 

knew his concept of war had been validated. But Goltz was posted to a remote assignment and fate denied him the opportunity to succeed Moltke. 

But Moltke worked thereafter toward deterring war.40 Strengthening the 

German Army could deter conflict, especially with France, and his campaign plans illustrated this point. In May 1890, near the end of his life, 

Moltke issued the following warning:

The time of the cabinet wars is over, we will have only people’s war. If war 

breaks out now, its length and outcome are not predictable. It will be the great 

powers of Europe, who armed as never before, will enter the list. None of the powers can be absolutely defeated in one or two campaigns.... Even if defeated and 

forced to make peace they will be able to renew the conflict after a year’s time.... 

Gentlemen, it can be a war of seven or thirty years duration—and woe to him who 

throws the torch into the powder keg and lights Europe aflame. Great sacrifices 

will be called for. The lives of hundreds of thousands are at stake.... Financial considerations ought to be a secondary consideration.... Security will only be found 

in self reliance.41

He recognized the necessity to enter into the seam between strategy and 

tactics, knowing that strategy inherently had dual purposes: political and 

military. Tactics were purely military, and operations were designed to 
144 historical perspectives of the operational art 

had been defeated at Sedan, the war continued because the French nation refused to admit defeat. New armies continued to be trained to oppose the Prussian invader; the Prussians besieging Paris were themselves 

attacked. The dispute between Bismarck and Moltke over the conduct 

of the siege gets to the heart of the matter; and Moltke understood this 

all too well when he quoted a letter from Clausewitz to Müffling: “It 

is the task of strategy to prevent policy from requiring of it those tasks 

which are against the nature of war, that because of not knowing about 

the working of the [military] instrument, will bring about failure in its 

utilization.”38

Moltke regarded Bismarck’s insistence on the bombardment of Paris 

as demanding that the military instrument be employed to do what it 

could not accomplish. He argued that Bismarck was meddling in operational matters, but the king was of another mind and ordered Moltke to 

bombard Paris.39 Even with the bombardment, the war continued. Moltke 

recognized that greater and greater strength would be required and requested raising one hundred new battalions for continuation of the war. 

Fortunately, the raw French levies were defeated before equally untested 

German troops were called upon to fight, and an armistice was negotiated 

whereby France acknowledged defeat.

The field marshal realized that he was seeing a new form of warfare: 

no longer a cabinet war but the beginning of national, total war. When a 

young general staff officer, Colmar von der Goltz, published his history 

of the Franco-Prussian war under the title of The Nation in Arms, Moltke 

knew his concept of war had been validated. But Goltz was posted to a remote assignment and fate denied him the opportunity to succeed Moltke. 

But Moltke worked thereafter toward deterring war.40 Strengthening the 

German Army could deter conflict, especially with France, and his campaign plans illustrated this point. In May 1890, near the end of his life, 

Moltke issued the following warning:

The time of the cabinet wars is over, we will have only people’s war. If war 

breaks out now, its length and outcome are not predictable. It will be the great 

powers of Europe, who armed as never before, will enter the list. None of the powers can be absolutely defeated in one or two campaigns.... Even if defeated and 

forced to make peace they will be able to renew the conflict after a year’s time.... 

Gentlemen, it can be a war of seven or thirty years duration—and woe to him who 

throws the torch into the powder keg and lights Europe aflame. Great sacrifices 

will be called for. The lives of hundreds of thousands are at stake.... Financial considerations ought to be a secondary consideration.... Security will only be found 

in self reliance.41

He recognized the necessity to enter into the seam between strategy and 

tactics, knowing that strategy inherently had dual purposes: political and 

military. Tactics were purely military, and operations were designed to 
146 historical perspectives of the operational art 

erational, and tactical levels of war. But Moltke implicitly recognized the 

fact that strategy has political content while operations have a military 

basis. At the risk of stating the obvious, Moltke practiced the conduct of 

operations and his practice resulted in the destruction of enemy forces. 
146 historical perspectives of the operational art 

erational, and tactical levels of war. But Moltke implicitly recognized the 

fact that strategy has political content while operations have a military 

basis. At the risk of stating the obvious, Moltke practiced the conduct of 

operations and his practice resulted in the destruction of enemy forces. 
148 historical perspectives of the operational art

8. MW, vol. I, no. 1, Krieg 1864, 97, “Bedingungen Einer Landung an Alsen, 8. März 

1864, An den Obersten Blumenthal, Über eine Landung an Fünen, 16 März 1864, An 

Se, Majestät Den König,” pp. 104–08. For other memoranda and orders on this subject, 

see particularly pp. 129ff.

9. Ibid., vol. I, no. 2, p. 4.

10. Ibid., pp. 31–43.

11. Ibid., p. 75. 

12. Ibid., p. 77.

13. Whitton, Moltke, p. 100.

14. MW, vol. II, no. 2, pp. 71–148, 149–61.

15. Ibid., p. 172.

16. Ibid., p. 180.

17. Ibid., p. 183.

18. Ibid., pp. 190–94.

19. Ibid., pp. 49–65.

20. Ibid., pp. 194–200.

21. Ibid., pp. 203–06.

22. Ibid., p. 207.

23. Ibid., vol. IV, no. 1, p. 35. See Rudolf Stadelmann, Moltke und der Staat (Krefeld, 

Germany: Scherpe-Verlag, 1950), pp. 434–38, which reproduces the original memorandum 

in Moltke’s own handwriting.

24. MW, vol. IV, no. 1, pp. 290–93; see also pp. 70–117.

25. Ibid., pp. 70–117.

26. Ibid.

27. MAW, I: 78–79.

28. Ibid., p. 76; MW, vol. IV, no. 1, pp. 71–73.

29. MAW, I: 76–77.

30. Rudolf von Caemmerer, The Development of the Strategical Science in the 19th 

Century, trans. Karl von Donat (London: Hugh Rees, Ltd., 1905), p. 218.

31. See Spencer Wilkinson, The Brain of an Army: A Popular Account of the German 

General Staff (London: Westminster, 1895).

32. Philip H. Sheridan, Personal Memoirs of P. H. Sheridan, 2 vols. (New York: C. L. 

Webster and Co., 1888), 2: 367.

33. MAW, I: 55.

34. Ibid.

35. Ibid., p. 54.

36. Ibid., p. 56.

37. Ibid., p. 59.

38. Ibid., IV: 135.

39. MW, vol. I, no. 3, pp. 413–19, 427–28, 439, 443–46, 465, 481–84; Stadelmann, 

Moltke und der Staat, pp. 212–36, 237–64, 434–38.

40. Sig Forster, “Facing People’s War: Moltke the Elder and Germany’s Military Options 

After 1871,” Journal of Strategic Studies 10, no. 2 (June 1987): 209–30.

41. Moltke, GSD, 7: 139.
Operational Thought from 

Schlieffen to Manstein1

Brig. Gen. Günter R. Roth

Learning Lessons from History

Scharnhorst’s conviction that history alone provides the material that 

sharpens man’s judgment sounds quite modern, essentially meaning that 

we are supposed to learn not what to think, but how to think. However, 

this thinking process holds within itself the misunderstanding that history, including the history of war, provides rules. Thus, we were warned 

long ago about using the history of war to establish precepts or applying its “lessons.” If it is argued that situations in history will never be 

repeated in exactly the same way, then by implication there is no regularity in history.2

 To forecast the problem, Clausewitz wrote this about 

the Battle of Jena and Auerstädt: “When in 1806 the Prussian Generals 

... plunged into the open jaws of disaster by using Frederick the Great’s 

oblique order of battle, it was not just a case of a style that had outlived 

its usefulness but the most extreme poverty of the imagination to which 

routine has ever led.”3

Dogmatist of Envelopment: Schlieffen and the 

Relationship between the Military and Politics

It is simply not true that General Alfred Graf von Schlieffen was keen 

on wrestling control from the politicians. Any tinge of “Bonapartism” 

appeared foreign to him. His continued influence on German policy was 

the fault of Bismarck’s successors, who carelessly squandered his legacy. 

The first chancellor’s alliance policy, aimed at establishing a balance of 

power, was not continued, and the German Reich all of a sudden found 

itself encircled from all sides and isolated. The politicians now looked 

like defaulters with a bankrupt estate on their hands.

The generals, who believed they were facing the danger of a war on 

two fronts, filled this vacuum. Instead of a political solution, Schlieffen 

could only offer the Reich a military one, which resulted in a vicious 

circle of political and military constraints with disastrous consequences.
150 historical perspectives of the operational art 

In the following years, the Schlieffen Plan shackled the politicians, 

who were seeking diplomatic alternatives. The German Chief of the 

General Staff believed the assault on Belgium to be an operational condition sine qua non. However, this automatically meant the British Empire’s entry into the war. The German Reich got exactly the kind of war 

it wanted to avoid: a war against France, Russia, and a naval power, 

England. For a doubtful operational success, they had thus taken the 

risk of a guaranteed political disaster.

In July 1914 German diplomatic circles were forced to adjust to the 

military deployment plans—rather than the other way around. What a 

perversion this was of Clausewitz’s doctrine of the primacy of politics! 

It is inconceivable that Bismarck would have allowed a military operations plan to dictate the principles of his policies. Gerhard Ritter, the 

German military historian, painted an accurate picture of the situation:

The outbreak of the war in 1914 is history’s most appalling example of 

the political leadership’s impotent dependence on the planning of the military 

technocrats. The historic guilt of Bismarck’s successors lies in the fact that they 

allowed themselves to be drawn into this dependency, that without raising a 

voice of opposition they accepted war planning as being the privilege of the 

military expert.4

Schlieffen’s Idea of Envelopment

Schlieffen’s operational thinking can be condensed in the following sentence: “The flank attack is the gist of the entire history of war.”5 

Schlieffen intended to lay down the art of operational command and control in a general rule; more precisely, he wanted to reduce it to a single 

fundamental formula, i.e., the flank attack. Spellbound he stared at the 

Battle of Cannae (216 b.c.), a battle of envelopment. He firmly believed 

that every great military leader in history, whether he realized it or not, 

had aspired to a repetition of this feat. But, as he said, “with the exception 

of Sedan, no second perfect Cannae” has ever been fought.6

 For contemporary application, he drew the following conclusion:

A battle of annihilation, as Hannibal conceived it in the distant past, can be 

fought today according to the same plan. The enemy front is not the objective of 

the main attack, and it is not the enemy front that necessitates assembly of the 

masses nor the call-up of the reserves. The most important thing is to push in the 

flanks. This must not happen at the flank tips of the front, but rather along the entire 

depth and extent of the enemy’s order of battle. The total defeat of the enemy will 

be completed by an attack into the rear.7

Schlieffen linked this tactical-operational maneuver encirclement 

with two strategic considerations. As a result of its geographical situa150 historical perspectives of the operational art 

In the following years, the Schlieffen Plan shackled the politicians, 

who were seeking diplomatic alternatives. The German Chief of the 

General Staff believed the assault on Belgium to be an operational condition sine qua non. However, this automatically meant the British Empire’s entry into the war. The German Reich got exactly the kind of war 

it wanted to avoid: a war against France, Russia, and a naval power, 

England. For a doubtful operational success, they had thus taken the 

risk of a guaranteed political disaster.

In July 1914 German diplomatic circles were forced to adjust to the 

military deployment plans—rather than the other way around. What a 

perversion this was of Clausewitz’s doctrine of the primacy of politics! 

It is inconceivable that Bismarck would have allowed a military operations plan to dictate the principles of his policies. Gerhard Ritter, the 

German military historian, painted an accurate picture of the situation:

The outbreak of the war in 1914 is history’s most appalling example of 

the political leadership’s impotent dependence on the planning of the military 

technocrats. The historic guilt of Bismarck’s successors lies in the fact that they 

allowed themselves to be drawn into this dependency, that without raising a 

voice of opposition they accepted war planning as being the privilege of the 

military expert.4

Schlieffen’s Idea of Envelopment

Schlieffen’s operational thinking can be condensed in the following sentence: “The flank attack is the gist of the entire history of war.”5 

Schlieffen intended to lay down the art of operational command and control in a general rule; more precisely, he wanted to reduce it to a single 

fundamental formula, i.e., the flank attack. Spellbound he stared at the 

Battle of Cannae (216 b.c.), a battle of envelopment. He firmly believed 

that every great military leader in history, whether he realized it or not, 

had aspired to a repetition of this feat. But, as he said, “with the exception 

of Sedan, no second perfect Cannae” has ever been fought.6

 For contemporary application, he drew the following conclusion:

A battle of annihilation, as Hannibal conceived it in the distant past, can be 

fought today according to the same plan. The enemy front is not the objective of 

the main attack, and it is not the enemy front that necessitates assembly of the 

masses nor the call-up of the reserves. The most important thing is to push in the 

flanks. This must not happen at the flank tips of the front, but rather along the entire 

depth and extent of the enemy’s order of battle. The total defeat of the enemy will 

be completed by an attack into the rear.7

Schlieffen linked this tactical-operational maneuver encirclement 

with two strategic considerations. As a result of its geographical situa152 historical perspectives of the operational art 

This move resembles General Erich von Manstein’s famous Rochade

(castling move) on the Dnieper River in 1943, which we shall consider 

in detail later, and it enabled the French commander in chief to gain a 

“second-strike capability.” The newly formed Sixth Army thrust from 

the west into the flank of the First German Army attacking on the right 

wing. The latter found itself compelled to lunge at the threat, a move that 

resulted in that disastrous gap into which the BEF was able to thrust. 

Map 5 

Münster

Dortmund

Köln

Koblenz

Arnheim

Amsterdam

Rotterdam

Breda

Antwerpen

Dünkirchen Brüssel

Lille

Arras

Abbeville

Amiens

Namur

Luttich

Luxemburg

Diedenhofen

Verdun Metz

Sedan

Reims

Straßburg

Freiburg

Belfort

Orleans

Paris

Ardennen

SCHLIEFFEN PLAN

The Schlieffen Plan, 1905

Rhein

Mosel

Maas

Seine

Marne

Oise

Aisne

Somme

Dyle

Schelde

Aachen

0 50 100 150 km
152 historical perspectives of the operational art 

This move resembles General Erich von Manstein’s famous Rochade

(castling move) on the Dnieper River in 1943, which we shall consider 

in detail later, and it enabled the French commander in chief to gain a 

“second-strike capability.” The newly formed Sixth Army thrust from 

the west into the flank of the First German Army attacking on the right 

wing. The latter found itself compelled to lunge at the threat, a move that 

resulted in that disastrous gap into which the BEF was able to thrust. 

Map 5 

Münster

Dortmund

Köln

Koblenz

Arnheim

Amsterdam

Rotterdam

Breda

Antwerpen

Dünkirchen Brüssel

Lille

Arras

Abbeville

Amiens

Namur

Luttich

Luxemburg

Diedenhofen

Verdun Metz

Sedan

Reims

Straßburg

Freiburg

Belfort

Orleans

Paris

Ardennen

SCHLIEFFEN PLAN

The Schlieffen Plan, 1905

Rhein

Mosel

Maas

Seine

Marne

Oise

Aisne

Somme

Dyle

Schelde

Aachen

0 50 100 150 km
154 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The Principle of the Culmination Point

How was it possible that within reach of victory—the German soldiers on the right wing could already see the Eiffel Tower before them—a 

setback of such magnitude occurred? It was precisely at this crucial moment that there were no reserves available. Thus, a situation had come 

about that Clausewitz calls the transgression of the culmination point: 

“Most [attacks] only lead up to the point where their remaining strength 

is just enough to maintain a defense and wait for peace. Beyond that 

point the scale turns and the reaction follows with a force that is usually 

much stronger than that of the original attack. That is what we mean by 

the culminating point of the attack.”8

 Schlieffen had already warned of 

such a development: “The experience of all former conquerors will be 

confirmed: offensive warfare requires and absorbs many resources, and 

these resources diminish as consistently as those of the defender grow, 

and this is particularly true in a country teeming with fortifications.”9

Schlieffen can certainly be accused of not giving due consideration 

to the often-quoted gap between operational requirements and logistical 

reality. Moreover, he lacked Moltke’s vision of future technological developments. It can be said with hindsight that the German General Staff 

should have attached more importance to the motorization of the supply 

system, especially for the armies on the right wing. However, Schlieffen’s 

successors made crucial operational mistakes in the execution phase.

The Courage to Concentrate

The Schlieffen Plan was by no means utopian, at least not at the time 

of its conception in 1905, by which time an extraordinarily favorable 

political situation had developed: Russia had just suffered a major defeat 

in the war against Japan and was also weakened by internal strife. The 

German Reich could have pitted its entire army against France. Besides, 

the French Army was far from its 1914 strength, since reform of the army 

was not begun until much later.

When, in the First World War, the Schlieffen Plan was to be implemented, its creator had already died. In the meantime, his successor, the 

younger Moltke, had clearly realized that the politico-strategic conditions had drastically changed. This left him with only two options: Carry 

out the Schlieffen Plan no matter what, but then resolutely accept the 

highest risk; or devise an entirely new plan.

As it turned out later, a strategic defense with a second-strike capability would have been the right alternative. The French, for their part, 

were planning an offensive of their own, in order to march to “Berlin 

via Mainz,” as General Foch demanded.10 But the younger Moltke was 

so influenced by his predecessor that he did not dare to step out of his 
154 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The Principle of the Culmination Point

How was it possible that within reach of victory—the German soldiers on the right wing could already see the Eiffel Tower before them—a 

setback of such magnitude occurred? It was precisely at this crucial moment that there were no reserves available. Thus, a situation had come 

about that Clausewitz calls the transgression of the culmination point: 

“Most [attacks] only lead up to the point where their remaining strength 

is just enough to maintain a defense and wait for peace. Beyond that 

point the scale turns and the reaction follows with a force that is usually 

much stronger than that of the original attack. That is what we mean by 

the culminating point of the attack.”8

 Schlieffen had already warned of 

such a development: “The experience of all former conquerors will be 

confirmed: offensive warfare requires and absorbs many resources, and 

these resources diminish as consistently as those of the defender grow, 

and this is particularly true in a country teeming with fortifications.”9

Schlieffen can certainly be accused of not giving due consideration 

to the often-quoted gap between operational requirements and logistical 

reality. Moreover, he lacked Moltke’s vision of future technological developments. It can be said with hindsight that the German General Staff 

should have attached more importance to the motorization of the supply 

system, especially for the armies on the right wing. However, Schlieffen’s 

successors made crucial operational mistakes in the execution phase.

The Courage to Concentrate

The Schlieffen Plan was by no means utopian, at least not at the time 

of its conception in 1905, by which time an extraordinarily favorable 

political situation had developed: Russia had just suffered a major defeat 

in the war against Japan and was also weakened by internal strife. The 

German Reich could have pitted its entire army against France. Besides, 

the French Army was far from its 1914 strength, since reform of the army 

was not begun until much later.

When, in the First World War, the Schlieffen Plan was to be implemented, its creator had already died. In the meantime, his successor, the 

younger Moltke, had clearly realized that the politico-strategic conditions had drastically changed. This left him with only two options: Carry 

out the Schlieffen Plan no matter what, but then resolutely accept the 

highest risk; or devise an entirely new plan.

As it turned out later, a strategic defense with a second-strike capability would have been the right alternative. The French, for their part, 

were planning an offensive of their own, in order to march to “Berlin 

via Mainz,” as General Foch demanded.10 But the younger Moltke was 

so influenced by his predecessor that he did not dare to step out of his 
156 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Terentius Varro.13 In 1914 the French General Joffre was on the verge of 

playing the role of the Roman Terentius Varro. He planned an offensive 

toward the northeast and thus straight into the trap. In the same way, the 

vengeance-seeking French soldiers could not wait to advance on AlsaceLorraine and win it back. On the battlefield of 1914, a similar configuration could have evolved as at Cannae in 216 b.c. The German troops 

deployed in Lorraine would have had the same role to play as Hannibal’s 

infantry in this situation. In the final phase of the battle, the Romans had 

succeeded in indenting the latter in the middle, resulting in the Carthaginian infantry’s closing in a semicircle around it. The deeper the Roman 

foot soldiers now fought their way forward, the more difficult it would 

be to escape backward, with the threat of encirclement by Hasdrubal’s 

cavalry. For Schlieffen, the latter’s role was to be played by the strongly 

reinforced right wing.

The Schlieffen Plan formed the background to the Sickle Cut Plan 

developed by General Manstein. He refers to what the French Army was 

going to grant to the German General Staff in 1914 as the “favor of an 

early offensive.” According to Manstein’s analysis, Schlieffen had “accepted the risk of initial setbacks in the Alsace and at the same time had reason 

to hope that the enemy, by way of an offensive in Lorraine, would assist in 

making the giant German envelopment operation a full success.”14

The younger Moltke’s half-hearted planning is a classic example of 

a misconstrued forward defense. He was not prepared to expose the left 

wing and to accept the risk of temporarily leaving Alsace-Lorraine to 

the French. Had he done this, he would certainly have been aware of 

the opposition from nationalist German quarters, but especially from the 

Kaiser. In this respect, Schlieffen’s thinking was much more consistent 

and not affected by ideological scruples. He went so far as to say: “If the 

French cross the Upper Rhine, they will meet with resistance in the Black 

Forest.”15 By the same token, Schlieffen also opposed the construction of 

a strong fortification line in the West, because he considered an advance 

by the French into Alsace-Lorraine even desirable.16

Besides, the German generals, just like the French, had opted for a 

wrong scenario. Both sides were caught up in a biased offensive philosophy and did not realize that the pendulum of the technique of war had 

in the meantime swung in favor of the defender. The troops deployed on 

the left wing—even had they been far fewer in number—could have 

bloodily repelled the French aggressors. Skillful leadership could also 

have lured the French into Alsace-Lorraine to be decimated by fire in the 

delay operation. For the French, a tactical success would have turned into 

an operational Pyrrhic victory. The recapture of most of Alsace-Lorraine 

would certainly have cost them too many lives. Now, however, the weakened aggressor would have faced a deadly danger in the rear—envelopment by the German right wing swinging in his direction.
156 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Terentius Varro.13 In 1914 the French General Joffre was on the verge of 

playing the role of the Roman Terentius Varro. He planned an offensive 

toward the northeast and thus straight into the trap. In the same way, the 

vengeance-seeking French soldiers could not wait to advance on AlsaceLorraine and win it back. On the battlefield of 1914, a similar configuration could have evolved as at Cannae in 216 b.c. The German troops 

deployed in Lorraine would have had the same role to play as Hannibal’s 

infantry in this situation. In the final phase of the battle, the Romans had 

succeeded in indenting the latter in the middle, resulting in the Carthaginian infantry’s closing in a semicircle around it. The deeper the Roman 

foot soldiers now fought their way forward, the more difficult it would 

be to escape backward, with the threat of encirclement by Hasdrubal’s 

cavalry. For Schlieffen, the latter’s role was to be played by the strongly 

reinforced right wing.

The Schlieffen Plan formed the background to the Sickle Cut Plan 

developed by General Manstein. He refers to what the French Army was 

going to grant to the German General Staff in 1914 as the “favor of an 

early offensive.” According to Manstein’s analysis, Schlieffen had “accepted the risk of initial setbacks in the Alsace and at the same time had reason 

to hope that the enemy, by way of an offensive in Lorraine, would assist in 

making the giant German envelopment operation a full success.”14

The younger Moltke’s half-hearted planning is a classic example of 

a misconstrued forward defense. He was not prepared to expose the left 

wing and to accept the risk of temporarily leaving Alsace-Lorraine to 

the French. Had he done this, he would certainly have been aware of 

the opposition from nationalist German quarters, but especially from the 

Kaiser. In this respect, Schlieffen’s thinking was much more consistent 

and not affected by ideological scruples. He went so far as to say: “If the 

French cross the Upper Rhine, they will meet with resistance in the Black 

Forest.”15 By the same token, Schlieffen also opposed the construction of 

a strong fortification line in the West, because he considered an advance 

by the French into Alsace-Lorraine even desirable.16

Besides, the German generals, just like the French, had opted for a 

wrong scenario. Both sides were caught up in a biased offensive philosophy and did not realize that the pendulum of the technique of war had 

in the meantime swung in favor of the defender. The troops deployed on 

the left wing—even had they been far fewer in number—could have 

bloodily repelled the French aggressors. Skillful leadership could also 

have lured the French into Alsace-Lorraine to be decimated by fire in the 

delay operation. For the French, a tactical success would have turned into 

an operational Pyrrhic victory. The recapture of most of Alsace-Lorraine 

would certainly have cost them too many lives. Now, however, the weakened aggressor would have faced a deadly danger in the rear—envelopment by the German right wing swinging in his direction.
158 historical perspectives of the operational art 

mous battle. At any rate, he missed the real chance of encircling a major 

section of the French Army. It would not have been a gigantic Cannae, as 

intended in the Schlieffen Plan of 1905, but a “Sedan in Lorraine.” But in 

1914, Moltke, and in fact the entire general staff, concentrated so much 

on the “all-embracing solution” that they could not content themselves 

with an early turn to the south (via Sedan).

Historians are faced with an amazing phenomenon here: an operational idea developed into a dogma to such an extent that it finally became an ideology, even an end in itself. Schlieffen’s epigones paid the 

penalty for this envelopment mania. For Clausewitz and Moltke, the victor at Sedan, a Cannae was much more an oddity only to be achieved by 

a coincidence of especially favorable factors and mistakes by the enemy. 

Schlieffen’s disciples believed that complete encirclement of the enemy 

should be a constant goal.

The last chance of an operational envelopment in 1914 due to the 

hybrid attempt to achieve a strategic envelopment can be attributed to 

Schlieffen’s exaggerated Cannae mania. General Hans von Seeckt commented bitterly, “Cannae—no other catchword has become so disastrous 

for us as this one.”21

Manstein as Creative Military 

Thinker and the Sickle Cut Plan

In 1939 the German General Staff was faced with a situation similar to that in 1914. Hitler the gambler misjudged the situation when he 

thought he could isolate and defeat Poland in a limited war. To his surprise, France and Great Britain declared war on Germany. Thus, he had 

provoked the specter of World War I. Again, a shortage of raw materials 

meant that the German Reich was unable to endure a long war against the 

western naval powers. Therefore it had to attempt a Blitzkrieg to reach a 

quick military decision.

The chief of the German Army’s General Staff suddenly had to submit an operations plan for the campaign against France. His deployment 

directive on the Case Yellow included three versions, dated 19 and 29 

October 1939, as well as 30 January 1940,22 and envisaged defeating the 

enemy by a more or less frontal attack in Belgium and Northern France. 

(See Map 7.) It was basically a second edition of the Schlieffen Plan. The 

essential difference, however, was that this time the French General Staff 

would be expecting it. Manstein rejected this plan, as it offered only a 

partial operational success, not a strategic decision. His view was based 

on the following estimate of the enemy situation: With skillful military 

leadership, the enemy could avoid a crushing defeat in Belgium. He 

would then succeed, as in the autumn of 1914, in establishing a strong 
158 historical perspectives of the operational art 

mous battle. At any rate, he missed the real chance of encircling a major 

section of the French Army. It would not have been a gigantic Cannae, as 

intended in the Schlieffen Plan of 1905, but a “Sedan in Lorraine.” But in 

1914, Moltke, and in fact the entire general staff, concentrated so much 

on the “all-embracing solution” that they could not content themselves 

with an early turn to the south (via Sedan).

Historians are faced with an amazing phenomenon here: an operational idea developed into a dogma to such an extent that it finally became an ideology, even an end in itself. Schlieffen’s epigones paid the 

penalty for this envelopment mania. For Clausewitz and Moltke, the victor at Sedan, a Cannae was much more an oddity only to be achieved by 

a coincidence of especially favorable factors and mistakes by the enemy. 

Schlieffen’s disciples believed that complete encirclement of the enemy 

should be a constant goal.

The last chance of an operational envelopment in 1914 due to the 

hybrid attempt to achieve a strategic envelopment can be attributed to 

Schlieffen’s exaggerated Cannae mania. General Hans von Seeckt commented bitterly, “Cannae—no other catchword has become so disastrous 

for us as this one.”21

Manstein as Creative Military 

Thinker and the Sickle Cut Plan

In 1939 the German General Staff was faced with a situation similar to that in 1914. Hitler the gambler misjudged the situation when he 

thought he could isolate and defeat Poland in a limited war. To his surprise, France and Great Britain declared war on Germany. Thus, he had 

provoked the specter of World War I. Again, a shortage of raw materials 

meant that the German Reich was unable to endure a long war against the 

western naval powers. Therefore it had to attempt a Blitzkrieg to reach a 

quick military decision.

The chief of the German Army’s General Staff suddenly had to submit an operations plan for the campaign against France. His deployment 

directive on the Case Yellow included three versions, dated 19 and 29 

October 1939, as well as 30 January 1940,22 and envisaged defeating the 

enemy by a more or less frontal attack in Belgium and Northern France. 

(See Map 7.) It was basically a second edition of the Schlieffen Plan. The 

essential difference, however, was that this time the French General Staff 

would be expecting it. Manstein rejected this plan, as it offered only a 

partial operational success, not a strategic decision. His view was based 

on the following estimate of the enemy situation: With skillful military 

leadership, the enemy could avoid a crushing defeat in Belgium. He 

would then succeed, as in the autumn of 1914, in establishing a strong 
160 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ment Directive of the OKH (Army high command) states unequivocally: “The point of main effort of the attack to be conducted through 

the territory of Belgium and Luxembourg lies south of the line LiegeCharleroi. The forces committed there will force the crossing of the 

Meuse between Dinant and Sedan (both included) and open the way 

through the border defenses in Northern France toward the lower course 

of the Somme.”25

Manstein simultaneously perfected and surpassed Schlieffen’s operational thinking. He combined the method of envelopment proposed 

by Schlieffen with the method of the breakthrough rejected by the latter. Thus the sickle cut actually consisted of two partial operations: the 

frontal breakthrough near Sedan generated the gap for the subsequent 

enveloping operation toward the Channel coast. However, in this pincer 

movement it also became clear that there was a fundamental departure 

from Schlieffen’s linear thinking. Schlieffen could conceive of envelopment only as the completed revolution of a wing. He wished to see entire armies swing as companies on parade. Manstein, however, had the 

unconventional idea of having a tank wedge penetrate deep into enemy 

territory without regard for exposed flanks.

This new plan constituted an operational surprise for the Allies, because the French leadership had been thinking exclusively in terms of a 

repetition of the Schlieffen Plan. In expecting the main German thrust 

through Flanders, they were being quite realistic. The Allies assumed 

that the Maginot Line protected their own right flank, while in the center, the Meuse and Ardennes formed a geographic double barrier. It was 

therefore obvious to concentrate the main force on the left. However, 

so as not to leave Belgium unprotected, French and British intervention 

troops were to advance to the so-called Dyle Line, stretching from Antwerp along the Dyle River to Namur and from there along the Belgian 

Meuse. When the offensive began, the main Allied forces were in the 

wrong place at the wrong time: To their great surprise, the Germans had 

concentrated seven of their ten panzer divisions where it had been least 

expected. They pushed through the woods of the Ardennes, a terrain allegedly unsuitable for tanks, toward the weakly defended Meuse sector 

near Sedan. As a result of their swivel move, the Anglo-French forces ran 

right into the trap of the sickle cut. The more resolutely they pushed to 

the north, the easier it was for the German panzer divisions to force their 

attack to the mouth of the Somme behind their rear. Thus we are looking at a clockwise rotation. This was, as Liddell Hart has pointed out, 

contrary to the rotation that had occurred in 1914 under the Schlieffen 

and Joffre Plans.

Liddell Hart has drawn yet another, very descriptive, comparison, 

and this time with a bullfight. Army Group B in the north stood for the 

“capa,” or red cloak of the matador. It was to provoke the Allied inter160 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ment Directive of the OKH (Army high command) states unequivocally: “The point of main effort of the attack to be conducted through 

the territory of Belgium and Luxembourg lies south of the line LiegeCharleroi. The forces committed there will force the crossing of the 

Meuse between Dinant and Sedan (both included) and open the way 

through the border defenses in Northern France toward the lower course 

of the Somme.”25

Manstein simultaneously perfected and surpassed Schlieffen’s operational thinking. He combined the method of envelopment proposed 

by Schlieffen with the method of the breakthrough rejected by the latter. Thus the sickle cut actually consisted of two partial operations: the 

frontal breakthrough near Sedan generated the gap for the subsequent 

enveloping operation toward the Channel coast. However, in this pincer 

movement it also became clear that there was a fundamental departure 

from Schlieffen’s linear thinking. Schlieffen could conceive of envelopment only as the completed revolution of a wing. He wished to see entire armies swing as companies on parade. Manstein, however, had the 

unconventional idea of having a tank wedge penetrate deep into enemy 

territory without regard for exposed flanks.

This new plan constituted an operational surprise for the Allies, because the French leadership had been thinking exclusively in terms of a 

repetition of the Schlieffen Plan. In expecting the main German thrust 

through Flanders, they were being quite realistic. The Allies assumed 

that the Maginot Line protected their own right flank, while in the center, the Meuse and Ardennes formed a geographic double barrier. It was 

therefore obvious to concentrate the main force on the left. However, 

so as not to leave Belgium unprotected, French and British intervention 

troops were to advance to the so-called Dyle Line, stretching from Antwerp along the Dyle River to Namur and from there along the Belgian 

Meuse. When the offensive began, the main Allied forces were in the 

wrong place at the wrong time: To their great surprise, the Germans had 

concentrated seven of their ten panzer divisions where it had been least 

expected. They pushed through the woods of the Ardennes, a terrain allegedly unsuitable for tanks, toward the weakly defended Meuse sector 

near Sedan. As a result of their swivel move, the Anglo-French forces ran 

right into the trap of the sickle cut. The more resolutely they pushed to 

the north, the easier it was for the German panzer divisions to force their 

attack to the mouth of the Somme behind their rear. Thus we are looking at a clockwise rotation. This was, as Liddell Hart has pointed out, 

contrary to the rotation that had occurred in 1914 under the Schlieffen 

and Joffre Plans.

Liddell Hart has drawn yet another, very descriptive, comparison, 

and this time with a bullfight. Army Group B in the north stood for the 

“capa,” or red cloak of the matador. It was to provoke the Allied inter162 historical perspectives of the operational art 

“German style” mobile war. In general, the situation had developed as 

follows:

● In late November 1942 the Sixth Army was encircled near Stalingrad in a pincer operation.

● In January 1943 a “Super Stalingrad” was in the offing. Two further Soviet 

attacks were directed at Rostov from northerly and easterly directions with the 

intention of cutting off all German armies positioned south of the River Don. 

It was just about possible to rescue the First and Fourth Panzer Armies to the 

north of the Don.

● Simultaneously, an unprecedented threat was developing. South of Voronezh, 

superior Soviet assault units had torn the front across a width of 200 miles (300 

kilometers). The objective of this offensive was to thrust forward to the Dnieper 

bend and to seize the vital crossings near Dniepropetrovsk and Zaporozhe. This 

would have shut off the two most important avenues of retreat to the German 

armies withdrawing to the west. Now the Soviets could have attacked along the 

lower course of the Dnieper all the way to the Black Sea coast and the Crimea, 

cutting off the entire German southern wing. This could even have had a strategic impact, as the entire right flank of the German Eastern Army would have 

been torn open, and it could easily have led to the early collapse of the entire 

Eastern Front.

The Soviet plan, which was only fully revealed in the course of the operation, bears a striking resemblance to Manstein’s Sickle Cut Plan in the 

1940 western campaign. Then, the German tank attack was directed at the 

lower course of the Somme to encircle the northern wing of the Allies on 

the Channel coast. In February 1943 the main Soviet thrust was directed at 

the lower course of the Dnieper, to sever the entire German southern wing 

on the Black Sea coast. Both Army Groups A and Don would have been 

trapped, and the possibility of a repetition of the “miracle of Dunkirk” on 

the Crimean peninsula was highly unlikely in view of the few German 

vessels on the Black Sea. Field Marshal Manstein is not only accepted as 

being the creator of the Sickle Cut Plan, the most brilliant envelopment 

idea of the Second World War. He is also the originator of the “congenial” 

counterproposition: the “second strike.” He implemented this operational 

art of countering an imminent envelopment with his counterattack from 

the Dnieper to the Donetz in 1943. It was Hitler himself who paradoxically 

turned out to be Manstein’s most dangerous opponent. Hitler was still enthralled by the linear thinking of the trench warfare of the First World War 

and, wishing to prevent the collapse of the front, insisted on giving “holdthe-position” orders. He rejected Manstein’s proposal to use the depth of 

the area as a “weapon” and to go over to a mobile conduct of operations. 

At this point, the Soviets inadvertently influenced the conflict. From 17 to 

19 February Hitler had a meeting with Manstein in his headquarters near 

Zaporozhe. Suddenly, Soviet tanks, having broken through the German 

lines, drew closer to the city. Upon Hitler’s departure, they were only thirty 
162 historical perspectives of the operational art 

“German style” mobile war. In general, the situation had developed as 

follows:

● In late November 1942 the Sixth Army was encircled near Stalingrad in a pincer operation.

● In January 1943 a “Super Stalingrad” was in the offing. Two further Soviet 

attacks were directed at Rostov from northerly and easterly directions with the 

intention of cutting off all German armies positioned south of the River Don. 

It was just about possible to rescue the First and Fourth Panzer Armies to the 

north of the Don.

● Simultaneously, an unprecedented threat was developing. South of Voronezh, 

superior Soviet assault units had torn the front across a width of 200 miles (300 

kilometers). The objective of this offensive was to thrust forward to the Dnieper 

bend and to seize the vital crossings near Dniepropetrovsk and Zaporozhe. This 

would have shut off the two most important avenues of retreat to the German 

armies withdrawing to the west. Now the Soviets could have attacked along the 

lower course of the Dnieper all the way to the Black Sea coast and the Crimea, 

cutting off the entire German southern wing. This could even have had a strategic impact, as the entire right flank of the German Eastern Army would have 

been torn open, and it could easily have led to the early collapse of the entire 

Eastern Front.

The Soviet plan, which was only fully revealed in the course of the operation, bears a striking resemblance to Manstein’s Sickle Cut Plan in the 

1940 western campaign. Then, the German tank attack was directed at the 

lower course of the Somme to encircle the northern wing of the Allies on 

the Channel coast. In February 1943 the main Soviet thrust was directed at 

the lower course of the Dnieper, to sever the entire German southern wing 

on the Black Sea coast. Both Army Groups A and Don would have been 

trapped, and the possibility of a repetition of the “miracle of Dunkirk” on 

the Crimean peninsula was highly unlikely in view of the few German 

vessels on the Black Sea. Field Marshal Manstein is not only accepted as 

being the creator of the Sickle Cut Plan, the most brilliant envelopment 

idea of the Second World War. He is also the originator of the “congenial” 

counterproposition: the “second strike.” He implemented this operational 

art of countering an imminent envelopment with his counterattack from 

the Dnieper to the Donetz in 1943. It was Hitler himself who paradoxically 

turned out to be Manstein’s most dangerous opponent. Hitler was still enthralled by the linear thinking of the trench warfare of the First World War 

and, wishing to prevent the collapse of the front, insisted on giving “holdthe-position” orders. He rejected Manstein’s proposal to use the depth of 

the area as a “weapon” and to go over to a mobile conduct of operations. 

At this point, the Soviets inadvertently influenced the conflict. From 17 to 

19 February Hitler had a meeting with Manstein in his headquarters near 

Zaporozhe. Suddenly, Soviet tanks, having broken through the German 

lines, drew closer to the city. Upon Hitler’s departure, they were only thirty 
164 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ing of two panzer armies and an army detachment had suddenly formed 

up for a counterattack. According to Manstein the force ratio in that sector of the front was one to eight. Field Marshal Manstein thus managed to 

concentrate the right troops in the right place at the right time.

He explained to Hitler that he believed the strategic defensive, in 

conjunction with the operational counterattack, or the second strike, to 

be the best means of defeating the enemy who was superior in numbers. 

A counterstroke against a deep enemy thrust would automatically lead to 

a free-reeling operation. Here, the German officers could capitalize on 

their greatest asset, i.e. flexible command and control within the framework of Auftragstaktik (mission-oriented tactics).

In the summer of 1943, Hitler insisted on reverting to the strategic offensive. Unlike Manstein, he insisted on the first strike. It was the Kursk 

salient, which had been developed by the Soviets into an antitank fortification, that he specifically selected as the objective in Operation Citadel.

Citadel and Sickle Cut Operations Compared

Operation Sickle Cut (Case Yellow) constitutes just about the exact 

opposite of Operation Citadel. Manstein’s sickle cut aimed at the weakest point of the enemy front, Sedan. Operation Citadel, however, was 

directed against the strongest, Kursk.

By comparison, at Sedan, the enemy antitank (AT) artillery density 

was 4.7; at Kursk, it was 30 guns per front kilometer.28 The French Second Army, in whose left sector Sedan was situated, had a total of only 

16,000 AT mines.29 At the Kursk salient, however, the average for each 

front kilometer in the most important sectors is said to have been 1,500 

AT and 1,700 antipersonnel (AP) mines.30 The Allies never reckoned with 

a major German attack on Sedan. The offensive against the Kursk salient, 

however, hit exactly the front sector where the Soviets were expecting it. 

Furthermore, their intelligence had found out the precise time at which 

the attack was scheduled to be launched. Not only was the operational element of surprise missing, but also the tactical one. The German attack in 

the vicinity of Kursk resulted in a head-on collision with the numerically 

superior Soviet tank and antitank arm. In this offensive, as ordered by 

Hitler, it was decided against outmaneuvering the enemy with a far-flung 

operational move (like the sickle cut); attempts were to be made instead 

to win the battle at a tactical level. This “mobile battle of attrition” at 

Kursk became the “Verdun” of the German panzer arm.

It is interesting in this context that Manstein, prior to the offensive 

against Kursk, temporarily entertained quite an unconventional idea: He 

suggested cutting off the Kursk salient not in a double-pincer move from 

the north and the south, but instead attacking where the Soviets least expected it—head-on from the west. After the relatively easy breakthrough, 
164 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ing of two panzer armies and an army detachment had suddenly formed 

up for a counterattack. According to Manstein the force ratio in that sector of the front was one to eight. Field Marshal Manstein thus managed to 

concentrate the right troops in the right place at the right time.

He explained to Hitler that he believed the strategic defensive, in 

conjunction with the operational counterattack, or the second strike, to 

be the best means of defeating the enemy who was superior in numbers. 

A counterstroke against a deep enemy thrust would automatically lead to 

a free-reeling operation. Here, the German officers could capitalize on 

their greatest asset, i.e. flexible command and control within the framework of Auftragstaktik (mission-oriented tactics).

In the summer of 1943, Hitler insisted on reverting to the strategic offensive. Unlike Manstein, he insisted on the first strike. It was the Kursk 

salient, which had been developed by the Soviets into an antitank fortification, that he specifically selected as the objective in Operation Citadel.

Citadel and Sickle Cut Operations Compared

Operation Sickle Cut (Case Yellow) constitutes just about the exact 

opposite of Operation Citadel. Manstein’s sickle cut aimed at the weakest point of the enemy front, Sedan. Operation Citadel, however, was 

directed against the strongest, Kursk.

By comparison, at Sedan, the enemy antitank (AT) artillery density 

was 4.7; at Kursk, it was 30 guns per front kilometer.28 The French Second Army, in whose left sector Sedan was situated, had a total of only 

16,000 AT mines.29 At the Kursk salient, however, the average for each 

front kilometer in the most important sectors is said to have been 1,500 

AT and 1,700 antipersonnel (AP) mines.30 The Allies never reckoned with 

a major German attack on Sedan. The offensive against the Kursk salient, 

however, hit exactly the front sector where the Soviets were expecting it. 

Furthermore, their intelligence had found out the precise time at which 

the attack was scheduled to be launched. Not only was the operational element of surprise missing, but also the tactical one. The German attack in 

the vicinity of Kursk resulted in a head-on collision with the numerically 

superior Soviet tank and antitank arm. In this offensive, as ordered by 

Hitler, it was decided against outmaneuvering the enemy with a far-flung 

operational move (like the sickle cut); attempts were to be made instead 

to win the battle at a tactical level. This “mobile battle of attrition” at 

Kursk became the “Verdun” of the German panzer arm.

It is interesting in this context that Manstein, prior to the offensive 

against Kursk, temporarily entertained quite an unconventional idea: He 

suggested cutting off the Kursk salient not in a double-pincer move from 

the north and the south, but instead attacking where the Soviets least expected it—head-on from the west. After the relatively easy breakthrough, 
166 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the West everything had to be achieved at the same time and as soon as 

possible, that is, under extreme pressure. This pressure may be attributed to 

political constraints. These political constraints may, however, be attributed 

to the Schlieffen Plan. It was at this point that the vicious circle closed in 

around Schlieffen, who had now become entangled in his own thinking.

In 1914 an opportunity presented itself for a Cannae in the west. The 

German Army was considered the strongest land power in the world. The 

German General Staff was thoroughly drilled for envelopment maneuvers, and the French Army granted the Germans the often-quoted favor of 

an offensive by falling into the Lorraine trap. But Schlieffen’s successors 

were so dazzled by a grand, absolute solution of a perfect Cannae that 

they completely overlooked the small solution of a Cannae in Lorraine. 

The First World War could have gotten off to a great start with a double 

“Tannenberg.” In the east, a Cannae was achieved at Tannenberg because 

the Germans concentrated on the encirclement of a single Russian army. 

In the West, the entire French Army was to be enveloped all at once. At 

this point we can only quote Clausewitz: “the man who sacrifices the possible in search of the impossible is a fool.”32

The Sickle Cut Plan

The fatal development that had triggered a crisis in the First World 

War stood in remarkable contrast to the development that was to lead to a 

disaster in the Second World War. This time it was exactly the other way 

around. In 1914 the generals had tied the hands of the politicians with a 

rigid operations plan. In 1940 Hitler, the politician, tied the hands of his 

generals in the implementation of the operations plan.

Hitler’s order to halt before Dunkirk enabled the evacuation of the 

BEF. This way, he reduced the strategic success sought by Manstein to an 

operational one. He nevertheless allowed himself to be celebrated after 

the campaign in the West as the “greatest commander of all time.” During 

the campaign in the East, Hitler’s intervention in the course of operations 

was becoming an obsession, and in the end he wasted his time on the 

minutest tactical details. This was a violation of the Clausewitz doctrine, 

according to which war has no logic of its own, but it does have a grammar of its own. Hitler, the dilettante, was not familiar enough with this 

grammar. This was to have disastrous consequences when he shackled 

the art of operational command and control of his generals.

The political conceit of the German military technocrats in the First 

World War was followed by the military-technological conceit of Hitler 

the politician in World War II. Thus it was that in both world wars, the 

military and the political leaders of the German Reich got in the way of 

each other. In view of this situation, it seems like an irony of history that 

it was this very Germany that produced a man like Clausewitz.
166 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the West everything had to be achieved at the same time and as soon as 

possible, that is, under extreme pressure. This pressure may be attributed to 

political constraints. These political constraints may, however, be attributed 

to the Schlieffen Plan. It was at this point that the vicious circle closed in 

around Schlieffen, who had now become entangled in his own thinking.

In 1914 an opportunity presented itself for a Cannae in the west. The 

German Army was considered the strongest land power in the world. The 

German General Staff was thoroughly drilled for envelopment maneuvers, and the French Army granted the Germans the often-quoted favor of 

an offensive by falling into the Lorraine trap. But Schlieffen’s successors 

were so dazzled by a grand, absolute solution of a perfect Cannae that 

they completely overlooked the small solution of a Cannae in Lorraine. 

The First World War could have gotten off to a great start with a double 

“Tannenberg.” In the east, a Cannae was achieved at Tannenberg because 

the Germans concentrated on the encirclement of a single Russian army. 

In the West, the entire French Army was to be enveloped all at once. At 

this point we can only quote Clausewitz: “the man who sacrifices the possible in search of the impossible is a fool.”32

The Sickle Cut Plan

The fatal development that had triggered a crisis in the First World 

War stood in remarkable contrast to the development that was to lead to a 

disaster in the Second World War. This time it was exactly the other way 

around. In 1914 the generals had tied the hands of the politicians with a 

rigid operations plan. In 1940 Hitler, the politician, tied the hands of his 

generals in the implementation of the operations plan.

Hitler’s order to halt before Dunkirk enabled the evacuation of the 

BEF. This way, he reduced the strategic success sought by Manstein to an 

operational one. He nevertheless allowed himself to be celebrated after 

the campaign in the West as the “greatest commander of all time.” During 

the campaign in the East, Hitler’s intervention in the course of operations 

was becoming an obsession, and in the end he wasted his time on the 

minutest tactical details. This was a violation of the Clausewitz doctrine, 

according to which war has no logic of its own, but it does have a grammar of its own. Hitler, the dilettante, was not familiar enough with this 

grammar. This was to have disastrous consequences when he shackled 

the art of operational command and control of his generals.

The political conceit of the German military technocrats in the First 

World War was followed by the military-technological conceit of Hitler 

the politician in World War II. Thus it was that in both world wars, the 

military and the political leaders of the German Reich got in the way of 

each other. In view of this situation, it seems like an irony of history that 

it was this very Germany that produced a man like Clausewitz.
168 historical perspectives of the operational art

26. Basil H. Liddell Hart, The Other Side of the Hill (London: Cassell, 1948), pp. 123, 

130.

27. On Manstein’s Rochade, see Paul Carell, Verbrannte Erde: Schlacht zwischen Wolga 

und Weichsel (Frankfurt/Vienna, 1976), p. 158ff; Geschichte des Grossen Vaterländischen 

Krieges, Vol. 3: Der grundlegende Umschwung im Verlauf des Grossen Vaterländischen 

Krieges (East Berlin, 1964), p. 133ff; Othmar Hackl, “Operative Führungsprobleme 

der Heeresgruppe Don bzw ... Süd bei den Verteidigungsoperationen zwischen Donez 

und Dnepr im Februar und März 1942,” in Truppenpraxis 3 (1982): 191–200, 4 (1982): 

268–74; “Das Schlagen aus der Nachhand: Die Operationen der Heersgruppe Don bzw 

... Süd zwischen Donez und Dnepr 1943,” in Truppendienst 2 (1983): 132–37; Erich von 

Manstein, Verlorene Siege (Bonn: Athenäum Verlag, 1952), p. 397ff; Friedrich Wilhelm 

von Mellenthin, Panzerschlachten: Eine Studie über den Einsatz von Panzerverbänden im 

Zweiten Weltkrieg (Neckargemund: K. Vowinckel, 1963), p. 131ff; Walther Nehring, Die 

Geschichte der deutschen Panzerwaffe 1916–1945 (Berlin: Propyläen Verlag, 1969), p. 

283ff; Eberhard Schwarz, Die Stabilisierung der Ostfront nach Stalingrad (Göttingen: Muster-Schmidt, 1985), p. 44ff; Dieter Ose, ed., Art of War Symposium at the Federal Armed 

Forces Command and General Staff College (9 September 1986): Ausbildung im operativen 

Denken unter Heranziehung von Kriegserfahrungen, dargestellt an Mansteins Gegenangriff 

im Frühjahr 1943 (Bonn, 1987).

28. Robert A. Doughty, “French Antitank Doctrine: The Antidote That Failed,” Military 

Review 56, no. 5 (May 1976): 36–48.

29. Ibid., p. 46.

30. Ernst Klink, Das Gesetz des Handelns: Die Operation “Zitadelle” 1943, Beiträge zur 

Militär-Kriegsgechichte (Stuttgart, 1966), 7: 299. 

31. Paul Carell, Verbrannte Erde, p. 83, writes that Manstein had this idea. According to 

the War Diary of Army Group South (Bundesarchiv-Militärarchiv, RH 19 Vl/45), on 20 

April 1943, Zeitzler reported to the Chief of the General Staff of Army Group South that 

Hitler was considering this “notion”; on 2 June 1943, the two men again discussed it briefly. 

They both “agreed to reject this operation for the reasons established previously.”

32. Clausewitz, On War, p. 637.
Panzer Group Kleist and the 

Breakthrough in France, 19401

Karl-Heinz Frieser

[On 15 May 1940] I was woken up with the news that [the French Prime Minister] 

Reynaud was on the telephone. He spoke in English, and evidently under stress: 

“We have been defeated.” As I did not immediately respond he said again: “We are 

beaten; we have lost the battle.” I said: “Surely it can’t have happened so soon.” 

But he replied: “The front is broken near Sedan; they are pouring through in great 

numbers with tanks and armored cars.”2

—Winston Churchill

In the preceding World War, the Germans had tried in vain for four 

years to break through the French front. In May 1940 they succeeded 

after only four days. Panzer Group Kleist achieved the decisive breakthrough near Sedan. Its role in Operation Sichelschnitt (Sickle Cut) can 

be illustrated with the famous bullfight simile coined by Liddell Hart.3

He proposed that Army Group B in the north represented the matador’s 

red cloak that was intended to provoke the Allied expeditionary troops to 

rush into Belgium like a raging bull—right into the trap. Army Group A 

would strike the unprotected flank like a sword, the point of which was 

Panzer Group Kleist.

Operational Planning

Panzer Group Kleist represented a novelty in military history. For the 

first time tanks were employed in an operational manner. Whereas in the 

Polish campaign tanks normally fought in a divisional framework—on 

a tactical level—here in France, five armored divisions were now combined into an operationally independent Panzer group. General Ewald 

von Kleist had to coordinate the attack of two panzer corps, supported 

by a motorized infantry corps. He commanded 1,200 battle tanks, which 

represented about half the German tank forces.4

The mission of Kleist’s panzer group was to “thrust through Luxembourg and southern Belgium [and to] gain the western bank of the Meuse 

River in a surprise attack.” During this operation, Panzer Corps Reinhardt was to operate in the area of Monthermé and Guderian’s panzer 

corps in the Sedan region. The right, or northern, flank was to be covered 

by the Panzer Corps Hoth, attached to Fourth Army.5
170 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Speed and surprise were of decisive importance for the success of the 

operation. First, from the tactical perspective the panzer divisions would 

have to cross the Meuse River in a coup de main before the enemy could 

move his reserves to the river. Second, from the operational perspective, 

Panzer Group Kleist had to reach the rear of the enemy’s northern flank 

before the Allies saw through this deceptive maneuver. Otherwise, they 

might be able to withdraw their expeditionary force, which was now 

pouring to the northeast from the “Belgian trap.” However, according 

to the German operational concept, if a fast armored thrust successfully 

reached the Channel coast, all enemy forces north of the Somme River 

would be caught in a huge encirclement. Third, the Germans needed a 

quick decision—in the sense of the Schlieffen concept from a political-strategic standpoint. Similar to World War I, the Germans could not 

cope successfully with a protracted war against the Western Allies and 

their sea power, which gave them virtually inexhaustible raw material 

resources. The Blitzkrieg was a race against time because time worked 

against the Wehrmacht on the tactical, operational, and strategic levels. 

This plan, devised by General Erich von Manstein, was initially turned 

down by the German General Staff as too risky.

The time factor already had been taken into consideration with 

respect to the organizational structure of Army Group A. It consisted 

of two components: The Schnelle Truppen, or fast troops, were key armored and motorized divisions that would cross the Meuse River in a 

swift coup de main; the infantry armies, the second component, would 

trail behind on foot.

The Conduct of Operations

Logistical Considerations

The chief of staff of Panzer Group Kleist stated prior to the start 

of the campaign, “If the success of an operation has ever depended on 

logistics, it is our operation.”6

 The course of the Blitzkrieg was so fastpaced that mistakes made in the preparatory phase—especially in logistics—could hardly be corrected later. To ensure logistical success, the 

Panzer group was to carry most of its supplies. Three motor transport 

detachments, with a total capacity of 4,800 tons, were attached to the 

group to reinforce its organic logistic elements. Establishment of large 

fuel storage sites close to the border was also a key logistical consideration. Using an elaborate system of refueling by jerry cans, all vehicles 

carried their full loads of fuel when they crossed the border. As stated in 

the logistical after-action report, not a single crisis in logistics occurred 

between 10 May and the seizure of Calais that could not be handled with 

the resources of Kleist’s group.7
170 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Speed and surprise were of decisive importance for the success of the 

operation. First, from the tactical perspective the panzer divisions would 

have to cross the Meuse River in a coup de main before the enemy could 

move his reserves to the river. Second, from the operational perspective, 

Panzer Group Kleist had to reach the rear of the enemy’s northern flank 

before the Allies saw through this deceptive maneuver. Otherwise, they 

might be able to withdraw their expeditionary force, which was now 

pouring to the northeast from the “Belgian trap.” However, according 

to the German operational concept, if a fast armored thrust successfully 

reached the Channel coast, all enemy forces north of the Somme River 

would be caught in a huge encirclement. Third, the Germans needed a 

quick decision—in the sense of the Schlieffen concept from a political-strategic standpoint. Similar to World War I, the Germans could not 

cope successfully with a protracted war against the Western Allies and 

their sea power, which gave them virtually inexhaustible raw material 

resources. The Blitzkrieg was a race against time because time worked 

against the Wehrmacht on the tactical, operational, and strategic levels. 

This plan, devised by General Erich von Manstein, was initially turned 

down by the German General Staff as too risky.

The time factor already had been taken into consideration with 

respect to the organizational structure of Army Group A. It consisted 

of two components: The Schnelle Truppen, or fast troops, were key armored and motorized divisions that would cross the Meuse River in a 

swift coup de main; the infantry armies, the second component, would 

trail behind on foot.

The Conduct of Operations

Logistical Considerations

The chief of staff of Panzer Group Kleist stated prior to the start 

of the campaign, “If the success of an operation has ever depended on 

logistics, it is our operation.”6

 The course of the Blitzkrieg was so fastpaced that mistakes made in the preparatory phase—especially in logistics—could hardly be corrected later. To ensure logistical success, the 

Panzer group was to carry most of its supplies. Three motor transport 

detachments, with a total capacity of 4,800 tons, were attached to the 

group to reinforce its organic logistic elements. Establishment of large 

fuel storage sites close to the border was also a key logistical consideration. Using an elaborate system of refueling by jerry cans, all vehicles 

carried their full loads of fuel when they crossed the border. As stated in 

the logistical after-action report, not a single crisis in logistics occurred 

between 10 May and the seizure of Calais that could not be handled with 

the resources of Kleist’s group.7
172 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Second Army, thought a major German offensive on Sedan unlikely. He 

also believed he had enough time to deploy reserves in case of a German 

attack in this area. He had calculated that the Germans needed at least 

five days to cross the Ardennes. Undoubtedly he was still completely 

absorbed in the World War I operational tempo, and he reckoned with 

at least seven days for the preparations of the Meuse River crossing.10 In 

reality, Panzer Corps Guderian reached the Meuse River after just three 

days and conducted an immediate surprise attack on the fourth day.

The main problem was fire support. Guderian had only about 150 artillery pieces, with several batteries arriving belatedly from the Ardennes 

congestion. On the other side of the Meuse River, however, the French X 

Corps had some 350 pieces. Thus, everything depended on the German 

air force, the “vertical artillery” of the Blitzkrieg.

On 13 May Panzer Group Kleist was supported by almost 1,500 aircraft, the bulk concentrated in the Sedan sector.11 The employment of 

bombers and dive-bombers in rolling waves lasted the whole day and was 

intensified into a massive aerial attack shortly before the crossing. This 

massive aerial attack was the largest in military history at that time.12

The attack across the Meuse River began at 1600 hours. By 2000 

hours the main line of resistance was penetrated. This breakthrough 

occurred at a place that had attained importance once before in FrancoGerman history. The Emperor Napoleon III surrendered to King William of Prussia at the Château Bellevue on 2 September 1870. Now, 

about 2300 hours, Hill 301 was taken. It was the very hill from which 

General Moltke had commanded the first battle of Sedan decades before. In the meantime the resistance of the French defenders had collapsed like a broken dam. The reason for this was not so much the 

violence of German arms but a dramatic development that is recorded in the history books as “the panic of Bulson.” About 1900 hours a 

report by an artillery observer was passed on incorrectly. Suddenly, 

there was a rumor that German tanks had already reached Bulson. This 

rumor spread like a grass fire, and eventually the French 55th Infantry 

Division had dissolved into a wave of personnel who took flight. On 

the next day the division had ceased to exist. When a parliamentary 

commission later tried to investigate this panic, some soldiers declared 

they had seen the attacking German tanks with their own eyes. German 

war diaries, however, say that the first German tank crossed the Meuse 

River twelve hours later. This mass delusion was therefore called a 

“phénomène d’hallucination collective.”

At Sedan, one of the strangest tank victories in history occurred. It 

repeatedly happened that tanks caused the enemy to take to flight without 

having fired a shot—simply by their physical presence. Here, however, 

they drove the enemy to seek refuge without even appearing. But in reality, it was not only the tanks but also the aircraft, above all the Stuka dive172 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Second Army, thought a major German offensive on Sedan unlikely. He 

also believed he had enough time to deploy reserves in case of a German 

attack in this area. He had calculated that the Germans needed at least 

five days to cross the Ardennes. Undoubtedly he was still completely 

absorbed in the World War I operational tempo, and he reckoned with 

at least seven days for the preparations of the Meuse River crossing.10 In 

reality, Panzer Corps Guderian reached the Meuse River after just three 

days and conducted an immediate surprise attack on the fourth day.

The main problem was fire support. Guderian had only about 150 artillery pieces, with several batteries arriving belatedly from the Ardennes 

congestion. On the other side of the Meuse River, however, the French X 

Corps had some 350 pieces. Thus, everything depended on the German 

air force, the “vertical artillery” of the Blitzkrieg.

On 13 May Panzer Group Kleist was supported by almost 1,500 aircraft, the bulk concentrated in the Sedan sector.11 The employment of 

bombers and dive-bombers in rolling waves lasted the whole day and was 

intensified into a massive aerial attack shortly before the crossing. This 

massive aerial attack was the largest in military history at that time.12

The attack across the Meuse River began at 1600 hours. By 2000 

hours the main line of resistance was penetrated. This breakthrough 

occurred at a place that had attained importance once before in FrancoGerman history. The Emperor Napoleon III surrendered to King William of Prussia at the Château Bellevue on 2 September 1870. Now, 

about 2300 hours, Hill 301 was taken. It was the very hill from which 

General Moltke had commanded the first battle of Sedan decades before. In the meantime the resistance of the French defenders had collapsed like a broken dam. The reason for this was not so much the 

violence of German arms but a dramatic development that is recorded in the history books as “the panic of Bulson.” About 1900 hours a 

report by an artillery observer was passed on incorrectly. Suddenly, 

there was a rumor that German tanks had already reached Bulson. This 

rumor spread like a grass fire, and eventually the French 55th Infantry 

Division had dissolved into a wave of personnel who took flight. On 

the next day the division had ceased to exist. When a parliamentary 

commission later tried to investigate this panic, some soldiers declared 

they had seen the attacking German tanks with their own eyes. German 

war diaries, however, say that the first German tank crossed the Meuse 

River twelve hours later. This mass delusion was therefore called a 

“phénomène d’hallucination collective.”

At Sedan, one of the strangest tank victories in history occurred. It 

repeatedly happened that tanks caused the enemy to take to flight without 

having fired a shot—simply by their physical presence. Here, however, 

they drove the enemy to seek refuge without even appearing. But in reality, it was not only the tanks but also the aircraft, above all the Stuka dive174 historical perspectives of the operational art 

them again. Besides, it was not possible to recapture the key terrain that 

centered on the village of Stonne. General Flavigny finally canceled his 

order to attack. Thus, the only operational-level counteroffensive ended 

before it had really started.16

The British General Fuller made an interesting comparison. He 

called Operation Sickle Cut the Second Battle of Sedan.17 The more famous battle of Sedan, the “Cannae of the nineteenth century,” had been 

fought in 1870 during the Franco-Prussian War. It is indeed possible 

to draw a direct line of comparison from General Moltke’s double envelopment of 1870 to General Manstein’s single envelopment of 1940. 

In 1870 the linkup point of the two German armies that conducted the 

pincer move had been at Illy, only six miles away from Moltke’s 1870 

observation post. The 1940 operation was a giant outflanking movement over about 250 miles. It extended in the shape of a sickle from the 

Luxembourg border to the Channel coast. While in 1870 a French army 

of 120,000 was successfully encircled at Sedan, this time almost 1.7 

million Allied soldiers were caught in the Sickle Cut trap. The entire 

northern flank, where the Allies had deployed their best divisions, had 

been amputated. In the destruction of these Allied forces—to quote 

General Franz Halder—Army Group B in the north represented the 

anvil and Army Group A in the south was the swinging sledgehammer. 

French and British military historians largely agree that the defeat of 

France was basically inevitable after the breakthrough at Sedan. This 

was the time it became apparent that the Allied troops had been operationally outmaneuvered because of their ill-advised deployment.18

Panzer Corps Reinhardt at Monthermé (13–15 May)

On 13 May at 1600 hours—simultaneous with the operation at Sedan—the air force shifted its attacks at Monthermé into depth. What followed now was not the all-out offensive of a Panzer Corps, but the coup 

de main of an infantry battalion task force. The main body of Panzer 

Corps Reinhardt was still stalled in the Ardennes because of the miscalculated deployment planning and the chaotic traffic jam that resulted. 

Nevertheless, a bridgehead was established on the western bank with the 

first crossing attempt. On 15 May the 6th Panzer Division broke through 

the main resistance line and advanced within a few hours into Montcornet, about thirty-five miles away. Thus, the operational miscalculation 

of the army group was compensated by the tactical flexibility of the intermediate and lower echelons of command. As was to become evident 

later, this advance forced the French leaders to split up the counterattack 

of their operational reserves.19
174 historical perspectives of the operational art 

them again. Besides, it was not possible to recapture the key terrain that 

centered on the village of Stonne. General Flavigny finally canceled his 

order to attack. Thus, the only operational-level counteroffensive ended 

before it had really started.16

The British General Fuller made an interesting comparison. He 

called Operation Sickle Cut the Second Battle of Sedan.17 The more famous battle of Sedan, the “Cannae of the nineteenth century,” had been 

fought in 1870 during the Franco-Prussian War. It is indeed possible 

to draw a direct line of comparison from General Moltke’s double envelopment of 1870 to General Manstein’s single envelopment of 1940. 

In 1870 the linkup point of the two German armies that conducted the 

pincer move had been at Illy, only six miles away from Moltke’s 1870 

observation post. The 1940 operation was a giant outflanking movement over about 250 miles. It extended in the shape of a sickle from the 

Luxembourg border to the Channel coast. While in 1870 a French army 

of 120,000 was successfully encircled at Sedan, this time almost 1.7 

million Allied soldiers were caught in the Sickle Cut trap. The entire 

northern flank, where the Allies had deployed their best divisions, had 

been amputated. In the destruction of these Allied forces—to quote 

General Franz Halder—Army Group B in the north represented the 

anvil and Army Group A in the south was the swinging sledgehammer. 

French and British military historians largely agree that the defeat of 

France was basically inevitable after the breakthrough at Sedan. This 

was the time it became apparent that the Allied troops had been operationally outmaneuvered because of their ill-advised deployment.18

Panzer Corps Reinhardt at Monthermé (13–15 May)

On 13 May at 1600 hours—simultaneous with the operation at Sedan—the air force shifted its attacks at Monthermé into depth. What followed now was not the all-out offensive of a Panzer Corps, but the coup 

de main of an infantry battalion task force. The main body of Panzer 

Corps Reinhardt was still stalled in the Ardennes because of the miscalculated deployment planning and the chaotic traffic jam that resulted. 

Nevertheless, a bridgehead was established on the western bank with the 

first crossing attempt. On 15 May the 6th Panzer Division broke through 

the main resistance line and advanced within a few hours into Montcornet, about thirty-five miles away. Thus, the operational miscalculation 

of the army group was compensated by the tactical flexibility of the intermediate and lower echelons of command. As was to become evident 

later, this advance forced the French leaders to split up the counterattack 

of their operational reserves.19
176 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Rommel’s superiors had foreseen such a spectacular success. Traditionally, waiting for orders would have given the enemy the opportunity to 

consolidate a new defensive line. However, General Rommel decided to 

exploit the enemy’s confusion and press ahead with full momentum to 

ensure continued success. He was lucky, because the French 5th Infantry Division (Motorized) had set up its overnight bivouac on the road to 

Avesnes, leaving its vehicles neatly lined up along the roadsides. At this 

stage, Rommel’s tanks dashed right through them, firing to both sides 

with all guns. Within minutes the 5th Infantry Division (Motorized) disintegrated into a wave of refugees; they had been overrun literally in their 

sleep. But Rommel’s pace did not even slow that night. When he had 

reached Avesnes, he continued the assault pace by a sprint via Landrecies 

to Le Cateau. (See Map 8.) There, he stopped because of both ammunition and fuel shortages.

The success of this nighttime armored attack—contravening all 

doctrine and orders—was overwhelming. That night the French II Army 

Corps was shattered and disintegrated so that on 17 May, Rommel’s soldiers could take approximately 10,000 prisoners. Their own losses, on the 

other hand, amounted to fewer than thirty-six men.23

At dawn Rommel was himself surprised when he suddenly discovered that only his vanguard had followed his tempestuous surge. This 

force comprised only an armored regiment, reinforced by the motorcycle 

battalion and a reconnaissance battalion. The division’s main body, including the two rifle regiments, was still resting—literally—on Belgian 

soil. Radio contact had been interrupted, and nobody knew where General Rommel was located.

Thus, the 7th Panzer Division became a “phantom division,” not 

only for the French enemy, but also for the German general staff! That 

night Rommel and his tanks had vanished without a trace, making the 

Army high command extremely nervous. Even Hitler had one of his proverbial sleepless nights. But it was impossible to court-martial such a 

successful general. Instead Rommel was awarded the Knight’s Cross to 

the Iron Cross.24

Only a few generals, like Rommel, had quickly grasped the welcome 

possibilities offered by the new tank arm, provided it was employed with 

determination. To the contrary, many German generals regarded the tremendous successes of the panzer divisions with ever-increasing wariness; 

instead of being invigorated by the success, it seemed to paralyze them.25

During this phase, when the success of Operation Sickle Cut was 

becoming increasingly evident, Hitler changed his opinion dramatically. 

General Halder, for example, noted this change in his diary entry of 17 

May: “A rather unpleasant day. The Führer is extremely nervous. He is 

afraid of his own success, does not want to risk anything and therefore 

wants to stop us. The pretense is concern about the left flank!” On the 
176 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Rommel’s superiors had foreseen such a spectacular success. Traditionally, waiting for orders would have given the enemy the opportunity to 

consolidate a new defensive line. However, General Rommel decided to 

exploit the enemy’s confusion and press ahead with full momentum to 

ensure continued success. He was lucky, because the French 5th Infantry Division (Motorized) had set up its overnight bivouac on the road to 

Avesnes, leaving its vehicles neatly lined up along the roadsides. At this 

stage, Rommel’s tanks dashed right through them, firing to both sides 

with all guns. Within minutes the 5th Infantry Division (Motorized) disintegrated into a wave of refugees; they had been overrun literally in their 

sleep. But Rommel’s pace did not even slow that night. When he had 

reached Avesnes, he continued the assault pace by a sprint via Landrecies 

to Le Cateau. (See Map 8.) There, he stopped because of both ammunition and fuel shortages.

The success of this nighttime armored attack—contravening all 

doctrine and orders—was overwhelming. That night the French II Army 

Corps was shattered and disintegrated so that on 17 May, Rommel’s soldiers could take approximately 10,000 prisoners. Their own losses, on the 

other hand, amounted to fewer than thirty-six men.23

At dawn Rommel was himself surprised when he suddenly discovered that only his vanguard had followed his tempestuous surge. This 

force comprised only an armored regiment, reinforced by the motorcycle 

battalion and a reconnaissance battalion. The division’s main body, including the two rifle regiments, was still resting—literally—on Belgian 

soil. Radio contact had been interrupted, and nobody knew where General Rommel was located.

Thus, the 7th Panzer Division became a “phantom division,” not 

only for the French enemy, but also for the German general staff! That 

night Rommel and his tanks had vanished without a trace, making the 

Army high command extremely nervous. Even Hitler had one of his proverbial sleepless nights. But it was impossible to court-martial such a 

successful general. Instead Rommel was awarded the Knight’s Cross to 

the Iron Cross.24

Only a few generals, like Rommel, had quickly grasped the welcome 

possibilities offered by the new tank arm, provided it was employed with 

determination. To the contrary, many German generals regarded the tremendous successes of the panzer divisions with ever-increasing wariness; 

instead of being invigorated by the success, it seemed to paralyze them.25

During this phase, when the success of Operation Sickle Cut was 

becoming increasingly evident, Hitler changed his opinion dramatically. 

General Halder, for example, noted this change in his diary entry of 17 

May: “A rather unpleasant day. The Führer is extremely nervous. He is 

afraid of his own success, does not want to risk anything and therefore 

wants to stop us. The pretense is concern about the left flank!” On the 
178 historical perspectives of the operational art 

its commander, Colonel de Gaulle, conducted the first and only resolute 

armor attack at Montcornet on 17 May. The German Air Force reacted 

quickly and sealed this flank attack with its dive-bombers. So much for 

the operational reserve.

The employment of the German Luftwaffe can be divided into three 

phases. For the first three days, the Luftwaffe had primarily a counterair or 

air superiority mission. In the second phase, on 13 and 14 May—during 

the breakthrough at the Meuse line—the main effort was changed to 

close air support of the ground forces. In the third phase—the thrust 

toward the Channel coast—the major task was to seal off the left flank 

by interdiction.

On 20 May Panzer Corps Guderian reached Abbeville at the mouth of 

the Somme. However, the tanks had surged so far west that a gap between 

them and the trailing infantry divisions had opened. The Allies then decided on a pincer attack into the only 25-mile-wide corridor of Arras, to 

“chop off the head of the German tortoise,”28 quoting Winston Churchill. 

(Map 9) But the French Army was unable to mass sufficient forces quickly enough at the southern flank of the corridor to counterattack. Thus, on 

21 May the British had to attack single-handed from the northern areas 

near Arras. This attack came to a halt after only a few miles in front of 

Rommel’s 7th Panzer Division.29 That same day Guderian’s Panzer Corps 

reached the Channel coast and cut off the Allied troops in the north from 

their rear area. Thus ended the first phase of the Sickle-Cut Plan.

Summary

Three conclusions may be drawn from this brief study. First, one of 

the fundamental causes of the Allied defeat was that their commanders 

could react to the operational challenge of the German tanks only on 

a tactical level. They were unable to concentrate their tank force, even 

though it was superior in quantity and quality, for an operational counterattack.

Second, this was the first instance of employment of tanks on an operational level, which was analogous to a leap in the dark. It was the first 

performance in military history without prior rehearsal. Exercises that 

could have served to test the new concept were out of the question simply 

for security reasons. But all deficiencies were more than compensated by 

the effect of surprise.

Third, the German surge of armored forces to the Channel coast led 

both to a climax of operational freedom of action and to its reversal when 

Hitler began to interfere increasingly with the control of military operations. The pace of operations in the Blitzkrieg was so rapid that the German panzer divisions not only outran the Allied commanders but even 

their own leaders. That proved the value of the principle of Auftragstaktik, 
178 historical perspectives of the operational art 

its commander, Colonel de Gaulle, conducted the first and only resolute 

armor attack at Montcornet on 17 May. The German Air Force reacted 

quickly and sealed this flank attack with its dive-bombers. So much for 

the operational reserve.

The employment of the German Luftwaffe can be divided into three 

phases. For the first three days, the Luftwaffe had primarily a counterair or 

air superiority mission. In the second phase, on 13 and 14 May—during 

the breakthrough at the Meuse line—the main effort was changed to 

close air support of the ground forces. In the third phase—the thrust 

toward the Channel coast—the major task was to seal off the left flank 

by interdiction.

On 20 May Panzer Corps Guderian reached Abbeville at the mouth of 

the Somme. However, the tanks had surged so far west that a gap between 

them and the trailing infantry divisions had opened. The Allies then decided on a pincer attack into the only 25-mile-wide corridor of Arras, to 

“chop off the head of the German tortoise,”28 quoting Winston Churchill. 

(Map 9) But the French Army was unable to mass sufficient forces quickly enough at the southern flank of the corridor to counterattack. Thus, on 

21 May the British had to attack single-handed from the northern areas 

near Arras. This attack came to a halt after only a few miles in front of 

Rommel’s 7th Panzer Division.29 That same day Guderian’s Panzer Corps 

reached the Channel coast and cut off the Allied troops in the north from 

their rear area. Thus ended the first phase of the Sickle-Cut Plan.

Summary

Three conclusions may be drawn from this brief study. First, one of 

the fundamental causes of the Allied defeat was that their commanders 

could react to the operational challenge of the German tanks only on 

a tactical level. They were unable to concentrate their tank force, even 

though it was superior in quantity and quality, for an operational counterattack.

Second, this was the first instance of employment of tanks on an operational level, which was analogous to a leap in the dark. It was the first 

performance in military history without prior rehearsal. Exercises that 

could have served to test the new concept were out of the question simply 

for security reasons. But all deficiencies were more than compensated by 

the effect of surprise.

Third, the German surge of armored forces to the Channel coast led 

both to a climax of operational freedom of action and to its reversal when 

Hitler began to interfere increasingly with the control of military operations. The pace of operations in the Blitzkrieg was so rapid that the German panzer divisions not only outran the Allied commanders but even 

their own leaders. That proved the value of the principle of Auftragstaktik, 
180 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. This article was published originally under the title, “The Execution of ‘Case Yellow’ 

(‘Sickle Cut’) Exemplified by Panzer Group Kleist (10–21 May 1940),” in Operational Thinking in Clausewitz, Moltke, Schlieffen and Manstein, ed. Roland G. Foerster (Freiburg, Germany: Das Amt, 1988), pp. 57–82. It is reprinted, with minor revisions, by permission of the 

author and the Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt [Military Historical Research Office] of 

the Federal Republic of Germany.

2. Quote from Alistair Horne, To Lose a Battle: France 1940 (London, 1969), p. 333.

3. Basil H. Liddell Hart, The Other Side of the Hill (London: Cassell, 1948), pp. 123, 130.

4. Kurt Zeitzler, “Die Panzergruppe Kleist im Westfeldzug 1940,” Wehrkunde 4 (1959):182–

83.

5. Heeresgruppenbefehl Nr. 5, pp. 2–3, Anlagenheft zum KTB der Gruppe von Kleist, 

Bundesarchiv-Militärarchiv Freiburg (hereafter BA-MA, RH 21–1/19).

6. Johann Adolf Graf Kielmansegg, Panzer zwischen Warschau und Atlantik (Berlin, 1941), 

p. 161. 

7. Erfahrungsbericht über die Versorgung der Gruppe von Kleist im Feldzug gegen Frankreich, BA-MA, RH 21–1/320, p. 3. 

8. Gen. Kdo. XXII. A.K. (Gruppe v. Kleist), KTB (Abschrift), 10.5.–11.7.1940, BA-MA 

RH 21–1/22; Durchbruch der Gruppe v. Kleist über die Maas im Mai 1940 (II. Teil), BA-MA, 

RH 21–1/381; Gruppe v. Kleist, Mit dem “K” durch Frankreich, BA-MA, RH 21–1/382; Gen. 

Kdo. XIX. A.K. (Gruppe Guderian)/la, KTB Nr. 3 (9.5.–24.6.1940), BA-MA, RH 21–2/v. 41; 

XXXXI. A.K., KTB Frankreich (2.2.–8.7.1940), BA-MA, E 291, 1 and 1a.

9. Martin S. Alexander, “Prophet without Honor? The French High Command and Pierre 

Taittinger’s Report on the Ardennes defenses, March 1940,” War and Society (May 1986):57.

10. Claude Paillat, La Guerre Éclair, 10 mai–24 juin 1940, Le désastre de 1940 (Paris, 1985), 

p. 249; H. von Dach, “Panzer durchbrechen eine Armeestellung,” pt. 1, Schweizer Soldat 2 

(1972):48.

11. Durchbruch der Gruppe v. Kleist über die Maas [see note 8], p. 23; Gen. Kdo. XXII. 

A.K., KTB [see note 8], p. 10; Lageberichte Luftwaffenführungsstab (9.–23.5.1940), BA-MA, 

RM 7/337, fol. 53 (p. 4), fol. 59–60; Study Lw 3/2: Hans Speidel, Der Einsatz der Operativen 

Luftwaffe im Westfeldzug 1939/40, pt. 3 (Bd 1), p. 166 (fol. 169), p. 230 (fol. 233).

12. Durchbruch der Gruppe v. Kleist über die Maas [see note 8], p. 17; Gen. Kdo. XIX A.K. 

KTB [see note 8], pp. 19, 29; Heinz Guderian, Erinnerungen eines Soldaten (Heidelberg: K. 

Vowinchel, 1951), p. 90.

13. Paillat, La Guerre Éclair, pp. 257–58; Horne, To Lose a Battle, pp. 248–49, 263–65; 

Len Deighton, Blitzkrieg (Munich, 1983), pp. 276–77; Paul Berben and Bernhard Iselin, Die 

Deutschen kommen, Mai 1940, Der Überfall auf Westeuropa (Hamburg, 1969), pp. 233.

14. Horst Adalbert Koch, Flak: Die Geschichte der Deutschen Flakartillerie (Bad Nauheim, 

Germany: Podzum, 1965), pp. 38, 164; H. von Dach, “Panzer durchbrechen” pt. 1, p. 80; 

Faris R. Kirkland, “The French Air Force in 1940,” Air University Review (September/October 

1985):114; Philippe de Laubier, “Le bombardement français sur la Meuse, Le 14 mai 1940,” 

Revue historique des armées (Octobre 1985):96–109; Jeffery A. Gunsburg, Divided and 

Conquered (London, 1979), p. 201; Horne, To Lose a Battle, pp. 285–88; Paillat, La Guerre 
180 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. This article was published originally under the title, “The Execution of ‘Case Yellow’ 

(‘Sickle Cut’) Exemplified by Panzer Group Kleist (10–21 May 1940),” in Operational Thinking in Clausewitz, Moltke, Schlieffen and Manstein, ed. Roland G. Foerster (Freiburg, Germany: Das Amt, 1988), pp. 57–82. It is reprinted, with minor revisions, by permission of the 

author and the Militärgeschichtliches Forschungsamt [Military Historical Research Office] of 

the Federal Republic of Germany.

2. Quote from Alistair Horne, To Lose a Battle: France 1940 (London, 1969), p. 333.

3. Basil H. Liddell Hart, The Other Side of the Hill (London: Cassell, 1948), pp. 123, 130.

4. Kurt Zeitzler, “Die Panzergruppe Kleist im Westfeldzug 1940,” Wehrkunde 4 (1959):182–

83.

5. Heeresgruppenbefehl Nr. 5, pp. 2–3, Anlagenheft zum KTB der Gruppe von Kleist, 

Bundesarchiv-Militärarchiv Freiburg (hereafter BA-MA, RH 21–1/19).

6. Johann Adolf Graf Kielmansegg, Panzer zwischen Warschau und Atlantik (Berlin, 1941), 

p. 161. 

7. Erfahrungsbericht über die Versorgung der Gruppe von Kleist im Feldzug gegen Frankreich, BA-MA, RH 21–1/320, p. 3. 

8. Gen. Kdo. XXII. A.K. (Gruppe v. Kleist), KTB (Abschrift), 10.5.–11.7.1940, BA-MA 

RH 21–1/22; Durchbruch der Gruppe v. Kleist über die Maas im Mai 1940 (II. Teil), BA-MA, 

RH 21–1/381; Gruppe v. Kleist, Mit dem “K” durch Frankreich, BA-MA, RH 21–1/382; Gen. 

Kdo. XIX. A.K. (Gruppe Guderian)/la, KTB Nr. 3 (9.5.–24.6.1940), BA-MA, RH 21–2/v. 41; 

XXXXI. A.K., KTB Frankreich (2.2.–8.7.1940), BA-MA, E 291, 1 and 1a.

9. Martin S. Alexander, “Prophet without Honor? The French High Command and Pierre 

Taittinger’s Report on the Ardennes defenses, March 1940,” War and Society (May 1986):57.

10. Claude Paillat, La Guerre Éclair, 10 mai–24 juin 1940, Le désastre de 1940 (Paris, 1985), 

p. 249; H. von Dach, “Panzer durchbrechen eine Armeestellung,” pt. 1, Schweizer Soldat 2 

(1972):48.

11. Durchbruch der Gruppe v. Kleist über die Maas [see note 8], p. 23; Gen. Kdo. XXII. 

A.K., KTB [see note 8], p. 10; Lageberichte Luftwaffenführungsstab (9.–23.5.1940), BA-MA, 

RM 7/337, fol. 53 (p. 4), fol. 59–60; Study Lw 3/2: Hans Speidel, Der Einsatz der Operativen 

Luftwaffe im Westfeldzug 1939/40, pt. 3 (Bd 1), p. 166 (fol. 169), p. 230 (fol. 233).

12. Durchbruch der Gruppe v. Kleist über die Maas [see note 8], p. 17; Gen. Kdo. XIX A.K. 

KTB [see note 8], pp. 19, 29; Heinz Guderian, Erinnerungen eines Soldaten (Heidelberg: K. 

Vowinchel, 1951), p. 90.

13. Paillat, La Guerre Éclair, pp. 257–58; Horne, To Lose a Battle, pp. 248–49, 263–65; 

Len Deighton, Blitzkrieg (Munich, 1983), pp. 276–77; Paul Berben and Bernhard Iselin, Die 

Deutschen kommen, Mai 1940, Der Überfall auf Westeuropa (Hamburg, 1969), pp. 233.

14. Horst Adalbert Koch, Flak: Die Geschichte der Deutschen Flakartillerie (Bad Nauheim, 

Germany: Podzum, 1965), pp. 38, 164; H. von Dach, “Panzer durchbrechen” pt. 1, p. 80; 

Faris R. Kirkland, “The French Air Force in 1940,” Air University Review (September/October 

1985):114; Philippe de Laubier, “Le bombardement français sur la Meuse, Le 14 mai 1940,” 

Revue historique des armées (Octobre 1985):96–109; Jeffery A. Gunsburg, Divided and 

Conquered (London, 1979), p. 201; Horne, To Lose a Battle, pp. 285–88; Paillat, La Guerre 
182 historical perspectives of the operational art

im Westfeldzug, BA-MA, RH 27–7/212; Geschichte der 7. Pz. Div. mit Kartenskizzen, 

9.5–10.6.1940 (Album von Gen. Maj. Rommel), BA-MA, RH 27–7/220; AOK 4, KTB 

No. 4 (26.4.–31.5.1944), BA-MA, RH 20–4/54; Die Führung der Operation der 4. Armee 

durch das AOK 4 im Mai 1940, BA-MA, RH 20–4/81; XXXIX. A.K., la KTB 2 (17.5.–

31.5.1940), BA-MA, E 63/2; Ronald Lewin, Rommel as Military Commander (Stuttgart, 

1969), p. 30.
182 historical perspectives of the operational art

im Westfeldzug, BA-MA, RH 27–7/212; Geschichte der 7. Pz. Div. mit Kartenskizzen, 

9.5–10.6.1940 (Album von Gen. Maj. Rommel), BA-MA, RH 27–7/220; AOK 4, KTB 

No. 4 (26.4.–31.5.1944), BA-MA, RH 20–4/54; Die Führung der Operation der 4. Armee 

durch das AOK 4 im Mai 1940, BA-MA, RH 20–4/81; XXXIX. A.K., la KTB 2 (17.5.–

31.5.1940), BA-MA, E 63/2; Ronald Lewin, Rommel as Military Commander (Stuttgart, 

1969), p. 30.


186 historical perspectives of the operational art 

War I experience and the conduct of the Civil War thus led to the formulation of operational art within the Soviet high command. Kipp goes on 

to describe the rise of a department of operational art in the revamped 

educational system of the newly formed Red Army. The process saw the 

Soviet Union institutionalize operational art as a level between tactics 

and strategy. Thinkers and doers like Tukhachevsky and Triandafillov 

brought out the offensive centrality of operational conduct. Their influence upon Soviet doctrine between the Revolution and World War II created the foundations of Soviet operational doctrine and the development 

of tank and mechanized forces in innovative ways. These contributions 

to doctrine, training, and organization heralded the Red Army’s full-scale 

adoption of operational art.

David M. Glantz takes Soviet operational art thinking a step further 

by delineating the organizational revolution within the Soviet Red Army. 

The experiment with mechanization—the right balances between tank, 

mechanized infantry, artillery, and cavalry formation—is discussed in 

light of how the Soviets anticipated fighting the next war. Glantz further 

shows the appreciation Soviet commanders had of operational maneuver as doctrine before the German summer offensive of 1941. He traces 

this concept throughout the Red Army’s experience in World War II, as 

the Soviet command steadily developed its capabilities at the operational 

level. The sequencing, timing, and organization of tank corps, armies, 

and groups (fronts) and their operational conduct to achieve the military 

aim—the destruction of German forces—became codified by battlefield 

experience. At war’s end, Soviet operational maneuver capabilities were 

such that full-scale army groups pressed continuous operations over hundreds of kilometers in sequenced, simultaneously orchestrated campaigns 

using continuous operational maneuver. Glantz concludes his study with 

an appreciation of the Soviet/Russian reaction to American AirLand 

Battle Doctrine and the NATO follow-on force attack concept. He notes 

too that Soviet doctrine went beyond synchronized operational maneuver 

with the use of operational maneuver groups and special force attacks.

How did logistics influence Soviet operational art? This is the basic 

question that Graham H. Turbiville addresses. The Soviet experiences in 

the Civil War and World War II gave their military leaders an acute appreciation for operational logistics. Turbiville postulates that Soviet doctrine 

sought to integrate logistics at the operational level so that sequenced 

and simultaneous offensives could be supported and sustained. It was the 

logistical inability to build and sustain operational forces that led to the 

establishment of a strategic rear force service. This organization, headed 

by General V. I. Vinogradov, established the organizational support structure, built the operational reserve forces, and sustained continuous offensive force application in the latter part of World War II. After the war, 

adaptation of logistical lessons, including the complete motorization of 
186 historical perspectives of the operational art 

War I experience and the conduct of the Civil War thus led to the formulation of operational art within the Soviet high command. Kipp goes on 

to describe the rise of a department of operational art in the revamped 

educational system of the newly formed Red Army. The process saw the 

Soviet Union institutionalize operational art as a level between tactics 

and strategy. Thinkers and doers like Tukhachevsky and Triandafillov 

brought out the offensive centrality of operational conduct. Their influence upon Soviet doctrine between the Revolution and World War II created the foundations of Soviet operational doctrine and the development 

of tank and mechanized forces in innovative ways. These contributions 

to doctrine, training, and organization heralded the Red Army’s full-scale 

adoption of operational art.

David M. Glantz takes Soviet operational art thinking a step further 

by delineating the organizational revolution within the Soviet Red Army. 

The experiment with mechanization—the right balances between tank, 

mechanized infantry, artillery, and cavalry formation—is discussed in 

light of how the Soviets anticipated fighting the next war. Glantz further 

shows the appreciation Soviet commanders had of operational maneuver as doctrine before the German summer offensive of 1941. He traces 

this concept throughout the Red Army’s experience in World War II, as 

the Soviet command steadily developed its capabilities at the operational 

level. The sequencing, timing, and organization of tank corps, armies, 

and groups (fronts) and their operational conduct to achieve the military 

aim—the destruction of German forces—became codified by battlefield 

experience. At war’s end, Soviet operational maneuver capabilities were 

such that full-scale army groups pressed continuous operations over hundreds of kilometers in sequenced, simultaneously orchestrated campaigns 

using continuous operational maneuver. Glantz concludes his study with 

an appreciation of the Soviet/Russian reaction to American AirLand 

Battle Doctrine and the NATO follow-on force attack concept. He notes 

too that Soviet doctrine went beyond synchronized operational maneuver 

with the use of operational maneuver groups and special force attacks.

How did logistics influence Soviet operational art? This is the basic 

question that Graham H. Turbiville addresses. The Soviet experiences in 

the Civil War and World War II gave their military leaders an acute appreciation for operational logistics. Turbiville postulates that Soviet doctrine 

sought to integrate logistics at the operational level so that sequenced 

and simultaneous offensives could be supported and sustained. It was the 

logistical inability to build and sustain operational forces that led to the 

establishment of a strategic rear force service. This organization, headed 

by General V. I. Vinogradov, established the organizational support structure, built the operational reserve forces, and sustained continuous offensive force application in the latter part of World War II. After the war, 

adaptation of logistical lessons, including the complete motorization of 


190 historical perspectives of the operational art 

institutional memory, and preoccupation with Napoleonic precedent, the 

Russians were unable to reap meaningful benefit from the lessons of either conflict.

In their own recent war with Turkey, the Russians had conducted a 

relatively successful mobilization to launch a primary effort in the Balkans and secondary operations in the Caucasus. After marching across 

Rumania to execute a brilliant crossing of the Danube at Sistova, the 

tsarist high command divided its Balkan forces into three detachments, 

with one each to screen right and left and a third to force the Balkan divide, thereby opening Roumelia to follow-on forces. However, the Russians failed to draw operational advantage from the tactical success of I. 

V. Gurko’s forward detachment, which had actually seized a Balkan pass, 

and the tsar’s offensive was soon bogged down in a time- and manpowerconsuming series of battles and sieges at Plevna and its environs. Only 

at the end of 1877 were the Russians able to shake themselves loose, 

thrusting three columns through wintry Balkan passes to win a landmark 

battle of envelopment at Sheinovo and to seize Sofia and Philippopolis. 

By the spring of 1878, with the Russian Army threatening Istanbul, the 

Turks sued for peace at San Stefano. However, Great Power opposition 

forced the Russians to settle for limited gains in accordance with the 

Congress of Berlin.4

In contrast, the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1871 had produced a 

clear-cut victory for Wilhelm I and Helmuth von Moltke, chief of the 

Prussian General Staff. Utilizing planning and railroads to the utmost, the 

Prussians and their German allies had concentrated well forward, driven 

into France across a broad front, then prevented the French armies from 

uniting to resist a concerted Prussian advance on Paris. After the French 

Marshal Bazaine had been defeated and surrounded at Metz, Marshal 

MacMahon marched to his rescue, only to fall victim to envelopment at 

Sedan. The German armies went on to lay siege to Paris, which capitulated in February 1871. The Treaty of Frankfurt ceded Alsace and parts 

of Lorraine to a newly proclaimed German Empire.5

The diverse experiences of 1877–1878 and 1870–1871 provided sufficient grounds for practitioners and commentators alike to reexamine 

traditional military verities. New technologies and methods had enabled 

commanders to assemble masses of men, equipment, and horses, then 

project them more quickly than ever before into potential theaters of conflict. Issues of time and space had become still more vital as theorists envisioned the outcome of future war to be determined largely by which side 

would win the race for deployment to and concentration within theater. 

The railroad and telegraph had fundamentally altered traditional conceptions of assembly, deployment, and concentration, with the result that 

military men were forced to accept as conditional rather than absolute 

long-cherished convictions about the importance of such fundamentals 
190 historical perspectives of the operational art 

institutional memory, and preoccupation with Napoleonic precedent, the 

Russians were unable to reap meaningful benefit from the lessons of either conflict.

In their own recent war with Turkey, the Russians had conducted a 

relatively successful mobilization to launch a primary effort in the Balkans and secondary operations in the Caucasus. After marching across 

Rumania to execute a brilliant crossing of the Danube at Sistova, the 

tsarist high command divided its Balkan forces into three detachments, 

with one each to screen right and left and a third to force the Balkan divide, thereby opening Roumelia to follow-on forces. However, the Russians failed to draw operational advantage from the tactical success of I. 

V. Gurko’s forward detachment, which had actually seized a Balkan pass, 

and the tsar’s offensive was soon bogged down in a time- and manpowerconsuming series of battles and sieges at Plevna and its environs. Only 

at the end of 1877 were the Russians able to shake themselves loose, 

thrusting three columns through wintry Balkan passes to win a landmark 

battle of envelopment at Sheinovo and to seize Sofia and Philippopolis. 

By the spring of 1878, with the Russian Army threatening Istanbul, the 

Turks sued for peace at San Stefano. However, Great Power opposition 

forced the Russians to settle for limited gains in accordance with the 

Congress of Berlin.4

In contrast, the Franco-Prussian War of 1870–1871 had produced a 

clear-cut victory for Wilhelm I and Helmuth von Moltke, chief of the 

Prussian General Staff. Utilizing planning and railroads to the utmost, the 

Prussians and their German allies had concentrated well forward, driven 

into France across a broad front, then prevented the French armies from 

uniting to resist a concerted Prussian advance on Paris. After the French 

Marshal Bazaine had been defeated and surrounded at Metz, Marshal 

MacMahon marched to his rescue, only to fall victim to envelopment at 

Sedan. The German armies went on to lay siege to Paris, which capitulated in February 1871. The Treaty of Frankfurt ceded Alsace and parts 

of Lorraine to a newly proclaimed German Empire.5

The diverse experiences of 1877–1878 and 1870–1871 provided sufficient grounds for practitioners and commentators alike to reexamine 

traditional military verities. New technologies and methods had enabled 

commanders to assemble masses of men, equipment, and horses, then 

project them more quickly than ever before into potential theaters of conflict. Issues of time and space had become still more vital as theorists envisioned the outcome of future war to be determined largely by which side 

would win the race for deployment to and concentration within theater. 

The railroad and telegraph had fundamentally altered traditional conceptions of assembly, deployment, and concentration, with the result that 

military men were forced to accept as conditional rather than absolute 

long-cherished convictions about the importance of such fundamentals 
192 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Turkish War failed to find a place on the official historical agenda, and 

the curriculum of the Nicholas Academy of the General Staff suffered 

accordingly.10

The intellectual consequences were devastating. At the very time 

when traditional assumptions and habits required alteration or revalidation in light of combat experience, the Russians had no coherent picture 

of their most recent military history. With no systematic understanding 

of their own experience, they lacked immediate reference points to make 

sense of other relevant experience, including the Franco-Prussian conflict. Under these circumstances, outmoded convictions and assertions 

retained surprising currency, while institutional emphasis contended with 

broader intellectual currents to obscure change and stress continuity and 

system. Thus, positivist notions would mingle with prevailing wisdom to 

encourage the Russians to view new military realities through a conventional Napoleonic prism.

Emphasis on Napoleon corresponded with the persistent influence 

of his foremost interpreter, Jomini. For reasons of familiarity and simplicity, Russian thinking about war and strategy in the 1880s and 1890s 

gravitated heavily to Jomini, not the more complex Clausewitz.11 Unlike 

Clausewitz, who asserted that strategy was complex, Jomini held that 

strategy was a simple discipline, limited to the art of directing masses 

within theater and distinct from tactics that did not admit to hard and 

fast rules. To retain purity of military thought, Jomini relegated political 

considerations to a separate discipline, military politics, thereby neatly—and dangerously—divorcing politics from strategy. Jomini also 

deftly sidestepped some of the more difficult questions of military art by 

consigning them to the imponderable realm of the great captain’s genius 

and tact. Thus, while Clausewitz attempted to come to grips with the 

ambiguities of war, Jomini avoided them to retain simplicity and clarity, 

or as Aleksandr A. Svechin later put it, “order was attained at the expense 

of vitality.”12 Of more immediate importance, Clausewitz, the prophet 

of complexity and firm believer in the inherent strength of the defense, 

failed to find adherents either in St. Petersburg or within the Russian 

military districts. Meanwhile, the Jominian tradition reigned supreme, 

advocating a strategy of the shock strike (in Russian, sokrushenie, or 

“crushing”) that culminated in climactic battle, in which the commander 

who enjoyed the fruits of victory was the commander who concentrated 

the greatest force at the decisive point at the decisive moment.13

Finally, the siren call of scientific positivism with its emphasis on 

method, system, and classification also figured prominently in the Russian military thinking of the time. It was no accident that strategists of the 

era adopted the scientific trappings of civilian academia as they sought a 

respectable place in the intellectual sun for their own theories of strategy 

and military science. It was also no accident that the neatness and clarity 
192 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Turkish War failed to find a place on the official historical agenda, and 

the curriculum of the Nicholas Academy of the General Staff suffered 

accordingly.10

The intellectual consequences were devastating. At the very time 

when traditional assumptions and habits required alteration or revalidation in light of combat experience, the Russians had no coherent picture 

of their most recent military history. With no systematic understanding 

of their own experience, they lacked immediate reference points to make 

sense of other relevant experience, including the Franco-Prussian conflict. Under these circumstances, outmoded convictions and assertions 

retained surprising currency, while institutional emphasis contended with 

broader intellectual currents to obscure change and stress continuity and 

system. Thus, positivist notions would mingle with prevailing wisdom to 

encourage the Russians to view new military realities through a conventional Napoleonic prism.

Emphasis on Napoleon corresponded with the persistent influence 

of his foremost interpreter, Jomini. For reasons of familiarity and simplicity, Russian thinking about war and strategy in the 1880s and 1890s 

gravitated heavily to Jomini, not the more complex Clausewitz.11 Unlike 

Clausewitz, who asserted that strategy was complex, Jomini held that 

strategy was a simple discipline, limited to the art of directing masses 

within theater and distinct from tactics that did not admit to hard and 

fast rules. To retain purity of military thought, Jomini relegated political 

considerations to a separate discipline, military politics, thereby neatly—and dangerously—divorcing politics from strategy. Jomini also 

deftly sidestepped some of the more difficult questions of military art by 

consigning them to the imponderable realm of the great captain’s genius 

and tact. Thus, while Clausewitz attempted to come to grips with the 

ambiguities of war, Jomini avoided them to retain simplicity and clarity, 

or as Aleksandr A. Svechin later put it, “order was attained at the expense 

of vitality.”12 Of more immediate importance, Clausewitz, the prophet 

of complexity and firm believer in the inherent strength of the defense, 

failed to find adherents either in St. Petersburg or within the Russian 

military districts. Meanwhile, the Jominian tradition reigned supreme, 

advocating a strategy of the shock strike (in Russian, sokrushenie, or 

“crushing”) that culminated in climactic battle, in which the commander 

who enjoyed the fruits of victory was the commander who concentrated 

the greatest force at the decisive point at the decisive moment.13

Finally, the siren call of scientific positivism with its emphasis on 

method, system, and classification also figured prominently in the Russian military thinking of the time. It was no accident that strategists of the 

era adopted the scientific trappings of civilian academia as they sought a 

respectable place in the intellectual sun for their own theories of strategy 

and military science. It was also no accident that the neatness and clarity 
194 historical perspectives of the operational art 

failure for the commander seeking battlefield decision. From historical 

analysis, Leyer logically arrived at an understanding of the two forces 

which dominated every operation: objective (tsel’) as developed from 

idea, and direction (napravlenie) as represented figuratively by an operational line depicting the unfolding in reality of idea and plan.17

For Leyer, strategy in its most restricted sense treated operations 

within what he called a theater of military actions (teatr voennykh deistvii). His study of military history enabled him to classify strategic operations according to three types: main, preparatory, and supplemental. The 

first section of his text on strategy Leyer devoted to an analysis of main, or 

primary, operations (glavnye operatsii), including selection of operational 

line, execution of marches and maneuvers, conduct of diversions, and the 

concentration of forces for combat, all of which culminated in main battle 

as the ultimate resolution of an operation. In the second section of Strategy, Leyer discussed preparatory (podgotovitel’nye) operations, the term 

he used to describe the organization of armies and bases, deployment of 

forces in theater, and engineering preparation of the theater of military 

action. Finally, he outlined supplementary (dopolnitel’nye) operations as 

those involving accumulation of supplies, establishment of communication lines, and the organization of security, including planning routes of 

possible withdrawal and preparing fortresses and fortified lines.18

This intellectual framework for an understanding of operations 

marked one of Leyer’s enduring contributions to the development of Russian military thought. Subsequent students of military art at first clung 

to Leyer’s basic definition without a clear understanding that his conceptual umbrella emphasized Napoleonic continuities at the expense of 

recalculating old verities in light of recent technological and organizational innovation. Not surprisingly, in 1891 the rising young strategist N. 

P. Mikhnevich penned a definition of “operation” for the Entsiklopediya 

voennykh i morskikh nauk (Encyclopedia of Military and Naval Sciences), which stood virtually unchallenged until 1905. He wrote that each 

war consists of one or several campaigns, each campaign of one or several operations, which represent by themselves a known, finite period, 

from the strategic deployment of the army on the departure line of the 

operation to the final decision of the latter by way of victorious battle on 

the field of engagement.”19 The realization was that, although strategy as 

a whole was more complex than ever before, its main task in theater was 

to guide the commander to a main battle that would produce decision 

either by encirclement of the enemy or by the energetic pursuit of his 

broken forces following main battle.

Leyer was less successful in linking strategy within theater—which 

he called the “tactics of the theater of military actions”—with his broader 

conception of strategy as an all-embracing military science. He believed 

that strategy in its widest sense was “a synthesis of all military matters, 
194 historical perspectives of the operational art 

failure for the commander seeking battlefield decision. From historical 

analysis, Leyer logically arrived at an understanding of the two forces 

which dominated every operation: objective (tsel’) as developed from 

idea, and direction (napravlenie) as represented figuratively by an operational line depicting the unfolding in reality of idea and plan.17

For Leyer, strategy in its most restricted sense treated operations 

within what he called a theater of military actions (teatr voennykh deistvii). His study of military history enabled him to classify strategic operations according to three types: main, preparatory, and supplemental. The 

first section of his text on strategy Leyer devoted to an analysis of main, or 

primary, operations (glavnye operatsii), including selection of operational 

line, execution of marches and maneuvers, conduct of diversions, and the 

concentration of forces for combat, all of which culminated in main battle 

as the ultimate resolution of an operation. In the second section of Strategy, Leyer discussed preparatory (podgotovitel’nye) operations, the term 

he used to describe the organization of armies and bases, deployment of 

forces in theater, and engineering preparation of the theater of military 

action. Finally, he outlined supplementary (dopolnitel’nye) operations as 

those involving accumulation of supplies, establishment of communication lines, and the organization of security, including planning routes of 

possible withdrawal and preparing fortresses and fortified lines.18

This intellectual framework for an understanding of operations 

marked one of Leyer’s enduring contributions to the development of Russian military thought. Subsequent students of military art at first clung 

to Leyer’s basic definition without a clear understanding that his conceptual umbrella emphasized Napoleonic continuities at the expense of 

recalculating old verities in light of recent technological and organizational innovation. Not surprisingly, in 1891 the rising young strategist N. 

P. Mikhnevich penned a definition of “operation” for the Entsiklopediya 

voennykh i morskikh nauk (Encyclopedia of Military and Naval Sciences), which stood virtually unchallenged until 1905. He wrote that each 

war consists of one or several campaigns, each campaign of one or several operations, which represent by themselves a known, finite period, 

from the strategic deployment of the army on the departure line of the 

operation to the final decision of the latter by way of victorious battle on 

the field of engagement.”19 The realization was that, although strategy as 

a whole was more complex than ever before, its main task in theater was 

to guide the commander to a main battle that would produce decision 

either by encirclement of the enemy or by the energetic pursuit of his 

broken forces following main battle.

Leyer was less successful in linking strategy within theater—which 

he called the “tactics of the theater of military actions”—with his broader 

conception of strategy as an all-embracing military science. He believed 

that strategy in its widest sense was “a synthesis of all military matters, 
196 historical perspectives of the operational art 

isolated, not having a direct connection with overall state institutions and 

independent of the spirit of the times and the political life of society in its 

entirety.” Lt. Col. A. A. Gulevich, another Bloch partisan and an instructor at the Academy of the General Staff, carried the argument further, 

asserting that:

The final outcome of decisive war will depend not only on the perfection of the 

instrument of struggle and the art of its use [but also] on the vitality [zhiznedeiatel’ nost’] of the state structure in general, on its ability to withstand protracted 

struggle and during its course to maintain a sufficiently strong and powerful armed 

force.

Gulevich maintained that the advent of mass cadre and reserve armies 

meant that future war would be decided not by main blows on the field of 

engagement, but by persistent and protracted armed struggle. Therefore, 

the decisive element in modern war was the strength of the state’s socioeconomic infrastructure, that is, the foundation of the state’s ability to 

wage protracted conflict.24 In a theme to which others would return, Gulevich further maintained that Russia’s apparent economic backwardness 

was actually a strength, since the dislocations of protracted war would 

have far less effect on an agrarian society than on a more industrialized 

society. However, Gulevich did warn that Russia’s underdeveloped armaments industry and rail network would pose serious difficulties in any 

future European war.25

A. K. Puzyrevskii’s direct and indirect participation as a historian in 

the intellectual ferment of the 1890s revealed the degree to which institutionally sponsored military history owed much of its origins and initial 

successes to the preoccupations of the period. Despite the absence of 

consistent official sanction, the assumption on the part of generalizers 

and fact-finders alike was that history alone in all its richness offered 

sufficient evidence for the discerning student to discover the underlying 

patterns and rhythms inherent in any body of knowledge with sufficient 

coherence to become the foundation for a military science. Not surprisingly, conflicting opinions over the relevance of unchanging law and 

changing circumstance dominated the development of Russian military 

historiography throughout the 1890s and early years of the twentieth century. In addition to giving rise to “academic” and “Russian” schools of 

Russian military thought and history, debate about the nature and meaning of military history sparked wide-ranging and original research, the 

results of which can be read with profit even today.26

Within the larger picture of growing intellectual diversity, one of the 

brighter spots was the emergence at the very end of the nineteenth century 

of N. P. Mikhnevich as a serious synthesizer of Russian military thought. 

By the late 1890s he had already made his mark as a military analyst 

and historian, having completed several article-length studies during the 
196 historical perspectives of the operational art 

isolated, not having a direct connection with overall state institutions and 

independent of the spirit of the times and the political life of society in its 

entirety.” Lt. Col. A. A. Gulevich, another Bloch partisan and an instructor at the Academy of the General Staff, carried the argument further, 

asserting that:

The final outcome of decisive war will depend not only on the perfection of the 

instrument of struggle and the art of its use [but also] on the vitality [zhiznedeiatel’ nost’] of the state structure in general, on its ability to withstand protracted 

struggle and during its course to maintain a sufficiently strong and powerful armed 

force.

Gulevich maintained that the advent of mass cadre and reserve armies 

meant that future war would be decided not by main blows on the field of 

engagement, but by persistent and protracted armed struggle. Therefore, 

the decisive element in modern war was the strength of the state’s socioeconomic infrastructure, that is, the foundation of the state’s ability to 

wage protracted conflict.24 In a theme to which others would return, Gulevich further maintained that Russia’s apparent economic backwardness 

was actually a strength, since the dislocations of protracted war would 

have far less effect on an agrarian society than on a more industrialized 

society. However, Gulevich did warn that Russia’s underdeveloped armaments industry and rail network would pose serious difficulties in any 

future European war.25

A. K. Puzyrevskii’s direct and indirect participation as a historian in 

the intellectual ferment of the 1890s revealed the degree to which institutionally sponsored military history owed much of its origins and initial 

successes to the preoccupations of the period. Despite the absence of 

consistent official sanction, the assumption on the part of generalizers 

and fact-finders alike was that history alone in all its richness offered 

sufficient evidence for the discerning student to discover the underlying 

patterns and rhythms inherent in any body of knowledge with sufficient 

coherence to become the foundation for a military science. Not surprisingly, conflicting opinions over the relevance of unchanging law and 

changing circumstance dominated the development of Russian military 

historiography throughout the 1890s and early years of the twentieth century. In addition to giving rise to “academic” and “Russian” schools of 

Russian military thought and history, debate about the nature and meaning of military history sparked wide-ranging and original research, the 

results of which can be read with profit even today.26

Within the larger picture of growing intellectual diversity, one of the 

brighter spots was the emergence at the very end of the nineteenth century 

of N. P. Mikhnevich as a serious synthesizer of Russian military thought. 

By the late 1890s he had already made his mark as a military analyst 

and historian, having completed several article-length studies during the 
198 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the Russian Pacific Squadron would remain bottled up in Port Arthur. 

After unsuccessful Russian delaying actions, the land campaign naturally 

subdivided itself into two distinct parts: a siege war at Port Arthur and a 

maneuver war astride the railroad extending south from Mukden to Liaoyang. Both wars revealed the impact of smokeless powder technology, 

including the machine gun, quick-firing artillery, and the repeating rifle. 

However, it was the maneuver war in all its starkness that revealed the 

bankruptcy of Leyer’s Napoleonic paradigm. Mass armies moved like 

lemmings to contact, pressed from contact directly into meeting engagements, then fought—sometimes sporadically and sometimes continuously—for days and even weeks. Neither side could produce a Sedan-like 

victory, and frontages ballooned to 100 kilometers and depths to 60.29 In 

the aggregate, various disparate but related combat actions across time 

and space amounted to something more than large battles (srazheniya), 

and gradual recognition of this fact would argue for altered approaches 

to planning, organization, and implementation. Other requirements included the creation of higher commands, including army groups, and the 

necessity to undertake deliberate reorganization during the actual course 

of an operation.30 In the parlance that the Russians would come to accept 

after the war, they fought three separate operations—Liao-yang, Sha-ho, 

and Mukden. And they lost all three because, as one young general staff 

officer put it, “we did not understand contemporary war.”31 Port Arthur 

capitulated on 20 December 1904, and the destruction of the Russian 

Baltic Fleet at Tsushima Straits in May 1905 wrote the last humiliating 

chapter to a sad war story. While the Japanese fared better, peace negotiations found the field armies of both combatants exhausted and increasingly susceptible to the vulnerabilities of the home front.

For Russian military thinkers, the post-1905 challenge lay in fashioning a new intellectual construct within which they might make sense of 

the Far Eastern débâcle. Leyer’s understanding of strategy as a science 

with its own immutable laws—demonstrable through a close study of 

military history, and especially the campaigns of Napoleon—remained 

too rigid, remote, and unimaginative to convey a sense of the complexities of contemporary battles, operations, and campaigns. Modern mass 

armies stubbornly resisted defeat in the single climactic battle, which 

during the previous century had often decided the fate of an entire campaign, or even an entire war. The nature of battle itself was changing from 

a deadly affair mercifully lasting only several days to protracted struggle 

dragging on for several weeks. The railroad and the telegraph, and more 

recently the telephone and wireless, continued to play havoc with traditional notions of time, space, and timing. The same changes prompted a 

renewed call for a reevaluation of fundamental conceptions of envelopment and operation on interior and exterior lines. In a word, Jomini was 

out, and Clausewitz and the elder Moltke (as modified by experience and 
198 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the Russian Pacific Squadron would remain bottled up in Port Arthur. 

After unsuccessful Russian delaying actions, the land campaign naturally 

subdivided itself into two distinct parts: a siege war at Port Arthur and a 

maneuver war astride the railroad extending south from Mukden to Liaoyang. Both wars revealed the impact of smokeless powder technology, 

including the machine gun, quick-firing artillery, and the repeating rifle. 

However, it was the maneuver war in all its starkness that revealed the 

bankruptcy of Leyer’s Napoleonic paradigm. Mass armies moved like 

lemmings to contact, pressed from contact directly into meeting engagements, then fought—sometimes sporadically and sometimes continuously—for days and even weeks. Neither side could produce a Sedan-like 

victory, and frontages ballooned to 100 kilometers and depths to 60.29 In 

the aggregate, various disparate but related combat actions across time 

and space amounted to something more than large battles (srazheniya), 

and gradual recognition of this fact would argue for altered approaches 

to planning, organization, and implementation. Other requirements included the creation of higher commands, including army groups, and the 

necessity to undertake deliberate reorganization during the actual course 

of an operation.30 In the parlance that the Russians would come to accept 

after the war, they fought three separate operations—Liao-yang, Sha-ho, 

and Mukden. And they lost all three because, as one young general staff 

officer put it, “we did not understand contemporary war.”31 Port Arthur 

capitulated on 20 December 1904, and the destruction of the Russian 

Baltic Fleet at Tsushima Straits in May 1905 wrote the last humiliating 

chapter to a sad war story. While the Japanese fared better, peace negotiations found the field armies of both combatants exhausted and increasingly susceptible to the vulnerabilities of the home front.

For Russian military thinkers, the post-1905 challenge lay in fashioning a new intellectual construct within which they might make sense of 

the Far Eastern débâcle. Leyer’s understanding of strategy as a science 

with its own immutable laws—demonstrable through a close study of 

military history, and especially the campaigns of Napoleon—remained 

too rigid, remote, and unimaginative to convey a sense of the complexities of contemporary battles, operations, and campaigns. Modern mass 

armies stubbornly resisted defeat in the single climactic battle, which 

during the previous century had often decided the fate of an entire campaign, or even an entire war. The nature of battle itself was changing from 

a deadly affair mercifully lasting only several days to protracted struggle 

dragging on for several weeks. The railroad and the telegraph, and more 

recently the telephone and wireless, continued to play havoc with traditional notions of time, space, and timing. The same changes prompted a 

renewed call for a reevaluation of fundamental conceptions of envelopment and operation on interior and exterior lines. In a word, Jomini was 

out, and Clausewitz and the elder Moltke (as modified by experience and 
200 historical perspectives of the operational art 

routes of communication, securing these routes, equipping bases, maneuvering large armies toward the field of engagement, and organizing reconnaissance and so forth in the field.”33 Somewhat later, perhaps 

under the influence of the German Operativ, he would interpose between 

strategy and tactics something that he called operatika.

34 Its function was 

to provide an intellectual perspective from which commanders and their 

staffs could envision and plan for the sum of disparate activities and actions over time and space that went into the makeup of a modern military 

operation. Gerua’s term never gained currency. In the 1920s, however, 

Svechin and other Soviet military writers would supplant it with the less 

elegant term “operational art” (operativnoye iskusstvo).35

Perhaps Gerua failed to introduce new terminology because traditional conceptions of strategy retained sufficient flexibility to be hauled 

back to earth from Leyer’s ether. Theorists might differ with each other 

in their definitions of strategy, but there was common agreement that 

Leyer’s legacy lacked practicality. A new generation of officers extended 

the criticisms which Leyer and his disciples had already witnessed in 

the 1890s, with the result that old terms and concepts were subjected to 

rigorous re-examination in the light of new urgencies. After 1905, Leyer’s idealism was carried away in a new wave emphasizing theater and 

battlefield application. For the time being, few saw the inherent danger in 

emphasizing practice over theory that Svechin—paraphrasing a French 

commentator—would warn against years later in a different context: 

“theory strives always to go hand-in-hand with experience, and sooner or 

later avenges itself if it is ignored too much.”36

Theory and practice came together at the General Staff Academy, 

but only imperfectly. Unfortunately, the Academy chose to meet post1905 challenges with a combination of half-hearted reform and inertia. 

Consequently, the atmosphere at the Academy proved conducive only in 

a limited sense both to reexamining old verities and to searching for new 

ones. Examinations and student projects often focused on comparisons 

across time, and faculty members with Far Eastern experience made their 

presence felt in field exercises and tactical problems. In addition, many 

of the students themselves were veterans of the Russo-Japanese War. 

As Ordinary Professor of Strategy, Lt. Col. A. A. Neznamov brought a 

combination of background from the field and theoretical insights to his 

instruction. He was a brilliant tactician whose Manchurian experience 

and reading of German military theory prompted him to link tactical and 

operational conceptions with broader issues of strategy. Indeed, without 

using the terminology, Neznamov’s course in strategy probably did a reasonable job of bridging the gap that Gerua had pointed out in 1907. B. 

M. Shaposhnikov, an officer-student at the time and later first chief of the 

Soviet General Staff, recalled that Neznamov’s lectures were “something 

like instruction about operational art, neither grand tactics according to 
200 historical perspectives of the operational art 

routes of communication, securing these routes, equipping bases, maneuvering large armies toward the field of engagement, and organizing reconnaissance and so forth in the field.”33 Somewhat later, perhaps 

under the influence of the German Operativ, he would interpose between 

strategy and tactics something that he called operatika.

34 Its function was 

to provide an intellectual perspective from which commanders and their 

staffs could envision and plan for the sum of disparate activities and actions over time and space that went into the makeup of a modern military 

operation. Gerua’s term never gained currency. In the 1920s, however, 

Svechin and other Soviet military writers would supplant it with the less 

elegant term “operational art” (operativnoye iskusstvo).35

Perhaps Gerua failed to introduce new terminology because traditional conceptions of strategy retained sufficient flexibility to be hauled 

back to earth from Leyer’s ether. Theorists might differ with each other 

in their definitions of strategy, but there was common agreement that 

Leyer’s legacy lacked practicality. A new generation of officers extended 

the criticisms which Leyer and his disciples had already witnessed in 

the 1890s, with the result that old terms and concepts were subjected to 

rigorous re-examination in the light of new urgencies. After 1905, Leyer’s idealism was carried away in a new wave emphasizing theater and 

battlefield application. For the time being, few saw the inherent danger in 

emphasizing practice over theory that Svechin—paraphrasing a French 

commentator—would warn against years later in a different context: 

“theory strives always to go hand-in-hand with experience, and sooner or 

later avenges itself if it is ignored too much.”36

Theory and practice came together at the General Staff Academy, 

but only imperfectly. Unfortunately, the Academy chose to meet post1905 challenges with a combination of half-hearted reform and inertia. 

Consequently, the atmosphere at the Academy proved conducive only in 

a limited sense both to reexamining old verities and to searching for new 

ones. Examinations and student projects often focused on comparisons 

across time, and faculty members with Far Eastern experience made their 

presence felt in field exercises and tactical problems. In addition, many 

of the students themselves were veterans of the Russo-Japanese War. 

As Ordinary Professor of Strategy, Lt. Col. A. A. Neznamov brought a 

combination of background from the field and theoretical insights to his 

instruction. He was a brilliant tactician whose Manchurian experience 

and reading of German military theory prompted him to link tactical and 

operational conceptions with broader issues of strategy. Indeed, without 

using the terminology, Neznamov’s course in strategy probably did a reasonable job of bridging the gap that Gerua had pointed out in 1907. B. 

M. Shaposhnikov, an officer-student at the time and later first chief of the 

Soviet General Staff, recalled that Neznamov’s lectures were “something 

like instruction about operational art, neither grand tactics according to 
202 historical perspectives of the operational art 

a variety of sources and experiences. The same answers also determined 

issues and emphases across a range of war-related considerations. By 

now, nearly everyone acknowledged the impact of technology—although 

perhaps in varying degrees. Likewise, everyone acknowledged the likelihood of a coalition war waged by multimillion-man armies. However, 

here the similarities in outlook ended. If war were to be brief and violent, stress would fall upon immediate preparation, speedy deployment, 

a spirited offensive, and firm tactical and operational linkages during the 

initial period of conflict. If war were to be protracted, then stress would 

fall on strategic depth, full mobilization capacity, measured responses to 

operational challenges, and maintenance of internal unity and firmness 

of purpose.

Mikhnevich’s Strategy (in Russian, third edition, 1911) touched on 

nearly all these issues with its far-reaching and integrative inquiry into 

the nature of military science, strategy, and tactics in an age of mass 

armies. In accordance with his own positivist views and in contrast with 

Leyer’s penchant to look for many laws, Mikhnevich saw only two: the 

law of evolution and the law of struggle. Both military institutions and 

knowledge about military affairs were evolving from simpler to more 

complex forms. For him, such a thing as military science existed, but only 

in so far as it was “an objectively verifiable and systematic knowledge 

about real phenomena from the perspective of their regular recurrence 

[zakonomernost’] and unchanging order.” Within Mikhnevich’s dynamic 

scheme, the search for laws gave way to a search for principles with an 

emphasis on the need to seek unity of theory and practice. The main 

objective of a theory of military art, he wrote, was “to establish firmly 

its fundamental principles, to study the most fundamental elements of a 

situation, and to indicate in light of the situation how principles are to be 

applied in war.”39

Mikhnevich agreed with apostles of the Russian national school that 

man remained the center of war, but his understanding was more complex 

than simple emphasis on the role of individuals. In the past, the human 

element had been manifested in war through strategy and tactics. Now, 

the evolving complexity of human society meant that emphasis fell upon 

the manifold aspects of humanity as a whole. Or, to put it another way, the 

human element remained, but it now manifested itself through more sophisticated institutions in a new, mass form. There was no romantic wistfulness for times gone by, only hardheaded acknowledgment of an emerging new order. For Mikhnevich, then, the laws of war were embodied in 

those social characteristics (numerical, physical, economic, intellectual, 

and moral superiority) that in sum determined the outcome of armed conflict. In a more limited military sense, the principles of war governed application of mass against the main objective and the attainment of moral 

superiority over the factors of material, accident, and surprise.40
202 historical perspectives of the operational art 

a variety of sources and experiences. The same answers also determined 

issues and emphases across a range of war-related considerations. By 

now, nearly everyone acknowledged the impact of technology—although 

perhaps in varying degrees. Likewise, everyone acknowledged the likelihood of a coalition war waged by multimillion-man armies. However, 

here the similarities in outlook ended. If war were to be brief and violent, stress would fall upon immediate preparation, speedy deployment, 

a spirited offensive, and firm tactical and operational linkages during the 

initial period of conflict. If war were to be protracted, then stress would 

fall on strategic depth, full mobilization capacity, measured responses to 

operational challenges, and maintenance of internal unity and firmness 

of purpose.

Mikhnevich’s Strategy (in Russian, third edition, 1911) touched on 

nearly all these issues with its far-reaching and integrative inquiry into 

the nature of military science, strategy, and tactics in an age of mass 

armies. In accordance with his own positivist views and in contrast with 

Leyer’s penchant to look for many laws, Mikhnevich saw only two: the 

law of evolution and the law of struggle. Both military institutions and 

knowledge about military affairs were evolving from simpler to more 

complex forms. For him, such a thing as military science existed, but only 

in so far as it was “an objectively verifiable and systematic knowledge 

about real phenomena from the perspective of their regular recurrence 

[zakonomernost’] and unchanging order.” Within Mikhnevich’s dynamic 

scheme, the search for laws gave way to a search for principles with an 

emphasis on the need to seek unity of theory and practice. The main 

objective of a theory of military art, he wrote, was “to establish firmly 

its fundamental principles, to study the most fundamental elements of a 

situation, and to indicate in light of the situation how principles are to be 

applied in war.”39

Mikhnevich agreed with apostles of the Russian national school that 

man remained the center of war, but his understanding was more complex 

than simple emphasis on the role of individuals. In the past, the human 

element had been manifested in war through strategy and tactics. Now, 

the evolving complexity of human society meant that emphasis fell upon 

the manifold aspects of humanity as a whole. Or, to put it another way, the 

human element remained, but it now manifested itself through more sophisticated institutions in a new, mass form. There was no romantic wistfulness for times gone by, only hardheaded acknowledgment of an emerging new order. For Mikhnevich, then, the laws of war were embodied in 

those social characteristics (numerical, physical, economic, intellectual, 

and moral superiority) that in sum determined the outcome of armed conflict. In a more limited military sense, the principles of war governed application of mass against the main objective and the attainment of moral 

superiority over the factors of material, accident, and surprise.40
204 historical perspectives of the operational art 

for new tactical and organizational structures. At the same time, other 

technologies, including steam propulsion and telegraphic communication, imposed still more new requirements in planning for and conducting mobilization, deployments, and operations.44

Mikhnevich’s emphasis on planning not only called attention to the 

pressing need for rational economic development but also laid stress on 

the purely military aspects of the initial period of war. He held that strategic deployments should not occur in close proximity to the enemy so that 

concentrating forces would not be subject to attack before an army was 

fully capable of conducting operations. It seems likely that he also borrowed from the Germans and expanded upon Leyer’s teaching to evolve 

a suitable terminology to describe what occurred in war. Just as in the 

1890s, he continued to write that “every war consists of one or several 

campaigns, and every campaign of one or several operations.”45 However, 

the understanding now was that this conception underlay a more modern 

understanding of operations and encouraged the kind of conceptual linkages across the warfighting spectrum that Gerua had found so lacking in 

the pre-1905 intellectual environment.

Neznamov and the War Plan

Even more to the point were the views of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Neznamov, who shared some of Mikhnevich’s interest in history and 

more of his preoccupation with the war plan. Neznamov was one of the 

most outspoken of the Young Turks, whose views are often interpreted 

as diametrically opposed to the nationalists, although differences were 

often more of degree and approach than substance and program. Neznamov well knew the value of history but chose to use it only as a point 

of departure, for 1904–1905 had convinced him that the Russians simply 

did not understand the nature of contemporary war.46 For Neznamov, the 

most pressing task confronting the Imperial Russian Army was not a generalization of past experience but an analysis of the probable means and 

methods of waging future war. “Even the past does not provide a full idea 

of the present, especially in our fast-moving century,” he wrote. Therefore, “past military thought cannot be ignored, but [military thought] 

must constantly make corrections because of present technical advances 

and, where possible, also peer ahead.”47

As if in answer to Gerua’s pleading, Neznamov extended Mikhnevich’s thought to evolve a modern theory of military operations that 

joined planning and preparation to the actual conduct of operations and 

battles. Central to his thought, just as to Mikhnevich’s, was the war plan. 

Like Mikhnevich, Neznamov believed that modern war would no longer be decided by the outcome of a single climactic engagement (srazhenie). Rather, modern war consisted of a series of engagements and 
204 historical perspectives of the operational art 

for new tactical and organizational structures. At the same time, other 

technologies, including steam propulsion and telegraphic communication, imposed still more new requirements in planning for and conducting mobilization, deployments, and operations.44

Mikhnevich’s emphasis on planning not only called attention to the 

pressing need for rational economic development but also laid stress on 

the purely military aspects of the initial period of war. He held that strategic deployments should not occur in close proximity to the enemy so that 

concentrating forces would not be subject to attack before an army was 

fully capable of conducting operations. It seems likely that he also borrowed from the Germans and expanded upon Leyer’s teaching to evolve 

a suitable terminology to describe what occurred in war. Just as in the 

1890s, he continued to write that “every war consists of one or several 

campaigns, and every campaign of one or several operations.”45 However, 

the understanding now was that this conception underlay a more modern 

understanding of operations and encouraged the kind of conceptual linkages across the warfighting spectrum that Gerua had found so lacking in 

the pre-1905 intellectual environment.

Neznamov and the War Plan

Even more to the point were the views of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Neznamov, who shared some of Mikhnevich’s interest in history and 

more of his preoccupation with the war plan. Neznamov was one of the 

most outspoken of the Young Turks, whose views are often interpreted 

as diametrically opposed to the nationalists, although differences were 

often more of degree and approach than substance and program. Neznamov well knew the value of history but chose to use it only as a point 

of departure, for 1904–1905 had convinced him that the Russians simply 

did not understand the nature of contemporary war.46 For Neznamov, the 

most pressing task confronting the Imperial Russian Army was not a generalization of past experience but an analysis of the probable means and 

methods of waging future war. “Even the past does not provide a full idea 

of the present, especially in our fast-moving century,” he wrote. Therefore, “past military thought cannot be ignored, but [military thought] 

must constantly make corrections because of present technical advances 

and, where possible, also peer ahead.”47

As if in answer to Gerua’s pleading, Neznamov extended Mikhnevich’s thought to evolve a modern theory of military operations that 

joined planning and preparation to the actual conduct of operations and 

battles. Central to his thought, just as to Mikhnevich’s, was the war plan. 

Like Mikhnevich, Neznamov believed that modern war would no longer be decided by the outcome of a single climactic engagement (srazhenie). Rather, modern war consisted of a series of engagements and 
206 historical perspectives of the operational art 

future battle to emerge with a vision that called for new attention to the 

application of mass through combined fire-and-maneuver tactics. The old 

combination of skirmish line and closed ranks in the assault had to give 

way to new forms of organization and attack. In addition, new ways had 

to be devised to concentrate all forms of firepower, for in Neznamov’s 

view “fire was the primary factor in contemporary battle.”51 The appearance of various kinds of air assets both promised new forms of reconnaissance and attack and created the problem of air defense and active 

and passive security measures against air power. Despite the importance 

of mass, the lethality of modern weaponry opened distances and added 

depth at all organizational levels in the field.52

Battles, he believed, would be integral components of operations 

conducted not only by a single army, but also by groups of two or three 

armies, a development that would create the need for additional organizational and intellectual linkages. Under the pressure of modern combat, success beckoned to commanders at all levels, who displayed confidence and mutual trust in their own and other commanders’ dispositions 

and decisions. Such confidence flowed from a common understanding 

of the nature of contemporary war and from adherence to a common 

plan. “Only battles are decisive in war; everything else serves only to 

prepare for them,” Neznamov asserted. Therefore, “it is understood that 

each troop unit, each column must press into battle with all it has [and] 

under conditions in which units enter battle in the normal organizational 

structure.”53 Kuropatkin’s Manchurian muddle had made a strong impression on Neznamov.

Manchuria also influenced the way that Neznamov viewed seemingly 

discrete aspects of combat within theater. He saw armed confrontation 

both as physical struggle and as a struggle for information and time. 

Speed enabled a commander to win these struggles, thus assuring retention of the initiative and constantly forcing an adversary to react. At the 

same time, Neznamov perceived that “just as all of a war is broken down 

into a whole series of operations, so is each operation broken down into 

a whole series of immediate tasks, in which the preceding ones condition 

the following ones, and all of them are combined into a single operation 

just as all operations are joined with one another.”54 Just as contemporary 

war could not be fought with older methods, neither could contemporary 

armies be defeated in a single engagement. Future war might well assume 

a protracted character. Manchuria had demonstrated that war was now a 

series of “separate offensive leaps forward and defensive leaps backward.” 

Thus appeared in embryonic form a theory of successive operations.55

One of Neznamov’s lasting contributions to military theory was to 

ascribe a central place to the operation as a phenomenon of contemporary war. In contrast with Leyer’s more abstract categories of operations 

(fundamental, preparatory, and supplementary), Neznamov offered a 
206 historical perspectives of the operational art 

future battle to emerge with a vision that called for new attention to the 

application of mass through combined fire-and-maneuver tactics. The old 

combination of skirmish line and closed ranks in the assault had to give 

way to new forms of organization and attack. In addition, new ways had 

to be devised to concentrate all forms of firepower, for in Neznamov’s 

view “fire was the primary factor in contemporary battle.”51 The appearance of various kinds of air assets both promised new forms of reconnaissance and attack and created the problem of air defense and active 

and passive security measures against air power. Despite the importance 

of mass, the lethality of modern weaponry opened distances and added 

depth at all organizational levels in the field.52

Battles, he believed, would be integral components of operations 

conducted not only by a single army, but also by groups of two or three 

armies, a development that would create the need for additional organizational and intellectual linkages. Under the pressure of modern combat, success beckoned to commanders at all levels, who displayed confidence and mutual trust in their own and other commanders’ dispositions 

and decisions. Such confidence flowed from a common understanding 

of the nature of contemporary war and from adherence to a common 

plan. “Only battles are decisive in war; everything else serves only to 

prepare for them,” Neznamov asserted. Therefore, “it is understood that 

each troop unit, each column must press into battle with all it has [and] 

under conditions in which units enter battle in the normal organizational 

structure.”53 Kuropatkin’s Manchurian muddle had made a strong impression on Neznamov.

Manchuria also influenced the way that Neznamov viewed seemingly 

discrete aspects of combat within theater. He saw armed confrontation 

both as physical struggle and as a struggle for information and time. 

Speed enabled a commander to win these struggles, thus assuring retention of the initiative and constantly forcing an adversary to react. At the 

same time, Neznamov perceived that “just as all of a war is broken down 

into a whole series of operations, so is each operation broken down into 

a whole series of immediate tasks, in which the preceding ones condition 

the following ones, and all of them are combined into a single operation 

just as all operations are joined with one another.”54 Just as contemporary 

war could not be fought with older methods, neither could contemporary 

armies be defeated in a single engagement. Future war might well assume 

a protracted character. Manchuria had demonstrated that war was now a 

series of “separate offensive leaps forward and defensive leaps backward.” 

Thus appeared in embryonic form a theory of successive operations.55

One of Neznamov’s lasting contributions to military theory was to 

ascribe a central place to the operation as a phenomenon of contemporary war. In contrast with Leyer’s more abstract categories of operations 

(fundamental, preparatory, and supplementary), Neznamov offered a 
208 historical perspectives of the operational art 

was a theme to which he would return in the 1920s, with lamentable 

personal consequences. Before 1914 his voice was lost in the whirlwind 

accompanying overcommitment to the French and overconfidence in the 

decisive effect of initial operations.

Conclusion

World War I on the Eastern Front became additional grist for the 

combat experience mill. As early as 1918, with Russian participation 

scarcely terminated, military historians and commentators in the new 

Soviet state set to work on the history of the conflict with an eye both 

to distilling lessons learned and to adding more generally to the font of 

historical wisdom. Not surprisingly, some of the same figures involved 

either directly or indirectly in this effort were voenspetsy, or military specialists, former tsarist officers who were serving new political masters. 

As the Russian Civil War and allied intervention wound their course, they 

found their ranks swelled by younger officers who owed their fortunes 

more assuredly to the new revolutionary regime.

During the early and mid-1920s, the experience and outlook of these 

two groups of officers blended to influence the evolving military theory of the new Soviet state. What emerged from the blend was a novel 

understanding of military doctrine, military science, and the primary 

components of military science, including strategy, operational art, and 

tactics. While the specific definitions of these and other terms often assumed new significance and dimensions, the Soviet military theorists of 

the 1920s did not build on empty ground. In fact, A. A. Svechin, the 

voenspets whose name is most frequently associated with the appearance 

of the term operational art, was a former officer of the imperial Russian 

General Staff who had attained intellectual maturity during the remarkable flowering of Russian military thought in the pre-1914 period.
208 historical perspectives of the operational art 

was a theme to which he would return in the 1920s, with lamentable 

personal consequences. Before 1914 his voice was lost in the whirlwind 

accompanying overcommitment to the French and overconfidence in the 

decisive effect of initial operations.

Conclusion

World War I on the Eastern Front became additional grist for the 

combat experience mill. As early as 1918, with Russian participation 

scarcely terminated, military historians and commentators in the new 

Soviet state set to work on the history of the conflict with an eye both 

to distilling lessons learned and to adding more generally to the font of 

historical wisdom. Not surprisingly, some of the same figures involved 

either directly or indirectly in this effort were voenspetsy, or military specialists, former tsarist officers who were serving new political masters. 

As the Russian Civil War and allied intervention wound their course, they 

found their ranks swelled by younger officers who owed their fortunes 

more assuredly to the new revolutionary regime.

During the early and mid-1920s, the experience and outlook of these 

two groups of officers blended to influence the evolving military theory of the new Soviet state. What emerged from the blend was a novel 

understanding of military doctrine, military science, and the primary 

components of military science, including strategy, operational art, and 

tactics. While the specific definitions of these and other terms often assumed new significance and dimensions, the Soviet military theorists of 

the 1920s did not build on empty ground. In fact, A. A. Svechin, the 

voenspets whose name is most frequently associated with the appearance 

of the term operational art, was a former officer of the imperial Russian 

General Staff who had attained intellectual maturity during the remarkable flowering of Russian military thought in the pre-1914 period.
210 historical perspectives of the operational art 

16. Liubomir G. Beskrovnyi, Ocherki po istochnikovedeniiu voenno istorii Rossii (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1957), p. 379; R. Savushkin, “K voprosu vozniknoveniya i razvitiya operatsii,” VIZh no. 5 (May 1979): 79–80, and Wahlde, “G. A. Lear,” 

pp. 3–4.

17. Svechin, Strategiya v trudakhvoennykh, II: 272, 276.

18. G. A. Leyer, comp., Zapiski strategii, 3d ed. (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1877). 

19. Quoted in Savushkin, “K voprosu voziknoveniya i razvitiya operatsii,” p. 80.

20. Leyer, Zapiski strategii, p. 1.

21. Beskrovnyi, Ocherki, p. 378; cf. Wahlde, “G. A. Lear,” pp. 4–5.

22. Svechin, Strategiya v trudakh voennykh, II: 273.

23. Pavel A. Zhilin, ed., Russkaya voennaya mysl’ konets XIX—nachalo XX v. (Moscow: Nauka, 1982), pp. 99–100.

24. Ibid., pp. 101–02; A. A. Gulevich, “Voina i narodnoye khozyaistvo,” Voyennyï 

sbornik 241, no. 1 (January 1898): 60.

25. A. A. Gulevich, “Voina i narodnoe khozyaistvo,” Voennyi sbornik, 241, no. 6 (June 

1898): 300–01, 308–09.

26. On the origins of the two schools, see Zolotarev, Russko-turetskaya, p. 2129, and 

Liubomir G. Beskrovnyi, Ocherki voennoi istoriografii Rossii (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1962), pp. 185–88, 203–69.

27. A. Ageyev, “Voenno-teoreticheskie vzglyady N. P. Mikhnevicha,” VIZh no. 1 (January 1975): 91.

28. Ibid., p. 92; Zhilin, Russkaya voennaya, pp. 90–92.

29. For a useful survey of the Russo-Japanese War, see I. Rostunov, “Uroki russkoyaponskoi voiny 1904–1905 gg.,” VIZh no. 2 (February 1984): 73–79.

30. Savushkin, “K voprosu voziknoveniya,” pp. 81–82.

31. Aleksandr A. Neznamov, Sovremmenaya voina (St. Petersburg: n.p., n.d.), p. vi.

32. Dragomirov returned to Konotop to die in October 1905, but apparently not before 

he revised his text on tactics to account for changing battlefield conditions. See Zhilin, 

Russkaya voennaya, pp. 184–85.

33. Aleksandr V. Gerua, Posle voiny o nashei armii (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1907), pp. 17–

18; see also Carl Van Dyke, “Culture of Soldiers: The Role of the Nicholas Academy of 

the General Staff in the Development of Russian Imperial Military Science, 1832–1912,” 

Master’s thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1989, pp.187–89.

34. Anton A. Kersnovskiy, Filosofiya voiny (Belgrade: Tsarskogo Vestnilka, 1939), p. 31; 

with that particularly Russian penchant for precise military definition, Kersnovskiy noted: 

“Strategy is the conduct of war. Operatika is the conduct of engagement [srazhenie]. Tactics—the conduct of battle [boi].” Cf. John Keegan, Six Armies in Normandy (New York: 

Viking Press, 1982), p. 243.

35. There is some speculation that Svechin, often credited with coining the term operational art, borrowed the concept from A. V. Gerua; see Aleksandr A. Svechin, Strategiya, 

1st ed. (Moscow: n.p., 1926), pp. 18–19.

36. Svechin, Strategiya v trudakh klassikov, II: 175.

37. B. M. Shaposhnikov, Vospominaniya. Voenno-nauchnye trudy (Moscow: n.p., 1974), p. 143.

38. Peter von Wahlde, “Military Thought in Imperial Russia,” Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1966, pp. 182–83.

39. N. P. Mikhnevich, comp., Strategiya, 3d ed. (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1911), pp. 9, 43; 

see also Ageyev, “N. P. Mikhnevicha,” pp. 92–93.

40. Mikhnevich, Strategiya, p. 47. 

41. Ibid., pp. 98–106.
210 historical perspectives of the operational art 

16. Liubomir G. Beskrovnyi, Ocherki po istochnikovedeniiu voenno istorii Rossii (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1957), p. 379; R. Savushkin, “K voprosu vozniknoveniya i razvitiya operatsii,” VIZh no. 5 (May 1979): 79–80, and Wahlde, “G. A. Lear,” 

pp. 3–4.

17. Svechin, Strategiya v trudakhvoennykh, II: 272, 276.

18. G. A. Leyer, comp., Zapiski strategii, 3d ed. (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1877). 

19. Quoted in Savushkin, “K voprosu voziknoveniya i razvitiya operatsii,” p. 80.

20. Leyer, Zapiski strategii, p. 1.

21. Beskrovnyi, Ocherki, p. 378; cf. Wahlde, “G. A. Lear,” pp. 4–5.

22. Svechin, Strategiya v trudakh voennykh, II: 273.

23. Pavel A. Zhilin, ed., Russkaya voennaya mysl’ konets XIX—nachalo XX v. (Moscow: Nauka, 1982), pp. 99–100.

24. Ibid., pp. 101–02; A. A. Gulevich, “Voina i narodnoye khozyaistvo,” Voyennyï 

sbornik 241, no. 1 (January 1898): 60.

25. A. A. Gulevich, “Voina i narodnoe khozyaistvo,” Voennyi sbornik, 241, no. 6 (June 

1898): 300–01, 308–09.

26. On the origins of the two schools, see Zolotarev, Russko-turetskaya, p. 2129, and 

Liubomir G. Beskrovnyi, Ocherki voennoi istoriografii Rossii (Moscow: Izd-vo Akademii nauk SSSR, 1962), pp. 185–88, 203–69.

27. A. Ageyev, “Voenno-teoreticheskie vzglyady N. P. Mikhnevicha,” VIZh no. 1 (January 1975): 91.

28. Ibid., p. 92; Zhilin, Russkaya voennaya, pp. 90–92.

29. For a useful survey of the Russo-Japanese War, see I. Rostunov, “Uroki russkoyaponskoi voiny 1904–1905 gg.,” VIZh no. 2 (February 1984): 73–79.

30. Savushkin, “K voprosu voziknoveniya,” pp. 81–82.

31. Aleksandr A. Neznamov, Sovremmenaya voina (St. Petersburg: n.p., n.d.), p. vi.

32. Dragomirov returned to Konotop to die in October 1905, but apparently not before 

he revised his text on tactics to account for changing battlefield conditions. See Zhilin, 

Russkaya voennaya, pp. 184–85.

33. Aleksandr V. Gerua, Posle voiny o nashei armii (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1907), pp. 17–

18; see also Carl Van Dyke, “Culture of Soldiers: The Role of the Nicholas Academy of 

the General Staff in the Development of Russian Imperial Military Science, 1832–1912,” 

Master’s thesis, University of Edinburgh, 1989, pp.187–89.

34. Anton A. Kersnovskiy, Filosofiya voiny (Belgrade: Tsarskogo Vestnilka, 1939), p. 31; 

with that particularly Russian penchant for precise military definition, Kersnovskiy noted: 

“Strategy is the conduct of war. Operatika is the conduct of engagement [srazhenie]. Tactics—the conduct of battle [boi].” Cf. John Keegan, Six Armies in Normandy (New York: 

Viking Press, 1982), p. 243.

35. There is some speculation that Svechin, often credited with coining the term operational art, borrowed the concept from A. V. Gerua; see Aleksandr A. Svechin, Strategiya, 

1st ed. (Moscow: n.p., 1926), pp. 18–19.

36. Svechin, Strategiya v trudakh klassikov, II: 175.

37. B. M. Shaposhnikov, Vospominaniya. Voenno-nauchnye trudy (Moscow: n.p., 1974), p. 143.

38. Peter von Wahlde, “Military Thought in Imperial Russia,” Ph.D. diss., Indiana University, 1966, pp. 182–83.

39. N. P. Mikhnevich, comp., Strategiya, 3d ed. (St. Petersburg: n.p., 1911), pp. 9, 43; 

see also Ageyev, “N. P. Mikhnevicha,” pp. 92–93.

40. Mikhnevich, Strategiya, p. 47. 

41. Ibid., pp. 98–106.


214 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and voenspets from 1919, saw those debates as a three-way contest among 

conservatives, realists, and futurists. In the 1920s Verkhovsky taught in 

and directed the Tactics Department at the Military Academy of the Red 

Army of Workers and Peasants (RKKA). He identified reform-minded, 

voenspetsy professors like himself as the “realist,” engaged in “a war 

on two fronts.” They had to contend with conservatives, who wanted to 

maintain past concepts because they were sanctioned by history and the 

unchanging laws of military science, and the futurists, who on the basis 

of the Revolution and Civil War put their faith in crude military means 

and political agitation and trusted in class struggle to ignite revolution 

behind the enemy’s lines. In assessing this struggle during the Academy’s 

first decade, 1918–1928, he concluded that it had been full of vitality and 

had served the Red Army quite well.6

One area of significant progress was the realm of “higher tactics” or 

“lower strategy,” as studies of the operational level of war were known 

at the Military Academy in 1918–1923. A leading figure in the study of 

operations was Verkhovsky’s colleague, Aleksandr A. Svechin. He too 

was a genshtabist, veteran of the Russo-Japanese War and World War I, 

and voenspets in the RKKA. Prior to World War I Svechin, as a professor at the Nikolaevskaya Academy of the General Staff, had been one of 

a cohort of young military thinkers and historians who had focused on 

the conduct of operations as the foundation of modern industrial war. 

Svechin in a series of lectures on strategy in 1923–1924 coined the term 

operational art.7

 He described operational art as the bridge between tactics and strategy, the means by which the senior commander transformed 

a series of tactical successes into operational “bounds” linked together by 

the commander’s intent and plan and contributing to strategic success in 

a given theater of military actions.8

N. Varfolomeev, the deputy head of the Department of Strategy during the same period, noted that objective changes in warfare associated 

with the appearance of million-man armies and technological innovations 

had recast the face of battle, increased its spatial and temporal dimensions, broken down the conventional forms of combined arms, forced a 

rethinking of problems of command and control, and laid the foundation 

for the emergence of the operation as the bridge between strategy and 

tactics. Tactics became the conduct of battle/combat (boi), the engagement (srazhenie), which in the Napoleonic era had been conducted as 

a series of combats on a single battlefield under the observation of the 

commander. The engagement now took place over a much broader front 

and at much greater depths well beyond the ability of any commander 

to exercise direct control. Borodino had given way to Mukden, Tannenberg, and Warsaw. In this manner the operation emerged as the bridge to 

strategy. Varfolomeev described the modern operation as: “the totality of 

maneuvers and battles in a given sector of a theater of military actions 
214 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and voenspets from 1919, saw those debates as a three-way contest among 

conservatives, realists, and futurists. In the 1920s Verkhovsky taught in 

and directed the Tactics Department at the Military Academy of the Red 

Army of Workers and Peasants (RKKA). He identified reform-minded, 

voenspetsy professors like himself as the “realist,” engaged in “a war 

on two fronts.” They had to contend with conservatives, who wanted to 

maintain past concepts because they were sanctioned by history and the 

unchanging laws of military science, and the futurists, who on the basis 

of the Revolution and Civil War put their faith in crude military means 

and political agitation and trusted in class struggle to ignite revolution 

behind the enemy’s lines. In assessing this struggle during the Academy’s 

first decade, 1918–1928, he concluded that it had been full of vitality and 

had served the Red Army quite well.6

One area of significant progress was the realm of “higher tactics” or 

“lower strategy,” as studies of the operational level of war were known 

at the Military Academy in 1918–1923. A leading figure in the study of 

operations was Verkhovsky’s colleague, Aleksandr A. Svechin. He too 

was a genshtabist, veteran of the Russo-Japanese War and World War I, 

and voenspets in the RKKA. Prior to World War I Svechin, as a professor at the Nikolaevskaya Academy of the General Staff, had been one of 

a cohort of young military thinkers and historians who had focused on 

the conduct of operations as the foundation of modern industrial war. 

Svechin in a series of lectures on strategy in 1923–1924 coined the term 

operational art.7

 He described operational art as the bridge between tactics and strategy, the means by which the senior commander transformed 

a series of tactical successes into operational “bounds” linked together by 

the commander’s intent and plan and contributing to strategic success in 

a given theater of military actions.8

N. Varfolomeev, the deputy head of the Department of Strategy during the same period, noted that objective changes in warfare associated 

with the appearance of million-man armies and technological innovations 

had recast the face of battle, increased its spatial and temporal dimensions, broken down the conventional forms of combined arms, forced a 

rethinking of problems of command and control, and laid the foundation 

for the emergence of the operation as the bridge between strategy and 

tactics. Tactics became the conduct of battle/combat (boi), the engagement (srazhenie), which in the Napoleonic era had been conducted as 

a series of combats on a single battlefield under the observation of the 

commander. The engagement now took place over a much broader front 

and at much greater depths well beyond the ability of any commander 

to exercise direct control. Borodino had given way to Mukden, Tannenberg, and Warsaw. In this manner the operation emerged as the bridge to 

strategy. Varfolomeev described the modern operation as: “the totality of 

maneuvers and battles in a given sector of a theater of military actions 
216 historical perspectives of the operational art 

reform-minded Russian officers associated with the general staff and the 

Nikolaevskaya Academy of the General Staff, who became the leaders of 

a postwar military reform effort. For these officers the conduct of operations, as the means of linking together tactical successes into a coherent 

whole and setting the stage for new methods and means of troop control, 

became the essence of modern warfare. The process culminated with new 

field regulations in 1912, an unsuccessful campaign for a “unified military doctrine,” and a greater emphasis on immediate offensive operations 

in Russia’s war plans.11

These interwar debates had marginal impact upon the way in which 

Russia went to war in 1914. The concept of a unified supreme headquarters (Stavka) was accepted, and the intermediary command was introduced to control the operations of a group of armies in a given sector of 

the theater. New Russian field regulations placed greater emphasis upon 

effective combined arms, the meeting engagement, and march-maneuver. 

In addition, thanks in part to changing diplomatic circumstances, bureaucratic politics, and the emphasis upon a short, decisive war, Russian war 

plans shifted from General Mikhnevich’s covering-force strategy to one 

of initial offensive actions, even before the completion of mobilization, 

a position in keeping with Colonel Neznamov’s views on the decisiveness of initial operations. Not all the reformers, however, agreed with 

this shift.12

War Plans A (Austro-Hungary) and G (Germany) as drafted did not 

provide for a decisive massing of forces and means against either opponent. When war came in the summer of 1914, after the false start of the 

proposed partial mobilization against Austro-Hungary, Russian forces 

under Plan A were committed to immediate offensive operations against 

the Germans in East Prussia and Austro-Hungarians in Galicia. As General Zaionchkovskiy noted later, both operational plans were remarkable 

for their “diffusion and distribution of means.” Nowhere did Russian 

forces achieve an overwhelming superiority, which would have brought 

about a decisive victory. In their advances to contact and initial engagements the Russian armies found their logistical systems to be totally inadequate to sustain the pace of operations.13 Stavka and the fronts did not 

effectively coordinate the armies’ actions and were slow to adjust their 

planning to enemy actions.

While prior to the war the Academy of the General Staff had begun 

the study of the operational level of war, the results were not in evidence 

in the initial phase of the war. The Russian Army did not achieve the 

“steamroller” mass, which worried its adversaries and consoled its allies. 

Nor did it attain operational massing of forces. Zaionchkovskiy argues 

that failure of leadership was the responsibility of the tsarist general staff. 

Reformers at the Academy were cut off from the rest of the army. Its generals and colonels, who staffed the fronts and armies, were considered 
216 historical perspectives of the operational art 

reform-minded Russian officers associated with the general staff and the 

Nikolaevskaya Academy of the General Staff, who became the leaders of 

a postwar military reform effort. For these officers the conduct of operations, as the means of linking together tactical successes into a coherent 

whole and setting the stage for new methods and means of troop control, 

became the essence of modern warfare. The process culminated with new 

field regulations in 1912, an unsuccessful campaign for a “unified military doctrine,” and a greater emphasis on immediate offensive operations 

in Russia’s war plans.11

These interwar debates had marginal impact upon the way in which 

Russia went to war in 1914. The concept of a unified supreme headquarters (Stavka) was accepted, and the intermediary command was introduced to control the operations of a group of armies in a given sector of 

the theater. New Russian field regulations placed greater emphasis upon 

effective combined arms, the meeting engagement, and march-maneuver. 

In addition, thanks in part to changing diplomatic circumstances, bureaucratic politics, and the emphasis upon a short, decisive war, Russian war 

plans shifted from General Mikhnevich’s covering-force strategy to one 

of initial offensive actions, even before the completion of mobilization, 

a position in keeping with Colonel Neznamov’s views on the decisiveness of initial operations. Not all the reformers, however, agreed with 

this shift.12

War Plans A (Austro-Hungary) and G (Germany) as drafted did not 

provide for a decisive massing of forces and means against either opponent. When war came in the summer of 1914, after the false start of the 

proposed partial mobilization against Austro-Hungary, Russian forces 

under Plan A were committed to immediate offensive operations against 

the Germans in East Prussia and Austro-Hungarians in Galicia. As General Zaionchkovskiy noted later, both operational plans were remarkable 

for their “diffusion and distribution of means.” Nowhere did Russian 

forces achieve an overwhelming superiority, which would have brought 

about a decisive victory. In their advances to contact and initial engagements the Russian armies found their logistical systems to be totally inadequate to sustain the pace of operations.13 Stavka and the fronts did not 

effectively coordinate the armies’ actions and were slow to adjust their 

planning to enemy actions.

While prior to the war the Academy of the General Staff had begun 

the study of the operational level of war, the results were not in evidence 

in the initial phase of the war. The Russian Army did not achieve the 

“steamroller” mass, which worried its adversaries and consoled its allies. 

Nor did it attain operational massing of forces. Zaionchkovskiy argues 

that failure of leadership was the responsibility of the tsarist general staff. 

Reformers at the Academy were cut off from the rest of the army. Its generals and colonels, who staffed the fronts and armies, were considered 
218 historical perspectives of the operational art 

German and Austro-Hungarian forces sought to encircle the Second and 

Fifth Russian Armies and were themselves subsequently threatened with 

envelopment, persisted throughout three years of fighting without either 

side’s being able to gain the upper hand. Commanders on both sides developed the techniques necessary for a breakthrough but were unable to 

transform a breakthrough into a sustained drive, which would destroy 

the opposing force, overcome the enemy’s reserves as they redeployed 

to meet the threat, and bring about decisive victory. General Brusilov’s 

Southwestern Front provided a model for such a breakthrough operation 

on the Russian side, one which Red Army staff officers would study in 

detail.19 It is probably fair to describe the 1914–1917 struggle as a semimobile war in which neither side was able to execute decisive maneuver. 

Cavalry raids in the rear of the enemy army became more difficult and 

could not deliver any decisive results. The pauses between operations 

grew longer as combat losses increased and the process of regrouping 

forces became more complex and time-consuming.20

At the start of the war, on the assumption that it would be a short 

one, the War Ministry closed the academy and mobilized its faculty and 

students. As the war dragged on and the need for more staff officers became critical, the War Ministry reopened the academy in late 1916. During a turbulent year of revolution and social upheaval in which the old 

army disintegrated, the academy resumed its mission under these trying 

circumstances.21 Following the October Revolution and the German advance toward Petrograd, the commandant of the academy ordered the faculty and students and the library moved to safety. In this case safety was 

Kazan, where most of those who went joined Admiral A. V. Kolchak’s 

White Russians (counterrevolutionary forces) in Siberia. A minority of 

faculty and students moved to Moscow with the Soviet government. In 

the fall of 1918 the Soviet government set about organizing its own Academy of the General Staff.22

The Civil War and the Conduct of Operations

The disintegration of the old army and the mounting prospects of 

civil war and foreign intervention created a situation in which the newly 

established Bolshevik regime had to set about the creation of its own 

armed forces. The RKKA, or Red Army of Workers and Peasants, which 

emerged during the Civil War, relied heavily upon tsarist military specialists for combat leadership, staffing, and training. By the end of the 

Civil War about one-third of all Red Army officers were voenspetsy, and 

in the higher ranks the ratio was even greater. Thus, 82 percent of all infantry regiment commanders, 83 percent of all division and corps commanders, and 54 percent of all commanders of military districts were 

former tsarist officers.23
218 historical perspectives of the operational art 

German and Austro-Hungarian forces sought to encircle the Second and 

Fifth Russian Armies and were themselves subsequently threatened with 

envelopment, persisted throughout three years of fighting without either 

side’s being able to gain the upper hand. Commanders on both sides developed the techniques necessary for a breakthrough but were unable to 

transform a breakthrough into a sustained drive, which would destroy 

the opposing force, overcome the enemy’s reserves as they redeployed 

to meet the threat, and bring about decisive victory. General Brusilov’s 

Southwestern Front provided a model for such a breakthrough operation 

on the Russian side, one which Red Army staff officers would study in 

detail.19 It is probably fair to describe the 1914–1917 struggle as a semimobile war in which neither side was able to execute decisive maneuver. 

Cavalry raids in the rear of the enemy army became more difficult and 

could not deliver any decisive results. The pauses between operations 

grew longer as combat losses increased and the process of regrouping 

forces became more complex and time-consuming.20

At the start of the war, on the assumption that it would be a short 

one, the War Ministry closed the academy and mobilized its faculty and 

students. As the war dragged on and the need for more staff officers became critical, the War Ministry reopened the academy in late 1916. During a turbulent year of revolution and social upheaval in which the old 

army disintegrated, the academy resumed its mission under these trying 

circumstances.21 Following the October Revolution and the German advance toward Petrograd, the commandant of the academy ordered the faculty and students and the library moved to safety. In this case safety was 

Kazan, where most of those who went joined Admiral A. V. Kolchak’s 

White Russians (counterrevolutionary forces) in Siberia. A minority of 

faculty and students moved to Moscow with the Soviet government. In 

the fall of 1918 the Soviet government set about organizing its own Academy of the General Staff.22

The Civil War and the Conduct of Operations

The disintegration of the old army and the mounting prospects of 

civil war and foreign intervention created a situation in which the newly 

established Bolshevik regime had to set about the creation of its own 

armed forces. The RKKA, or Red Army of Workers and Peasants, which 

emerged during the Civil War, relied heavily upon tsarist military specialists for combat leadership, staffing, and training. By the end of the 

Civil War about one-third of all Red Army officers were voenspetsy, and 

in the higher ranks the ratio was even greater. Thus, 82 percent of all infantry regiment commanders, 83 percent of all division and corps commanders, and 54 percent of all commanders of military districts were 

former tsarist officers.23
220 historical perspectives of the operational art 

plan those actions that would frustrate them. In short, the staff engaged 

in a struggle with time and space to make possible the decisive concentration of combat power on the main direction of possible attack in a timely 

fashion. In making such calculations, planners had to employ norms, 

based upon the combat experience of actual troops and not arbitrary assessments. Izmest’ev believed that the estimates upon which the war plan 

was based should for the most part be “mathematically absolutely exact 

estimate[s].” Such calculations did not end with the first operations of 

the initial phase of the war. After that the commander and his staff would 

have to engage in their own calculations based upon their assessment of 

the mission, theater terrain, enemy, one’s own forces, and time. Failure to 

adjust to new circumstances would lead to defeats, like those inflicted at 

Tannenberg and along the Marne. He wrote:

Only an amateur [profan] can think that the entire campaign will unfold according to the prearranged plan without a deviation and that the original plan could 

be maintained up to the end in all its features. Of course, the military commander 

never lets his main objective pass from view and is not distracted by accidents or 

changes in events but he cannot predetermine beforehand with confidence the path 

by which to achieve this goal.28

The more scientific the approach to operational planning, the greater the 

ability to reduce risk to manageable dimensions and the higher the probability of success in the conduct of operations.29

Thus, the legacy of the tsarist general staff provided the Red Army 

with an intellectual legacy conducive to the study and use of past operations. One of the most important vehicles for such work was the Commission for the Study and Use of the Experience of the War, 1914–1918, 

which the Soviet government created in 1918 and which Svechin soon 

headed. The focus of the commission’s work was to be the operations of 

all belligerents.30 However, intellectual speculation about the nature of 

operations took second place to the conduct of war for most officers of 

the newly founded Red Army. As Civil War tore apart the fabric of Russian society, the Soviet Republic created its own “new model army.” By 

recruiting former officers, the Bolsheviks sought to exploit the professional talents of a “class enemy” to secure the survival of their new order. 

The recruitment of military specialists (voenspetsy) was to some measure 

the product of the Bolsheviks’ and Lenin’s attitude toward the professional expertise of the “spetsy.”31 Among the officers who joined the Red 

Army it was in part the product of a commitment to a transcendent Russian nationalism. Such sentiments moved General Brusilov to offer his 

services to the Soviet State during the Polish invasion in the spring of 

1920. Finally, it was partly a matter of luck and prerevolutionary ties.

By the end of 1918 with the help of the military specialists the Soviet 

Republic had raised an army of 300,000 men, instituted conscription, 
220 historical perspectives of the operational art 

plan those actions that would frustrate them. In short, the staff engaged 

in a struggle with time and space to make possible the decisive concentration of combat power on the main direction of possible attack in a timely 

fashion. In making such calculations, planners had to employ norms, 

based upon the combat experience of actual troops and not arbitrary assessments. Izmest’ev believed that the estimates upon which the war plan 

was based should for the most part be “mathematically absolutely exact 

estimate[s].” Such calculations did not end with the first operations of 

the initial phase of the war. After that the commander and his staff would 

have to engage in their own calculations based upon their assessment of 

the mission, theater terrain, enemy, one’s own forces, and time. Failure to 

adjust to new circumstances would lead to defeats, like those inflicted at 

Tannenberg and along the Marne. He wrote:

Only an amateur [profan] can think that the entire campaign will unfold according to the prearranged plan without a deviation and that the original plan could 

be maintained up to the end in all its features. Of course, the military commander 

never lets his main objective pass from view and is not distracted by accidents or 

changes in events but he cannot predetermine beforehand with confidence the path 

by which to achieve this goal.28

The more scientific the approach to operational planning, the greater the 

ability to reduce risk to manageable dimensions and the higher the probability of success in the conduct of operations.29

Thus, the legacy of the tsarist general staff provided the Red Army 

with an intellectual legacy conducive to the study and use of past operations. One of the most important vehicles for such work was the Commission for the Study and Use of the Experience of the War, 1914–1918, 

which the Soviet government created in 1918 and which Svechin soon 

headed. The focus of the commission’s work was to be the operations of 

all belligerents.30 However, intellectual speculation about the nature of 

operations took second place to the conduct of war for most officers of 

the newly founded Red Army. As Civil War tore apart the fabric of Russian society, the Soviet Republic created its own “new model army.” By 

recruiting former officers, the Bolsheviks sought to exploit the professional talents of a “class enemy” to secure the survival of their new order. 

The recruitment of military specialists (voenspetsy) was to some measure 

the product of the Bolsheviks’ and Lenin’s attitude toward the professional expertise of the “spetsy.”31 Among the officers who joined the Red 

Army it was in part the product of a commitment to a transcendent Russian nationalism. Such sentiments moved General Brusilov to offer his 

services to the Soviet State during the Polish invasion in the spring of 

1920. Finally, it was partly a matter of luck and prerevolutionary ties.

By the end of 1918 with the help of the military specialists the Soviet 

Republic had raised an army of 300,000 men, instituted conscription, 
222 historical perspectives of the operational art 

response to tactical developments. Second, it emphasized the dissemination of such uniform tactical views to all combat arms so that combined 

arms would come naturally at the tactical level. Third, it established a 

specific need to educate senior commanders in the conduct of operations. 

Creativity was to be most prized here.40

The marriage of the RKKA with the voenspetsy proved stormy but 

successful. However, during the war and after it a gulf opened between 

voenspetsy and the young Red commanders. Most spetsy dismissed the 

RKKA’s experience, the Civil War, as a poor man’s war, fought with what 

was at hand. Young Red commanders saw the same struggle as the embodiment of a revolutionary class warfare that would sweep the globe. The 

historical orientation of Marxist ideology served as a powerful stimulus 

for this debate, while the Academy of the General Staff provided focus, 

military-historical perspective, and professionally competent judgment 

of that distinctive experience.41

The ideologically correct evaluation of that experience set the context 

for the postwar polemics between Frunze and Trotsky within the Communist Party regarding the appropriateness of a “unified military doctrine” 

for the Soviet state and the Red Army. Commissar for Military Affairs 

Trotsky argued that the Civil War experience had not created the basis 

for a Marxist military science. Indeed, Marxism had no right to make any 

such claim regarding military art and science. Frunze, the Bolshevik commander, self-taught military intellectual, and victor over Baron Wrangel, 

contested that point. He argued that the revolutionary nature of the new 

state, the Red Army, and its combat experience had forged the conditions 

for the formulation of a unified military doctrine, “which determines the 

character of the construction of the country’s armed forces, the methods of 

combat training for troops and command personnel.” The ruling group’s 

concept of its military system was in turn shaped by class relations, external threat, and the level of the nation’s economic development.42 Trotsky, 

like the prewar opponents of a unified military doctrine, worried that giving official sanction to a particular concept would invite the transformation of doctrine into an ossified dogma. He feared efforts to universalize 

the validity of the combat experience derived from the Civil War.43

This intraparty debate in the minds of many officers was an explicit 

echo of the prewar debate over a “unified military doctrine.” Supporters 

of Trotsky’s position within the Academy of the General Staff noted the 

linkage between Frunze’s views and those of Svechin and Neznamov. 

When veterans of the Civil War returned to the Academy, they called 

for a revision of the curriculum to emphasize the “Higher Studies on 

War.” This program was nothing more than the tsarist reformers’ program 

dressed in revolutionary red. As D. Petrovsky observed, the struggle between students and faculty at the Academy reflected this earlier fight over 

military doctrine:
222 historical perspectives of the operational art 

response to tactical developments. Second, it emphasized the dissemination of such uniform tactical views to all combat arms so that combined 

arms would come naturally at the tactical level. Third, it established a 

specific need to educate senior commanders in the conduct of operations. 

Creativity was to be most prized here.40

The marriage of the RKKA with the voenspetsy proved stormy but 

successful. However, during the war and after it a gulf opened between 

voenspetsy and the young Red commanders. Most spetsy dismissed the 

RKKA’s experience, the Civil War, as a poor man’s war, fought with what 

was at hand. Young Red commanders saw the same struggle as the embodiment of a revolutionary class warfare that would sweep the globe. The 

historical orientation of Marxist ideology served as a powerful stimulus 

for this debate, while the Academy of the General Staff provided focus, 

military-historical perspective, and professionally competent judgment 

of that distinctive experience.41

The ideologically correct evaluation of that experience set the context 

for the postwar polemics between Frunze and Trotsky within the Communist Party regarding the appropriateness of a “unified military doctrine” 

for the Soviet state and the Red Army. Commissar for Military Affairs 

Trotsky argued that the Civil War experience had not created the basis 

for a Marxist military science. Indeed, Marxism had no right to make any 

such claim regarding military art and science. Frunze, the Bolshevik commander, self-taught military intellectual, and victor over Baron Wrangel, 

contested that point. He argued that the revolutionary nature of the new 

state, the Red Army, and its combat experience had forged the conditions 

for the formulation of a unified military doctrine, “which determines the 

character of the construction of the country’s armed forces, the methods of 

combat training for troops and command personnel.” The ruling group’s 

concept of its military system was in turn shaped by class relations, external threat, and the level of the nation’s economic development.42 Trotsky, 

like the prewar opponents of a unified military doctrine, worried that giving official sanction to a particular concept would invite the transformation of doctrine into an ossified dogma. He feared efforts to universalize 

the validity of the combat experience derived from the Civil War.43

This intraparty debate in the minds of many officers was an explicit 

echo of the prewar debate over a “unified military doctrine.” Supporters 

of Trotsky’s position within the Academy of the General Staff noted the 

linkage between Frunze’s views and those of Svechin and Neznamov. 

When veterans of the Civil War returned to the Academy, they called 

for a revision of the curriculum to emphasize the “Higher Studies on 

War.” This program was nothing more than the tsarist reformers’ program 

dressed in revolutionary red. As D. Petrovsky observed, the struggle between students and faculty at the Academy reflected this earlier fight over 

military doctrine:
224 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Tukhachevsky prepared the Western Front for an offensive, he instituted 

a campaign to extract 40,000 deserters from Belorussia’s villages for 

service. Within a month the Western Front found that it had extracted 

100,000 deserters, whose presence taxed the supply and training capacity 

of the front.47 Such reinforcements were unstable in the attack and tended 

to vanish at the first sign of disaster.

The second reality of the Civil War was the fact that the Bolsheviks 

controlled the central heartland around Moscow and managed to maintain an effective, if much reduced in scale, rail system, which permitted them to use their internal lines of communication to great effect. On 

the other hand, the White Armies fought on the periphery of Russia, in 

lands often inhabited by non-Russians who had no great interest in the 

revival of a centralized Russian state. The presence of the White Armies 

on the periphery, especially in southern Russia, the Kuban, and Siberia, meant that operations were frequently conducted in “underdeveloped 

[malokul’turnye] theaters of military action.” As R. Tsiffer observed in 

1928, the Civil War seemed to confirm the general rule that the more 

developed the theater of war, the more likely the emergence of positional 

forms of warfare; conversely, the less developed the theater of war, the 

greater the opportunities for the employment of maneuver forms of combat.48 This situation, when linked to the low density of forces, the ineffectiveness of logistical services, and the low combat stability, created conditions for a war of maneuver. It was not uncommon, as Tukhachevsky 

pointed out, to have each side launch operations that would sweep 1,000 

versts (600 miles) forward and another 1,000 versts back.49 The instability of the rear in military and political terms meant that a successful offensive, if a vigorous pursuit could be maintained, would often lead to the 

routing of the opponent and the disintegration of his political base.

Maneuver in this case took the form of a “ram” of forces directed at 

the enemy in the hope of disorganizing and demoralizing him. It would be 

fair to characterize this operational approach as an attempt to substitute 

mobility for maneuver. The Red Army lacked either the staff assets or 

communication facilities to sustain the necessary command and control 

to carry out more complex maneuvers that might lead to the encirclement 

and destruction of enemy forces.50 In Tukhachevsky’s case this approach 

was linked with the concept of political subversion and class war as a 

combat multiplier, what he called “the revolution from without.”51

One of the most conspicuous developments of the Civil War was 

the resurgence of cavalry as a combat arm. Russian cavalry had not distinguished itself particularly during World War I. Now under civil war 

conditions, cavalry recovered its place as the combat arm of a war of 

maneuver. The loyalty of the Don Cossacks and the support of many senior cavalry commanders gave the Whites substantial initial advantages 

in the use of this arm. Trotsky’s famous call, “Proletarians to horse!” ini224 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Tukhachevsky prepared the Western Front for an offensive, he instituted 

a campaign to extract 40,000 deserters from Belorussia’s villages for 

service. Within a month the Western Front found that it had extracted 

100,000 deserters, whose presence taxed the supply and training capacity 

of the front.47 Such reinforcements were unstable in the attack and tended 

to vanish at the first sign of disaster.

The second reality of the Civil War was the fact that the Bolsheviks 

controlled the central heartland around Moscow and managed to maintain an effective, if much reduced in scale, rail system, which permitted them to use their internal lines of communication to great effect. On 

the other hand, the White Armies fought on the periphery of Russia, in 

lands often inhabited by non-Russians who had no great interest in the 

revival of a centralized Russian state. The presence of the White Armies 

on the periphery, especially in southern Russia, the Kuban, and Siberia, meant that operations were frequently conducted in “underdeveloped 

[malokul’turnye] theaters of military action.” As R. Tsiffer observed in 

1928, the Civil War seemed to confirm the general rule that the more 

developed the theater of war, the more likely the emergence of positional 

forms of warfare; conversely, the less developed the theater of war, the 

greater the opportunities for the employment of maneuver forms of combat.48 This situation, when linked to the low density of forces, the ineffectiveness of logistical services, and the low combat stability, created conditions for a war of maneuver. It was not uncommon, as Tukhachevsky 

pointed out, to have each side launch operations that would sweep 1,000 

versts (600 miles) forward and another 1,000 versts back.49 The instability of the rear in military and political terms meant that a successful offensive, if a vigorous pursuit could be maintained, would often lead to the 

routing of the opponent and the disintegration of his political base.

Maneuver in this case took the form of a “ram” of forces directed at 

the enemy in the hope of disorganizing and demoralizing him. It would be 

fair to characterize this operational approach as an attempt to substitute 

mobility for maneuver. The Red Army lacked either the staff assets or 

communication facilities to sustain the necessary command and control 

to carry out more complex maneuvers that might lead to the encirclement 

and destruction of enemy forces.50 In Tukhachevsky’s case this approach 

was linked with the concept of political subversion and class war as a 

combat multiplier, what he called “the revolution from without.”51

One of the most conspicuous developments of the Civil War was 

the resurgence of cavalry as a combat arm. Russian cavalry had not distinguished itself particularly during World War I. Now under civil war 

conditions, cavalry recovered its place as the combat arm of a war of 

maneuver. The loyalty of the Don Cossacks and the support of many senior cavalry commanders gave the Whites substantial initial advantages 

in the use of this arm. Trotsky’s famous call, “Proletarians to horse!” ini226 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and an independent cavalry brigade was also included.59 The basic units 

of the Konarmiya were its cavalry divisions, armed with rifles, sabers, 

revolvers, and hand grenades. Each division was also to have, according 

to its table of organization and equipment, twenty-four machine guns 

mounted on tachanki, but in practice the number was often two or three 

times higher. The most effective commanders used such guns to provide 

concentrated fire. Each division also had its own artillery, three batteries 

of light field guns and one battery of 45-mm. howitzers. In offensive operations it also became common practice to assign a “mounted infantry” 

to each cavalry army. This force amounted to about one battalion for each 

cavalry division—a battalion being between 1,000 and 1,300 men—and 

eighteen machine guns mounted on roughly 200 tachanki.

60

Budennyî’s Red Cavalry quickly became the stuff of legends. Isaac 

Babel, who served as a political commissar with one of its units, immortalized its exploits in a series of short stories.61 The legend later turned 

into official myth as Budennyî, Voroshilov, and Stalin invented history to 

fit their own cults of personality. In the decade after the Civil War it was 

still possible to give a reasonably objective evaluation to the contribution 

of the Konarmiya and strategic cavalry in general to Soviet operations on 

the various fronts of the Civil War.

Strategic cavalry repeatedly played the role of shock force, striking 

deep into the enemy rear, disrupting his command and control, and demoralizing his forces. Among the most celebrated of these operations 

were those in the Ukraine in June–July 1920, when the Konarmiya was 

redeployed from the Caucasian Front to the Southwestern Front to form 

the strike group for a drive to liberate Kiev and push the Poles out of the 

Ukraine. At the start of the operation, Budennyî’s Konarmiya had 18,000 

sabers, 52 guns, 350 machine guns, 5 armored trains, an armored car detachment, and 8 aircraft. The Polish Third Army was spread thin and had 

few effective reserves. Thus, one cavalry division was able to slip through 

the lines and mount a raid on Zhitomir-Berdichev in the first week of 

June. The Polish commander responded by shortening his lines and giving up Kiev. The blows of the Konarmiya were in this case combined with 

pressure from the Soviet Twelfth Army, and this created the impression 

that the Polish defenders faced the possibility of being surrounded and 

cut off.62 Polish cavalry proved totally ineffective in maintaining contact 

with Budennyî’s forces. Over the next month the Konarmiya took part in 

heavy fighting around Rovno, taking that town by a flanking maneuver 

on 4 July, losing it to a Polish counterattack on 9 July, and regaining it by 

direct assault the next day.

Budennyî’s force engaged in forty-three days of intensive combat 

without effective logistical support. Cavalry brigades, which at the start 

of the campaign had numbered 1,500 sabers, were down to 500 or fewer 

by the end of the fighting. The fighting at Zhitomir and Rovno exem226 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and an independent cavalry brigade was also included.59 The basic units 

of the Konarmiya were its cavalry divisions, armed with rifles, sabers, 

revolvers, and hand grenades. Each division was also to have, according 

to its table of organization and equipment, twenty-four machine guns 

mounted on tachanki, but in practice the number was often two or three 

times higher. The most effective commanders used such guns to provide 

concentrated fire. Each division also had its own artillery, three batteries 

of light field guns and one battery of 45-mm. howitzers. In offensive operations it also became common practice to assign a “mounted infantry” 

to each cavalry army. This force amounted to about one battalion for each 

cavalry division—a battalion being between 1,000 and 1,300 men—and 

eighteen machine guns mounted on roughly 200 tachanki.

60

Budennyî’s Red Cavalry quickly became the stuff of legends. Isaac 

Babel, who served as a political commissar with one of its units, immortalized its exploits in a series of short stories.61 The legend later turned 

into official myth as Budennyî, Voroshilov, and Stalin invented history to 

fit their own cults of personality. In the decade after the Civil War it was 

still possible to give a reasonably objective evaluation to the contribution 

of the Konarmiya and strategic cavalry in general to Soviet operations on 

the various fronts of the Civil War.

Strategic cavalry repeatedly played the role of shock force, striking 

deep into the enemy rear, disrupting his command and control, and demoralizing his forces. Among the most celebrated of these operations 

were those in the Ukraine in June–July 1920, when the Konarmiya was 

redeployed from the Caucasian Front to the Southwestern Front to form 

the strike group for a drive to liberate Kiev and push the Poles out of the 

Ukraine. At the start of the operation, Budennyî’s Konarmiya had 18,000 

sabers, 52 guns, 350 machine guns, 5 armored trains, an armored car detachment, and 8 aircraft. The Polish Third Army was spread thin and had 

few effective reserves. Thus, one cavalry division was able to slip through 

the lines and mount a raid on Zhitomir-Berdichev in the first week of 

June. The Polish commander responded by shortening his lines and giving up Kiev. The blows of the Konarmiya were in this case combined with 

pressure from the Soviet Twelfth Army, and this created the impression 

that the Polish defenders faced the possibility of being surrounded and 

cut off.62 Polish cavalry proved totally ineffective in maintaining contact 

with Budennyî’s forces. Over the next month the Konarmiya took part in 

heavy fighting around Rovno, taking that town by a flanking maneuver 

on 4 July, losing it to a Polish counterattack on 9 July, and regaining it by 

direct assault the next day.

Budennyî’s force engaged in forty-three days of intensive combat 

without effective logistical support. Cavalry brigades, which at the start 

of the campaign had numbered 1,500 sabers, were down to 500 or fewer 

by the end of the fighting. The fighting at Zhitomir and Rovno exem228 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ward Lublin to relieve pressure on the Western Front. Southwestern Front 

Commander A. I. Egorov, in the words of Triandafillov, found himself 

caught trying to manage operations on two axes without staff support and 

did not feel “the beating pulse of the operation.”68 Thus, Tukhachevsky’s 

Western Front lacked support from the south when its Fourth, Fifteenth, 

and Third armies tried to turn Warsaw from the north by crossing the 

Vistula between Modlin and Plock. Since Joseph Stalin served as the Political Commissar of the Konarmiya, Budennyî’s independence and insubordination became entangled in the political struggles following Lenin’s 

death. Under Stalin’s cult of personality the unpleasant truth about Lvov 

and Warsaw was covered up by blaming Trotsky, the Commissar of War, 

for ordering the regrouping of forces to support a drive on Lublin.69

The Development of Soviet Operational Art

Before Stalin, Budennyî, and Voroshilov were able to rewrite history to their own liking, a host of Soviet works in the 1920s addressed 

the Vistula Campaign in a critical and fruitful manner. Some of this was 

undoubtedly fueled by the usual postwar “battle of the memoirs.” However, there was something more to the Soviet debates. Marshal Pilsudski 

caught the kernel of this difference when he observed that Tukhachevsky’s 

published account of the campaign showed an “extraordinary penchant 

for the abstract.” He noted that the underlying theme of the work was 

“an attempt at the solution of the problem of handling great masses on 

a large scale.”70 The Soviet military authors, including Tukhachevsky’s 

defenders and critics, seem to have taken seriously Neznamov’s assertion 

regarding the role of historical criticism in the development of military 

theory: “It would seem that nothing could be higher than experience in 

war itself, and yet historical experience shows us that without the criticism of science, without the book, it, too, is of no use.”71

The emphasis was on the development of military theory, and A. 

Verkhovsky, a voenspets and professor of tactics at the Military Academy, seems close to the truth when he describes the internal struggle 

among military intellectuals as a contest between right and left flanks 

for support. The former wanted to take the realities of World War I and 

the Civil War and codify them into military doctrine, while the latter 

sought to envision a future “class war,” which negated the more mundane 

concerns of the military art.72 The debate and a very sharp, almost brutal 

criticism, which did not spare personal feelings, seem to have kept these 

two flanks in a dynamic balance, creating the necessary conditions for 

the emergence of a distinctive Soviet operational art, which addressed the 

conduct of initial operations in a future war.

The emergence of operational art as a specific topic of study within 

the Red Army coincided with the end of the Civil War, the introduction 
228 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ward Lublin to relieve pressure on the Western Front. Southwestern Front 

Commander A. I. Egorov, in the words of Triandafillov, found himself 

caught trying to manage operations on two axes without staff support and 

did not feel “the beating pulse of the operation.”68 Thus, Tukhachevsky’s 

Western Front lacked support from the south when its Fourth, Fifteenth, 

and Third armies tried to turn Warsaw from the north by crossing the 

Vistula between Modlin and Plock. Since Joseph Stalin served as the Political Commissar of the Konarmiya, Budennyî’s independence and insubordination became entangled in the political struggles following Lenin’s 

death. Under Stalin’s cult of personality the unpleasant truth about Lvov 

and Warsaw was covered up by blaming Trotsky, the Commissar of War, 

for ordering the regrouping of forces to support a drive on Lublin.69

The Development of Soviet Operational Art

Before Stalin, Budennyî, and Voroshilov were able to rewrite history to their own liking, a host of Soviet works in the 1920s addressed 

the Vistula Campaign in a critical and fruitful manner. Some of this was 

undoubtedly fueled by the usual postwar “battle of the memoirs.” However, there was something more to the Soviet debates. Marshal Pilsudski 

caught the kernel of this difference when he observed that Tukhachevsky’s 

published account of the campaign showed an “extraordinary penchant 

for the abstract.” He noted that the underlying theme of the work was 

“an attempt at the solution of the problem of handling great masses on 

a large scale.”70 The Soviet military authors, including Tukhachevsky’s 

defenders and critics, seem to have taken seriously Neznamov’s assertion 

regarding the role of historical criticism in the development of military 

theory: “It would seem that nothing could be higher than experience in 

war itself, and yet historical experience shows us that without the criticism of science, without the book, it, too, is of no use.”71

The emphasis was on the development of military theory, and A. 

Verkhovsky, a voenspets and professor of tactics at the Military Academy, seems close to the truth when he describes the internal struggle 

among military intellectuals as a contest between right and left flanks 

for support. The former wanted to take the realities of World War I and 

the Civil War and codify them into military doctrine, while the latter 

sought to envision a future “class war,” which negated the more mundane 

concerns of the military art.72 The debate and a very sharp, almost brutal 

criticism, which did not spare personal feelings, seem to have kept these 

two flanks in a dynamic balance, creating the necessary conditions for 

the emergence of a distinctive Soviet operational art, which addressed the 

conduct of initial operations in a future war.

The emergence of operational art as a specific topic of study within 

the Red Army coincided with the end of the Civil War, the introduction 
230 historical perspectives of the operational art 

being used to describe the more complex combat of World War I and the 

Civil War. “Grand tactics” and “lower strategy” were employed but without rigor or definition. Only in 1923–1924 did Svechin tackle the problem by proposing an intermediary category, which he called operational 

art. This he defined as the “totality of maneuvers and battles in a given 

part of a theater of military action directed toward the achievement of the 

common goal, set as final in the given period of the campaign.”76 These 

lectures served as the basis for Svechin’s Strategiya, which appeared in 

1926. Here Svechin for the first time wrote about the nature of “operational art” and its relationship to strategy and tactics.77 As Svechin formulated this relation: “Then, battle is the means of the operation. Tactics 

are the material of operational art. The operation is the means of strategy, 

and operational art is the material of strategy. This is the essence of the 

three-part formula.”78

Svechin’s own work then turned toward the study of the problem of 

national preparation for war. Here he emphasized the need to address 

the political and economic preparation of the nation for war. His formulation of two competing strategic postures—annihilation (sokrushenie) 

and attrition (izmor)—raised a host of issues regarding the relationship 

between operational art and the paradigm of future war. Drawing on the 

work of Delbrueck, Svechin was critical of the German general staff’s 

one-sided emphasis upon the conduct of decisive operations in the initial 

period of war.79 Svechin saw the seeds of disaster in such short-war illusions. He stressed the need to prepare for a long war, given the geostrategic and political situation confronting the USSR. Here Svechin emphasized political and economic objectives for strategy at the expense of the 

enemy’s armed forces as the center of gravity.

This focus led Svechin and others to consider the problem of the 

relationship between the civilian and military leadership in the conduct 

of war and in preparations for war. Svechin argued that one of the legacies of Russia’s heritage of frontier warfare was the tendency of military 

commanders to turn their own rear areas into satrapies, where immediate 

supply requirements of front commands took precedence over a rational 

mobilization of the entire state economy. He criticized such a narrow perception of military logistics and emphasized the need for a unification of 

front and rear through the planned mobilization of the entire “state rear,” 

by which he meant the national economy, to the purposes of supporting 

front operations.80 With Frunze, Svechin shared a concern for the need 

to mobilize the entire national economy for the prosecution of what he 

saw as protracted warfare. Using Conrad von Hoetzendorf’s memoirs as 

a vehicle to explore the role of the general staff in modern war and preparations for war, the voenspets-genshtabist Boris Mikhailovich Shaposhnikov characterized that role as “the brain of the army.”81 While Svechin 

emphasized the need for close cooperation between the state apparatus 
230 historical perspectives of the operational art 

being used to describe the more complex combat of World War I and the 

Civil War. “Grand tactics” and “lower strategy” were employed but without rigor or definition. Only in 1923–1924 did Svechin tackle the problem by proposing an intermediary category, which he called operational 

art. This he defined as the “totality of maneuvers and battles in a given 

part of a theater of military action directed toward the achievement of the 

common goal, set as final in the given period of the campaign.”76 These 

lectures served as the basis for Svechin’s Strategiya, which appeared in 

1926. Here Svechin for the first time wrote about the nature of “operational art” and its relationship to strategy and tactics.77 As Svechin formulated this relation: “Then, battle is the means of the operation. Tactics 

are the material of operational art. The operation is the means of strategy, 

and operational art is the material of strategy. This is the essence of the 

three-part formula.”78

Svechin’s own work then turned toward the study of the problem of 

national preparation for war. Here he emphasized the need to address 

the political and economic preparation of the nation for war. His formulation of two competing strategic postures—annihilation (sokrushenie) 

and attrition (izmor)—raised a host of issues regarding the relationship 

between operational art and the paradigm of future war. Drawing on the 

work of Delbrueck, Svechin was critical of the German general staff’s 

one-sided emphasis upon the conduct of decisive operations in the initial 

period of war.79 Svechin saw the seeds of disaster in such short-war illusions. He stressed the need to prepare for a long war, given the geostrategic and political situation confronting the USSR. Here Svechin emphasized political and economic objectives for strategy at the expense of the 

enemy’s armed forces as the center of gravity.

This focus led Svechin and others to consider the problem of the 

relationship between the civilian and military leadership in the conduct 

of war and in preparations for war. Svechin argued that one of the legacies of Russia’s heritage of frontier warfare was the tendency of military 

commanders to turn their own rear areas into satrapies, where immediate 

supply requirements of front commands took precedence over a rational 

mobilization of the entire state economy. He criticized such a narrow perception of military logistics and emphasized the need for a unification of 

front and rear through the planned mobilization of the entire “state rear,” 

by which he meant the national economy, to the purposes of supporting 

front operations.80 With Frunze, Svechin shared a concern for the need 

to mobilize the entire national economy for the prosecution of what he 

saw as protracted warfare. Using Conrad von Hoetzendorf’s memoirs as 

a vehicle to explore the role of the general staff in modern war and preparations for war, the voenspets-genshtabist Boris Mikhailovich Shaposhnikov characterized that role as “the brain of the army.”81 While Svechin 

emphasized the need for close cooperation between the state apparatus 
232 historical perspectives of the operational art 

erations. One of the major breakthroughs in getting students to master 

operational art at the Military Academy was a shift from formal lectures 

and special studies to actual operational-scale wargaming. Each student 

was expected to apply norms and do those calculations that the members 

of front and army staffs had to do in preparing for an operation. Young 

tacticians might object to calculating the veterinary support for a front 

offensive, but the faculty found such assignments the very best way to 

get across to students the relationship between staff planning and the successful conduct of operations.85

Varfolomeev found the roots of the theory of deep, successive operations in Tukhachevsky’s attempt to use the techniques of class war and 

civil war in an “external war” against a much-better-prepared adversary. 

He saw the failure of the Vistula operation as rooted in Tukhachevsky’s 

overoptimistic evaluation of the potential for “intensification of the revolution” within Poland by means of “a revolution from without” (revolyutsiya izvne) and the mounting exhaustion with the Red Army, brought 

on by attrition and the total disorganization of the rear services during the 

advance.86 Prudent operational plans, which took into account the need to 

break through and penetrate the enemy’s defenses throughout their depth, 

sobered revolutionary élan. In the 1930s he turned his attention to the employment of shock armies in the offensive and the problem of overcoming 

enemy operational reserves as they joined the engagement. In these studies he focused upon the German and Allied offensives of 1918, especially 

the Anglo-French offensive at Amien in August 1918. The Amien operation was noteworthy for both the achievement of surprise and the mass 

employment of armor and aviation to achieve a breakthrough.87

The logistical parameters of deep successive operations to a great extent depended upon the visions of the Soviet Union as a political economy 

and the nature of the external threat. In the hands of Svechin and those 

like him who emphasized the need to prepare for a long war, the maintenance of the workers’ and peasants’ alliance became the central reality 

of the Soviet Union’s domestic mobilization base. Such a view assumed 

that Lenin’s New Economic Policy, with its emphasis upon agriculture’s 

recovery, would be the long-term policy of the USSR. At the same time, 

such authors cast the nature of the external threat in terms of the states 

immediately bordering the USSR. They could not ignore postwar developments in military technology, but they concluded that Europe was in 

fact divided into two parts, two military-technical systems. The west was 

industrial, and the potential for a mechanization of warfare was there to 

be seen. Eastern Europe, which included the USSR, was dominated by a 

peasant economy and a “peasant rear” (krest’ianskiî tyl).88

One of the most important advocates of an operational art adapted 

to the realities of a future war fought on the basis of a peasant rear was 

V. K. Triandafillov. Triandafillov had served in the tsarist army during 
232 historical perspectives of the operational art 

erations. One of the major breakthroughs in getting students to master 

operational art at the Military Academy was a shift from formal lectures 

and special studies to actual operational-scale wargaming. Each student 

was expected to apply norms and do those calculations that the members 

of front and army staffs had to do in preparing for an operation. Young 

tacticians might object to calculating the veterinary support for a front 

offensive, but the faculty found such assignments the very best way to 

get across to students the relationship between staff planning and the successful conduct of operations.85

Varfolomeev found the roots of the theory of deep, successive operations in Tukhachevsky’s attempt to use the techniques of class war and 

civil war in an “external war” against a much-better-prepared adversary. 

He saw the failure of the Vistula operation as rooted in Tukhachevsky’s 

overoptimistic evaluation of the potential for “intensification of the revolution” within Poland by means of “a revolution from without” (revolyutsiya izvne) and the mounting exhaustion with the Red Army, brought 

on by attrition and the total disorganization of the rear services during the 

advance.86 Prudent operational plans, which took into account the need to 

break through and penetrate the enemy’s defenses throughout their depth, 

sobered revolutionary élan. In the 1930s he turned his attention to the employment of shock armies in the offensive and the problem of overcoming 

enemy operational reserves as they joined the engagement. In these studies he focused upon the German and Allied offensives of 1918, especially 

the Anglo-French offensive at Amien in August 1918. The Amien operation was noteworthy for both the achievement of surprise and the mass 

employment of armor and aviation to achieve a breakthrough.87

The logistical parameters of deep successive operations to a great extent depended upon the visions of the Soviet Union as a political economy 

and the nature of the external threat. In the hands of Svechin and those 

like him who emphasized the need to prepare for a long war, the maintenance of the workers’ and peasants’ alliance became the central reality 

of the Soviet Union’s domestic mobilization base. Such a view assumed 

that Lenin’s New Economic Policy, with its emphasis upon agriculture’s 

recovery, would be the long-term policy of the USSR. At the same time, 

such authors cast the nature of the external threat in terms of the states 

immediately bordering the USSR. They could not ignore postwar developments in military technology, but they concluded that Europe was in 

fact divided into two parts, two military-technical systems. The west was 

industrial, and the potential for a mechanization of warfare was there to 

be seen. Eastern Europe, which included the USSR, was dominated by a 

peasant economy and a “peasant rear” (krest’ianskiî tyl).88

One of the most important advocates of an operational art adapted 

to the realities of a future war fought on the basis of a peasant rear was 

V. K. Triandafillov. Triandafillov had served in the tsarist army during 
234 historical perspectives of the operational art 

scribed by Triandafillov and the regulations were modernized versions of 

the Red Army from the Civil War.

This vision was in keeping with what Svechin had described as the 

political-military context of Soviet strategy. The threat assessment outlined in Triandafillov’s book corresponded with Svechin’s modest and 

prudent vision of the immediate threat to the USSR and the limited offensive capabilities the Soviet state could reasonably hope to field in the 

initial period of a future war. Recently, Russian military and civilian 

analysts have begun a positive reappraisal of Svechin’s views in the late 

1920s with their emphasis upon attrition and defense in the initial period 

of war.92 For instance, in 1989 A. A. Kokoshin pointed to Svechin’s early 

and correct assessment of German geopolitics and the threat of a rearmed 

Germany to Poland.93

The Mechanization of Deep Operations

Triandafillov died in an airplane crash in 1931, before he had a 

chance to complete a new and revised edition of his book. The outline for 

this revision, which was published in posthumous editions of his book, 

does contain some clues as to the major changes that he envisioned. First, 

in keeping with the new party line on the external threat, Triandafillov 

addressed both the crisis of capitalism and the increased risk of direct 

attack upon the USSR by one or more major capitalist powers. Second, 

Triandafillov began to address the problem of employing massed armor 

in the offensive. The first Five-Year Plan had promised to industrialize 

the USSR, and now it was possible to put the USSR within the ranks of 

the modern western European states and the United States. Third, Triandafillov specifically turned his attention to the role of mechanized combined-arms formations in the conduct of deep operations. The outline is 

at best a sketch without details. Russian officers have been willing to say 

that these few remarks anticipate the mechanization of successive deep 

operations as presented in the 1936 Field Regulations.94

There were other advocates of operational art, who argued that technological developments and the nature of the external threat made it absolutely essential to carry out a total mechanization of the Red Army 

and Soviet rear. One of the leading proponents of such views was Tukhachevsky, who had been Triandafillov’s immediate boss as chief of the 

RKKA Staff from 1925 to 1928. Tukhachevsky argued that what was 

required to make the new operational art into a sound strategic posture 

was nothing less than “complete militarization” of the national economy 

to provide the new instruments of mechanized warfare. Committed to 

an operational art that would end in the total destruction of the enemy 

Tukhachevsky crossed pens with Svechin, whom he accused of being 

an advocate of attrition.95 According to G. S. Isserson, one of his closest 
234 historical perspectives of the operational art 

scribed by Triandafillov and the regulations were modernized versions of 

the Red Army from the Civil War.

This vision was in keeping with what Svechin had described as the 

political-military context of Soviet strategy. The threat assessment outlined in Triandafillov’s book corresponded with Svechin’s modest and 

prudent vision of the immediate threat to the USSR and the limited offensive capabilities the Soviet state could reasonably hope to field in the 

initial period of a future war. Recently, Russian military and civilian 

analysts have begun a positive reappraisal of Svechin’s views in the late 

1920s with their emphasis upon attrition and defense in the initial period 

of war.92 For instance, in 1989 A. A. Kokoshin pointed to Svechin’s early 

and correct assessment of German geopolitics and the threat of a rearmed 

Germany to Poland.93

The Mechanization of Deep Operations

Triandafillov died in an airplane crash in 1931, before he had a 

chance to complete a new and revised edition of his book. The outline for 

this revision, which was published in posthumous editions of his book, 

does contain some clues as to the major changes that he envisioned. First, 

in keeping with the new party line on the external threat, Triandafillov 

addressed both the crisis of capitalism and the increased risk of direct 

attack upon the USSR by one or more major capitalist powers. Second, 

Triandafillov began to address the problem of employing massed armor 

in the offensive. The first Five-Year Plan had promised to industrialize 

the USSR, and now it was possible to put the USSR within the ranks of 

the modern western European states and the United States. Third, Triandafillov specifically turned his attention to the role of mechanized combined-arms formations in the conduct of deep operations. The outline is 

at best a sketch without details. Russian officers have been willing to say 

that these few remarks anticipate the mechanization of successive deep 

operations as presented in the 1936 Field Regulations.94

There were other advocates of operational art, who argued that technological developments and the nature of the external threat made it absolutely essential to carry out a total mechanization of the Red Army 

and Soviet rear. One of the leading proponents of such views was Tukhachevsky, who had been Triandafillov’s immediate boss as chief of the 

RKKA Staff from 1925 to 1928. Tukhachevsky argued that what was 

required to make the new operational art into a sound strategic posture 

was nothing less than “complete militarization” of the national economy 

to provide the new instruments of mechanized warfare. Committed to 

an operational art that would end in the total destruction of the enemy 

Tukhachevsky crossed pens with Svechin, whom he accused of being 

an advocate of attrition.95 According to G. S. Isserson, one of his closest 
236 historical perspectives of the operational art 

operational art. He used a number of forms to present this argument. 

One was the foreword to the Russian translation of Hans Delbrueck’s Geschichte der Kriegskunst im Rahmen der Politischen Geschichte, which 

provided a forum in which to attack Svechin’s concept of attrition as 

the appropriate strategy for the USSR.100 This work was conspicuous for 

the tenor of the political-ideological assault mounted by Tukhachevsky 

against the old genshtabist. In a time of heightened suspicions toward all 

specialists as wreckers, Tukhachevsky called his colleague an idealist in 

Marxist dress.

Worse attacks followed within the confines of the Section for the 

Study of the Problems of War in the Communist Academy. This section 

was organized in 1929 as part of an effort to infuse Marxism-Leninism 

into military science. Within the section, as within the Communist Academy, the notion of a struggle between an old, bourgeois past and a young, 

dynamic communist future was given free rein. Tukhachevsky, armed 

with the appropriate citations from Stalin and Voroshilov, attacked Professors Svechin and Verkhovsky because their writings were infested 

with bourgeois ideology. In Svechin’s case the fault was that he did not 

believe in the possibility of decisive operations but defended the idea 

of limited war. Verkhovsky was charged with favoring a professional 

army at the expense of a mass army. Tukhachevsky spoke positively of 

Triandafillov’s book, but noted some shortcomings.101 His line of criticism fit that offered in a review of Triandafillov’s book, published in 

the spring of 1930, in which the reviewer took the author to task for 

talking of a peasant rear without noting the possibility of transforming 

that rear through industrialization. That industrialization, the reviewer 

pointed out, would make it possible to speed up the massing of forces 

and their maneuver, creating opportunities for decisive operations, if the 

political—revolutionary—possibilities were exploited.102 As we have 

noted above, Triandafillov was himself responding to this new situation 

when he died in 1931.

That same year Tukhachevsky became deputy commissar of Military 

and Naval Affairs, a member of the Revvoensovet, and Director of Armaments for the RKKA. Over the next six years he directed the mechanization of the Red Army, laying the foundations for the creation of mass, 

mechanized forces designed to conduct successive deep operations in a 

war of annihilation. The Stalinist industrialization did make the USSR 

into a major industrial power with the capacity to mechanize its armed 

forces to an extent Triandafillov had never imagined. During that same 

period the nature of the military threat confronting the USSR became 

more complex and serious. To his credit Tukhachevsky never fell into the 

trap of assuming that mechanization would negate mass war. He was an 

informed critic of “Blitzkrieg theory,” and his criticism of the works of 

Fuller, Liddell Hart, and others deserves serious attention. They contain 
236 historical perspectives of the operational art 

operational art. He used a number of forms to present this argument. 

One was the foreword to the Russian translation of Hans Delbrueck’s Geschichte der Kriegskunst im Rahmen der Politischen Geschichte, which 

provided a forum in which to attack Svechin’s concept of attrition as 

the appropriate strategy for the USSR.100 This work was conspicuous for 

the tenor of the political-ideological assault mounted by Tukhachevsky 

against the old genshtabist. In a time of heightened suspicions toward all 

specialists as wreckers, Tukhachevsky called his colleague an idealist in 

Marxist dress.

Worse attacks followed within the confines of the Section for the 

Study of the Problems of War in the Communist Academy. This section 

was organized in 1929 as part of an effort to infuse Marxism-Leninism 

into military science. Within the section, as within the Communist Academy, the notion of a struggle between an old, bourgeois past and a young, 

dynamic communist future was given free rein. Tukhachevsky, armed 

with the appropriate citations from Stalin and Voroshilov, attacked Professors Svechin and Verkhovsky because their writings were infested 

with bourgeois ideology. In Svechin’s case the fault was that he did not 

believe in the possibility of decisive operations but defended the idea 

of limited war. Verkhovsky was charged with favoring a professional 

army at the expense of a mass army. Tukhachevsky spoke positively of 

Triandafillov’s book, but noted some shortcomings.101 His line of criticism fit that offered in a review of Triandafillov’s book, published in 

the spring of 1930, in which the reviewer took the author to task for 

talking of a peasant rear without noting the possibility of transforming 

that rear through industrialization. That industrialization, the reviewer 

pointed out, would make it possible to speed up the massing of forces 

and their maneuver, creating opportunities for decisive operations, if the 

political—revolutionary—possibilities were exploited.102 As we have 

noted above, Triandafillov was himself responding to this new situation 

when he died in 1931.

That same year Tukhachevsky became deputy commissar of Military 

and Naval Affairs, a member of the Revvoensovet, and Director of Armaments for the RKKA. Over the next six years he directed the mechanization of the Red Army, laying the foundations for the creation of mass, 

mechanized forces designed to conduct successive deep operations in a 

war of annihilation. The Stalinist industrialization did make the USSR 

into a major industrial power with the capacity to mechanize its armed 

forces to an extent Triandafillov had never imagined. During that same 

period the nature of the military threat confronting the USSR became 

more complex and serious. To his credit Tukhachevsky never fell into the 

trap of assuming that mechanization would negate mass war. He was an 

informed critic of “Blitzkrieg theory,” and his criticism of the works of 

Fuller, Liddell Hart, and others deserves serious attention. They contain 
238 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Tukhachevsky appreciated the threat that the Wehrmacht posed to 

the Soviet Union and warned of the dangers of Blitzkrieg and surprise 

attack by its Panzers and the Luftwaffe.107 The purge of the military and 

the experience of combat in the Spanish Civil War called the theory of 

deep, successive operations into question on both political-ideological 

and military-operational grounds. The organic development of operational art stopped for almost three years. One might well wonder how 

much that hiatus affected the covering force engagements at the start of 

Operation Barbarossa, the German campaign against the Soviet Union, 

in the Belorussian and Ukrainian theater of military operations when the 

Wehrmacht won Tukhachevsky’s “struggle for the flanks.”108

During the succeeding operations attrition imposed major changes in 

both sides’ force postures, especially their mechanized forces. The autumn 

fighting on the approaches to Moscow resembled more the conditions 

described in Triandafillov’s “peasant rear” than they did Tukhachevsky’s. 

Indeed, Soviet operational art during the winter counteroffensive before 

Moscow, which relied so heavily upon infantry and cavalry in the absence 

of tank, motorized infantry, and aviation, fit Triandafillov’s early model of 

successive operations. Later Soviet offensives did try to put into practice 

the principles of operational art outlined in the 1936 Field Regulations, 

which bore Tukhachevsky’s imprint. Gradually, through a process of trial 

and error, Soviet commanders achieved the skills necessary to handle the 

massive, mechanized forces that the marshal had championed.

None of the architects survived to witness those events. Triandafillov 

had died in an airplane crash in 1931. Tukhachevsky, along with much 

of the Soviet military elite, died at the hands of Stalin’s terror, labeled a 

traitor and enemy of the people. Svechin, who was hounded in the early 

1930s as a class enemy, outlasted his critic by less than a year, dying in 

1938. Varfolomeev was arrested by the NKVD (Narodnyi Kommissariat 

Vnutrennykh Del [People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs, or secret police]) and imprisoned; he died in 1941. What followed was a time when 

the Red Army had a theory, whose authors it could not acknowledge, 

and a mythical past that precluded the sort of criticism necessary for the 

perfection of theory.

The shock of real war in Manchuria, Poland, Finland, and France 

cracked the myth, allowing needed reforms prior to the German invasion. 

These measures were too little in practical accomplishment, too late in 

initiation, and too radical in scale either to undo the damage of the purges 

or to offset German advantages in command and control and operational 

surprise. Painfully the young commanders of the Red Army gained the 

talents necessary to put into practice the deep successive operations for 

which their field regulations called. Gradually Soviet society forged the 

new weapons necessary to conduct such operations. Step by step the Red 

Army adjusted its force structure to provide the combined arms armies, 
238 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Tukhachevsky appreciated the threat that the Wehrmacht posed to 

the Soviet Union and warned of the dangers of Blitzkrieg and surprise 

attack by its Panzers and the Luftwaffe.107 The purge of the military and 

the experience of combat in the Spanish Civil War called the theory of 

deep, successive operations into question on both political-ideological 

and military-operational grounds. The organic development of operational art stopped for almost three years. One might well wonder how 

much that hiatus affected the covering force engagements at the start of 

Operation Barbarossa, the German campaign against the Soviet Union, 

in the Belorussian and Ukrainian theater of military operations when the 

Wehrmacht won Tukhachevsky’s “struggle for the flanks.”108

During the succeeding operations attrition imposed major changes in 

both sides’ force postures, especially their mechanized forces. The autumn 

fighting on the approaches to Moscow resembled more the conditions 

described in Triandafillov’s “peasant rear” than they did Tukhachevsky’s. 

Indeed, Soviet operational art during the winter counteroffensive before 

Moscow, which relied so heavily upon infantry and cavalry in the absence 

of tank, motorized infantry, and aviation, fit Triandafillov’s early model of 

successive operations. Later Soviet offensives did try to put into practice 

the principles of operational art outlined in the 1936 Field Regulations, 

which bore Tukhachevsky’s imprint. Gradually, through a process of trial 

and error, Soviet commanders achieved the skills necessary to handle the 

massive, mechanized forces that the marshal had championed.

None of the architects survived to witness those events. Triandafillov 

had died in an airplane crash in 1931. Tukhachevsky, along with much 

of the Soviet military elite, died at the hands of Stalin’s terror, labeled a 

traitor and enemy of the people. Svechin, who was hounded in the early 

1930s as a class enemy, outlasted his critic by less than a year, dying in 

1938. Varfolomeev was arrested by the NKVD (Narodnyi Kommissariat 

Vnutrennykh Del [People’s Commissariat of Internal Affairs, or secret police]) and imprisoned; he died in 1941. What followed was a time when 

the Red Army had a theory, whose authors it could not acknowledge, 

and a mythical past that precluded the sort of criticism necessary for the 

perfection of theory.

The shock of real war in Manchuria, Poland, Finland, and France 

cracked the myth, allowing needed reforms prior to the German invasion. 

These measures were too little in practical accomplishment, too late in 

initiation, and too radical in scale either to undo the damage of the purges 

or to offset German advantages in command and control and operational 

surprise. Painfully the young commanders of the Red Army gained the 

talents necessary to put into practice the deep successive operations for 

which their field regulations called. Gradually Soviet society forged the 

new weapons necessary to conduct such operations. Step by step the Red 

Army adjusted its force structure to provide the combined arms armies, 
240 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. For the author’s earlier and more complete treatment of the origins of military doctrine and operational art in the Russian and Soviet Armies, see “Soviet Military Doctrine 

and the Origins of Operational Art, 1917–1936,” in Philip S. Gillette and Willard C. 

Frank, Jr., eds., Soviet Military Doctrine from Lenin to Gorbachev: 1915–1991 (Westport, 

Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1992), pp. 63–84.

2. J. Walter Jacobs, “The Art of Operations,” Army no. 11 (November 1961): 64.

3. David M. Glantz, “Soviet Operational Formation for Battle: A Perspective,” Military 

Review 63, no. 2 (February 1983): 2–12; Earl F. Ziemke, “The Soviet Theory of Deep 

Operations,” Parameters 13, no. 6 (June 1983): 23–33; David M. Glantz, “The Nature of 

Soviet Operational Art,” Parameters 14, no. 1 (January 1984): 2–12.

4. Condoleeza Rice, “The Making of Soviet Strategy,” in Peter Paret, ed., Makers of 

Modern Strategy: From Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age, 2d ed. (Princeton: Princeton 

University Press, 1986), pp. 648–76.

5. Richard Simpkin, Deep Battle: The Brainchild of Marshal Tukhachevskii (London: 

Brassey’s Defence Publications, 1987), pp. ix, 249–70.

6. Aleksandr I. Verkhovsky, “Evolyutsiya prepodavaniya taktiki v l9l8–1928 gg.,” 

Voîna i revolyutsia no. 11 (November 1928): 50–52. On Verkhovsky’s background and 

career, see Voennyi entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1983), p. 126.

7. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” Voina i revolyutsya no. 11 (November 1928): 84.

8. Aleksandr A. Svechin, Strategiya, 2d ed. (Moscow: Voennyî Vestnik, l927), p. 14ff.

9. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” pp. 83–84. 

10. I. Ivanov, “Voenno-tekhnicheskaya literatura po voprosam kharaktera budushchei 

voiny i operatîvnogo iskusstva,” Voina i revolyutsiya no. 2 (March–April 1934): 13–30; 

Field Regulations of the Red Army (Washington, D.C.: Foreign Broadcast Information 

Service, 1985); and USSR, Narodnyi Komissariat Oborony, Vremennyî polevoî ustav 

RKKA 1936 (PU 36) (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1937).

11. For a lengthy discussion of these issues, see Jacob W. Kipp, “Mass and Maneuver: 

The Origins of Soviet Operational Art, 1918–1936,” in Carl Reddel, ed., Transformation 

in Russian and Soviet Military History: Proceedings of the Twelfth Military History Symposium, USAF Academy, 1986 (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Air Force Academy, Office of Air 

Force History, 1990), pp. 87–116.

12. I. I. Rostunov, Russkiî front Pervoî mirovoî voîny, (Moscow: n.p., 1976), pp. 93–95; 

Andrei M. Zaionchkovskiy, Mirovaa voîna 1914–1918 gg., 2d ed. (Moscow: n.p., 1931), 

pp. 50–53; and A. Zaionchkovskiy, Podgotovka Rossii k mirovoî voîne (Moscow: Shtab 

RKKA, 1926), pp. 141–54. On the attitude of Russian military reformers toward initial 

offensive operations, see Aleksandr Svechin, “Bol’shaya voennaya programma,” Russkaya mysl’ 8 (August 1913): 19–29. Svechin argued that the implications of the Russian 

rearmament program were connected with France’s increasing vulnerability. Thus, while 

Svechin noted the need for Russia to mount and conclude decisive operations within two 

months of the outbreak of hostilities, he linked this to a shift by the French from an immediate offensive to strategic defense. He reasoned that “the Russian front had for Germany 
240 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. For the author’s earlier and more complete treatment of the origins of military doctrine and operational art in the Russian and Soviet Armies, see “Soviet Military Doctrine 

and the Origins of Operational Art, 1917–1936,” in Philip S. Gillette and Willard C. 

Frank, Jr., eds., Soviet Military Doctrine from Lenin to Gorbachev: 1915–1991 (Westport, 

Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1992), pp. 63–84.

2. J. Walter Jacobs, “The Art of Operations,” Army no. 11 (November 1961): 64.

3. David M. Glantz, “Soviet Operational Formation for Battle: A Perspective,” Military 

Review 63, no. 2 (February 1983): 2–12; Earl F. Ziemke, “The Soviet Theory of Deep 

Operations,” Parameters 13, no. 6 (June 1983): 23–33; David M. Glantz, “The Nature of 

Soviet Operational Art,” Parameters 14, no. 1 (January 1984): 2–12.

4. Condoleeza Rice, “The Making of Soviet Strategy,” in Peter Paret, ed., Makers of 

Modern Strategy: From Machiavelli to the Nuclear Age, 2d ed. (Princeton: Princeton 

University Press, 1986), pp. 648–76.

5. Richard Simpkin, Deep Battle: The Brainchild of Marshal Tukhachevskii (London: 

Brassey’s Defence Publications, 1987), pp. ix, 249–70.

6. Aleksandr I. Verkhovsky, “Evolyutsiya prepodavaniya taktiki v l9l8–1928 gg.,” 

Voîna i revolyutsia no. 11 (November 1928): 50–52. On Verkhovsky’s background and 

career, see Voennyi entsiklopedicheskii slovar’ (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1983), p. 126.

7. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” Voina i revolyutsya no. 11 (November 1928): 84.

8. Aleksandr A. Svechin, Strategiya, 2d ed. (Moscow: Voennyî Vestnik, l927), p. 14ff.

9. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” pp. 83–84. 

10. I. Ivanov, “Voenno-tekhnicheskaya literatura po voprosam kharaktera budushchei 

voiny i operatîvnogo iskusstva,” Voina i revolyutsiya no. 2 (March–April 1934): 13–30; 

Field Regulations of the Red Army (Washington, D.C.: Foreign Broadcast Information 

Service, 1985); and USSR, Narodnyi Komissariat Oborony, Vremennyî polevoî ustav 

RKKA 1936 (PU 36) (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1937).

11. For a lengthy discussion of these issues, see Jacob W. Kipp, “Mass and Maneuver: 

The Origins of Soviet Operational Art, 1918–1936,” in Carl Reddel, ed., Transformation 

in Russian and Soviet Military History: Proceedings of the Twelfth Military History Symposium, USAF Academy, 1986 (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Air Force Academy, Office of Air 

Force History, 1990), pp. 87–116.

12. I. I. Rostunov, Russkiî front Pervoî mirovoî voîny, (Moscow: n.p., 1976), pp. 93–95; 

Andrei M. Zaionchkovskiy, Mirovaa voîna 1914–1918 gg., 2d ed. (Moscow: n.p., 1931), 

pp. 50–53; and A. Zaionchkovskiy, Podgotovka Rossii k mirovoî voîne (Moscow: Shtab 

RKKA, 1926), pp. 141–54. On the attitude of Russian military reformers toward initial 

offensive operations, see Aleksandr Svechin, “Bol’shaya voennaya programma,” Russkaya mysl’ 8 (August 1913): 19–29. Svechin argued that the implications of the Russian 

rearmament program were connected with France’s increasing vulnerability. Thus, while 

Svechin noted the need for Russia to mount and conclude decisive operations within two 

months of the outbreak of hostilities, he linked this to a shift by the French from an immediate offensive to strategic defense. He reasoned that “the Russian front had for Germany 
242 historical perspectives of the operational art 

K. E. Voroshilova (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1976), pp. 6–21; Korotkov, Istoriya sovestkoi 

voennoi mysli, pp. 28–31; S. A. Tyushkevich et al., Sovetskie Vooruzhennye Sily: Istoriya 

stroitel’stva (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1978), pp. 38–39.

33. S. I. Gusev, Grazhdanskaya voîna i krasnaya armiya (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1952), 

pp. 55–56.

34. Mikhail N. Tukhachevsky, Izbrannye proizvedeniya (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1964), I: 

27–29.

35. V. Triandafillov, “Vzaimodeîstvie mezhdu zapadnym i iugozapadnym frontami vo 

vremya letnego nastupleniya krasnoî armii na Vislu v 1920 g.,” Voina i revolyutsiya no. 2 

(1925): 23–24.

36. Gusev, Grazhdanskaya voina, p. 113.

37 M. I. Vladimirov et al., M. V. Frunze: Voennaya i Politicheskaya deyatel’nost’ (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1984), pp. 58–60.

38. A. Neznamov, “Prepodavanie taktiki,” Voennoe znanie no. 15 (1921): 4–5.

39. Verkhovsky, “Evolyutsiya,” pp. 52–56.

40. Neznamov, “Prepodavanietaktiki,” pp. 4–5.

41. D. Riazanov, “Voennoe delo i Marksizm,” in B. Gorev, ed., Voîna i voennoe iskusstvo 

v svete istoricheskogo materializma (Moscow: Gosizdat, 1927), p. 5ff.

42. M. Frunze, “Edinaya voennaya doktrina i krasnaya armiya,” Voennaya nauka i 

revolyutsiya no. 2 (1921): 33–39.

43. L. Trotsky, “Voennaya doktrina ili mnimo-voennoe doktrinerstvo,” Voennaya nauka 

i revolyutsiya no. 2 (1921): 204–13. Later in 1921, when speaking before the Military 

Scientific Society of the Military Academy, Trotsky tried to occupy a middle ground between the voenspetsy and the young Red Commanders associated with Frunze, Gusev, 

and Tukhachevsky. He warned that a unified military doctrine carried the seeds of mysticism and metaphysics. See L. Trotsky, Kak vooruzhalas’ revolyutsiya (na voennom dele) 

(Moscow: Vysshii voennyi redaktsionyi sovet, 1925), III, kn. 2, pp. 201–09.

44. D. Petrovsky, “Edinaya voennaya doktrina v A[kademii] G[eneral’nogo] Sh[taba],” 

Voennoe znanie nos. 14–15 (August 1921): 13.

45. A. S. Bubnov, O krasnoî armii (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1968), p. 216.

46. D. A. Kovalenko, Oboronnaya Promyshlennost’ Sovetskoî Rossii v 1918–1920 gg.

(Moscow: Nauka, 1970).

47. M. N. Tukhachevsky, “Pokhod za Vislu,” Izbrannye Proizvedeniya, vol. I, pp. 126–

27.

48. R. Tsiffer, “Zametki o voîne v malokul’turnykh teatrakh i metode eë izucheniya,” 

Voina i revolyutsiya no. 11 (1928): 132–40.

49. Lev Nikulin, Tukhachevskiî Biograficheskii ocherk (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1963), p. 

161.

50. Tukhachevsky, “Pokhod za Vislu.”

51. Mikhail N. Tukhachevsky, “Revolyutsiya izvne,” Revolyutsiya i voîna no. 3 (1920): 

45–54.

52. “Konnitsa v grazhdanskoî voîne,” Revolyutsiya i voîna nos. 6, 7 (1921): 36. 

53. A. I. Soshnikov et al., Sovetskaya kavaleriya: Voenno-istoricheskiî ocherk (Moscow: 

Voenizdat, 1984), pp. 3–24.

54. M. Ryshman, Reid Mamontova: Avgust-sentyabrya’ 1919 R. (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1926), pp. 16–29.

55. Ibid., pp. 30–43.

56. K. Monigetti, Sovmestnye deîstviya konnitsy i vozdushnogo flota (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1928), pp. 92–93.
242 historical perspectives of the operational art 

K. E. Voroshilova (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1976), pp. 6–21; Korotkov, Istoriya sovestkoi 

voennoi mysli, pp. 28–31; S. A. Tyushkevich et al., Sovetskie Vooruzhennye Sily: Istoriya 

stroitel’stva (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1978), pp. 38–39.

33. S. I. Gusev, Grazhdanskaya voîna i krasnaya armiya (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1952), 

pp. 55–56.

34. Mikhail N. Tukhachevsky, Izbrannye proizvedeniya (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1964), I: 

27–29.

35. V. Triandafillov, “Vzaimodeîstvie mezhdu zapadnym i iugozapadnym frontami vo 

vremya letnego nastupleniya krasnoî armii na Vislu v 1920 g.,” Voina i revolyutsiya no. 2 

(1925): 23–24.

36. Gusev, Grazhdanskaya voina, p. 113.

37 M. I. Vladimirov et al., M. V. Frunze: Voennaya i Politicheskaya deyatel’nost’ (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1984), pp. 58–60.

38. A. Neznamov, “Prepodavanie taktiki,” Voennoe znanie no. 15 (1921): 4–5.

39. Verkhovsky, “Evolyutsiya,” pp. 52–56.

40. Neznamov, “Prepodavanietaktiki,” pp. 4–5.

41. D. Riazanov, “Voennoe delo i Marksizm,” in B. Gorev, ed., Voîna i voennoe iskusstvo 

v svete istoricheskogo materializma (Moscow: Gosizdat, 1927), p. 5ff.

42. M. Frunze, “Edinaya voennaya doktrina i krasnaya armiya,” Voennaya nauka i 

revolyutsiya no. 2 (1921): 33–39.

43. L. Trotsky, “Voennaya doktrina ili mnimo-voennoe doktrinerstvo,” Voennaya nauka 

i revolyutsiya no. 2 (1921): 204–13. Later in 1921, when speaking before the Military 

Scientific Society of the Military Academy, Trotsky tried to occupy a middle ground between the voenspetsy and the young Red Commanders associated with Frunze, Gusev, 

and Tukhachevsky. He warned that a unified military doctrine carried the seeds of mysticism and metaphysics. See L. Trotsky, Kak vooruzhalas’ revolyutsiya (na voennom dele) 

(Moscow: Vysshii voennyi redaktsionyi sovet, 1925), III, kn. 2, pp. 201–09.

44. D. Petrovsky, “Edinaya voennaya doktrina v A[kademii] G[eneral’nogo] Sh[taba],” 

Voennoe znanie nos. 14–15 (August 1921): 13.

45. A. S. Bubnov, O krasnoî armii (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1968), p. 216.

46. D. A. Kovalenko, Oboronnaya Promyshlennost’ Sovetskoî Rossii v 1918–1920 gg.

(Moscow: Nauka, 1970).

47. M. N. Tukhachevsky, “Pokhod za Vislu,” Izbrannye Proizvedeniya, vol. I, pp. 126–

27.

48. R. Tsiffer, “Zametki o voîne v malokul’turnykh teatrakh i metode eë izucheniya,” 

Voina i revolyutsiya no. 11 (1928): 132–40.

49. Lev Nikulin, Tukhachevskiî Biograficheskii ocherk (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1963), p. 

161.

50. Tukhachevsky, “Pokhod za Vislu.”

51. Mikhail N. Tukhachevsky, “Revolyutsiya izvne,” Revolyutsiya i voîna no. 3 (1920): 

45–54.

52. “Konnitsa v grazhdanskoî voîne,” Revolyutsiya i voîna nos. 6, 7 (1921): 36. 

53. A. I. Soshnikov et al., Sovetskaya kavaleriya: Voenno-istoricheskiî ocherk (Moscow: 

Voenizdat, 1984), pp. 3–24.

54. M. Ryshman, Reid Mamontova: Avgust-sentyabrya’ 1919 R. (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1926), pp. 16–29.

55. Ibid., pp. 30–43.

56. K. Monigetti, Sovmestnye deîstviya konnitsy i vozdushnogo flota (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1928), pp. 92–93.
244 historical perspectives of the operational art 

71. Aleksandr A. Neznamov, Trebovaniya, kotorye pred’yavlyaet sovremennyi boi k 

podgotovke (obucheniyu) nachal’nikov i mass (St. Peterburg, 1909), p. 27.

72. Verkhovsky, “Evolyutisiya,” pp. 56–60.

73. Frunze, “Edinaya voennaya doktrina,” p. 39.

74. “Voennaya nauka i dialektika,” Morskoî sbornik no. 1 (January 1925): 17–27.

75. A. G. Kavtaradze, Voennye spetsialisty na sluzhbe Respubliki Sovetov, 1917–1920 

gg. (Moscow: Nauka, 1988), p. 238.

76. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” pp. 83–84.

77. Svechin, “Trudy Komissii,” p. 14ff.

78. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” p. 84.

79. Svechin, “Trudy Komissii,” pp. 6–26.

80. Aleksandr A. Svechin, “Gosudarstvennyî i frontovoî tyl,” Voîna i revolyutsiya no. 11 

(1930): 94–108.

81. Boris M. Shaposhnikov, Mozg armii, 3 vols. (Moscow: Voennyî Vestnik, 1927–

1929), I: 112ff.

82. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Manevry na zapfronte,” Revolyutsiya i voîna no. 19 (1923): 

5–26, no. 20 (1923): 77–104. On the influence of Frunze and Tukhachevsky upon the 

Academy, see A. I. Radzievsky, ed., Akademiya imeni M. V. Frunze: Istoriya voennoi ordena Lenina Krasnoznamennoî ordena Suvorova Akademyi (Moscow: Voenizdat, l972), 

pp. 71–77.

83. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Dvizhenie presleduyushcheî armii k polyureshitel’nogo srazheniya,” Revolyutsiya i voîna no. 13 (1921): 69–96.

84. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoî postanovke,” pp. 87–88.

85. Ibid.

86. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Strategicheskoe narastanie i istoshchenie v grazhdanskoî 

voîne,” in A. S. Bubnov et al., eds., Grazhdanskaya voîna 1918–1921: Voennoe iskusstvo 

Krasnoi armii (Moscow: Voennyî vestnik, 1928), pp. 260–81. What Varfolomeev called 

strategic intensification, Tukhachevsky had termed intensification of the revolution 

(narostanie [sic] revolyutsii). See Tukhachevsky, “Revolyutsiya izvne,” pp. 47–54.

87. Nikolai Varfolomeev, Udarnaya armiya (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1933), pp. 169–

89, and Nastupatel’naya operatsiya (po opytu Am’enskogo srazheniya 8 avgusta 1918 g.) 

(Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1937), pp. 169–76.

88. V. K. Triandafillov, “Vozmozhnaya chislennost’ budushchikh armii,” Voîna i revolyutsiya no. 3 (1927): 14–43. Triandafillov’s assumptions about the prospect of war were 

those of the party’s right, the advocates of the continuation of the NEP. He even cited 

Bukharin on the stabilization of the world capitalist economy (p. 17).

89. V. K. Triandafillov, Kharakter operatsii sovremennykh armii, 3d ed. (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1936), pp. 7–9, 255. Triandafillov’s study of the Perekop Operation was later 

reworked and published as part of the three-volume history of the Civil War. This essay is 

noteworthy for its attention to the problem of combined arms, especially the coordination 

of infantry and artillery in the attack, and the analysis of the role of the higher density 

of machine guns in this breakthrough operation. See V. K. Triandafillov, “Perekopskaya 

operatsiya Krasnoî armii (takticheskii etyud),” in Bubnov, Grazhdanskaya voîna, pp. 

339–57.

90. V. K. Triandafillov, Kharakter operatsii sovremennykh armii, 1st ed. (Moscow: Gosizdat, Otdel Voenlit, 1929), p. 1ff.

91. Field Regulations of the Red Army 1929 (Washington, D.C.: Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 1985), pp. 63–93. The tie between future war (budushchaya voîna) 

and operational art (operativnoe iskusstvo) was made by I. Ivanov in a bibliography he 
244 historical perspectives of the operational art 

71. Aleksandr A. Neznamov, Trebovaniya, kotorye pred’yavlyaet sovremennyi boi k 

podgotovke (obucheniyu) nachal’nikov i mass (St. Peterburg, 1909), p. 27.

72. Verkhovsky, “Evolyutisiya,” pp. 56–60.

73. Frunze, “Edinaya voennaya doktrina,” p. 39.

74. “Voennaya nauka i dialektika,” Morskoî sbornik no. 1 (January 1925): 17–27.

75. A. G. Kavtaradze, Voennye spetsialisty na sluzhbe Respubliki Sovetov, 1917–1920 

gg. (Moscow: Nauka, 1988), p. 238.

76. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” pp. 83–84.

77. Svechin, “Trudy Komissii,” p. 14ff.

78. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoi postanovke,” p. 84.

79. Svechin, “Trudy Komissii,” pp. 6–26.

80. Aleksandr A. Svechin, “Gosudarstvennyî i frontovoî tyl,” Voîna i revolyutsiya no. 11 

(1930): 94–108.

81. Boris M. Shaposhnikov, Mozg armii, 3 vols. (Moscow: Voennyî Vestnik, 1927–

1929), I: 112ff.

82. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Manevry na zapfronte,” Revolyutsiya i voîna no. 19 (1923): 

5–26, no. 20 (1923): 77–104. On the influence of Frunze and Tukhachevsky upon the 

Academy, see A. I. Radzievsky, ed., Akademiya imeni M. V. Frunze: Istoriya voennoi ordena Lenina Krasnoznamennoî ordena Suvorova Akademyi (Moscow: Voenizdat, l972), 

pp. 71–77.

83. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Dvizhenie presleduyushcheî armii k polyureshitel’nogo srazheniya,” Revolyutsiya i voîna no. 13 (1921): 69–96.

84. Varfolomeev, “Strategiya v akademicheskoî postanovke,” pp. 87–88.

85. Ibid.

86. Nikolai Varfolomeev, “Strategicheskoe narastanie i istoshchenie v grazhdanskoî 

voîne,” in A. S. Bubnov et al., eds., Grazhdanskaya voîna 1918–1921: Voennoe iskusstvo 

Krasnoi armii (Moscow: Voennyî vestnik, 1928), pp. 260–81. What Varfolomeev called 

strategic intensification, Tukhachevsky had termed intensification of the revolution 

(narostanie [sic] revolyutsii). See Tukhachevsky, “Revolyutsiya izvne,” pp. 47–54.

87. Nikolai Varfolomeev, Udarnaya armiya (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1933), pp. 169–

89, and Nastupatel’naya operatsiya (po opytu Am’enskogo srazheniya 8 avgusta 1918 g.) 

(Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1937), pp. 169–76.

88. V. K. Triandafillov, “Vozmozhnaya chislennost’ budushchikh armii,” Voîna i revolyutsiya no. 3 (1927): 14–43. Triandafillov’s assumptions about the prospect of war were 

those of the party’s right, the advocates of the continuation of the NEP. He even cited 

Bukharin on the stabilization of the world capitalist economy (p. 17).

89. V. K. Triandafillov, Kharakter operatsii sovremennykh armii, 3d ed. (Moscow: Gosvoenizdat, 1936), pp. 7–9, 255. Triandafillov’s study of the Perekop Operation was later 

reworked and published as part of the three-volume history of the Civil War. This essay is 

noteworthy for its attention to the problem of combined arms, especially the coordination 

of infantry and artillery in the attack, and the analysis of the role of the higher density 

of machine guns in this breakthrough operation. See V. K. Triandafillov, “Perekopskaya 

operatsiya Krasnoî armii (takticheskii etyud),” in Bubnov, Grazhdanskaya voîna, pp. 

339–57.

90. V. K. Triandafillov, Kharakter operatsii sovremennykh armii, 1st ed. (Moscow: Gosizdat, Otdel Voenlit, 1929), p. 1ff.

91. Field Regulations of the Red Army 1929 (Washington, D.C.: Foreign Broadcast Information Service, 1985), pp. 63–93. The tie between future war (budushchaya voîna) 

and operational art (operativnoe iskusstvo) was made by I. Ivanov in a bibliography he 
246 historical perspectives of the operational art

110.The situation is exemplified by V. A. Semënov’s study of the development of Soviet operational art, published in 1960. This work cited Triandafillov’s “Nature of the 

Operations of Modern Armies” but provided no intellectual context and ignored the contributions of Svechin, Varfolomeev, Tukhachevsky, and others. See V. A. Semënov, Kratkiî ocherk razvitiya sovetskogo operativnogo iskusstva (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1960), pp. 

103–26.
Soviet Operational Art Since 1936

The Triumph of Maneuver War

David M. Glantz

Introduction: On the Eve of War

The vital theoretical and practical work the Red Army accomplished 

between 1932 and 1936 in the realm of operational art created a model 

for offensive combat that has endured to the present. In the late 1930s, 

however, this model did not accord with reality. It would take years of crisis and warfare for the Red Army to realize fully the theoretical concepts 

it developed by 1936.

As was the case with the entire Soviet military establishment, Soviet operational maneuver concepts and forces suffered severe damage in 

the late 1930s, in part because Stalin purged their creators. The multiple 

waves of military purges, which began in 1937 and lasted into the opening months of World War II, liquidated most Red Army theoreticians and 

senior commanders. Inevitably, therefore, their ideas fell into disuse or 

outright disrepute.1

 In addition, despite the success of the Red Army’s 

fledgling armored forces at Khalkhin-Gol in the Far East, Soviet military 

experiences in Spain, Poland, and Finland cast doubt on the combat utility of its large mechanized and armored formations.2

 Consequently, in 

November 1939 the Soviet High Command abolished its four large tank 

corps and replaced them with smaller motorized divisions organized on 

a combined-arms basis.3

The subsequent German victory over France in the spring of 1940 

revealed the full and shocking potential of Blitzkrieg and alerted the Soviets to the mistake they had made when they truncated their mechanized 

force structure.4

 Hastily, under the direction of Defense Minister S. K. Timoshenko, the Red Army began creating new mechanized corps, twentynine of which were to exist, fully equipped, by mid-1942.5

 Consequently, 

while the Red Army’s force structure, particularly that of its mechanized 

force, was imposing on paper by mid-1941, it was far less capable in 

practice.6

 In addition, the shockingly efficient performance of the German Army in Poland and France, juxtaposed against the Red Army’s dismal performance during the early stages of the Finnish War, rekindled 

Soviet faith in the concept of deep operations and operational maneuver. 

Accordingly, Timoshenko reaffirmed the twin concepts (although not by 
248 historical perspectives of the operational art 

name) in a speech he delivered to senior commanders in late 1940.7 The 

purges, however, had eliminated the most effective large-unit commanders and those who best understood how operational maneuver fit with 

established offensive techniques. In addition to weak high- and mid-level 

leadership, the Red Army experienced a multitude of ills associated with 

simultaneous attempts to alter and entirely reequip its entire force structure. As a result, the Red Army was unprepared for war in 1941 in terms 

of leadership, command and control, logistics, and training, especially 

for a war begun by strategic and operational surprise.

The Test of War: Background

The surprise German invasion of June 1941 shook the Soviet nation 

to its very foundations, subjected the Red Army to six months of grave 

crisis, and subsequently led to over three years of grueling and costly 

war. The Red Army was utterly shattered during the first two months of 

war. Thereafter, it faced the arduous tasks of surviving, then reviving and 

maturing into an instrument that could compete with the Wehrmacht and 

achieve ultimate military victory.

Soviet military analysts and historians subdivide the war into three 

distinct periods, each of which reflected the basic political-military conditions that characterized its duration.8

 Although the Red Army was 

primarily on the strategic defensive during the first period of war (22 

June 1941–19 November 1942), this period was punctuated by the Red 

Army’s Moscow strategic counteroffensive and several operational offensives designed to wrest the initiative from German hands. The two 

massive German offensives during this period (October–December 1941 

and June–October 1942) placed the Soviet nation in jeopardy. The second period of war (19 November 1942 –31 December 1943), which commenced with the Soviet strategic counteroffensive at Stalingrad, was a 

transitional period marked by alternating attempts by both sides to secure 

strategic advantage. After the titanic Battle of Kursk, by 31 December 

1943, the Soviets had firmly secured the strategic initiative and advanced 

beyond the Dnepr River line. The Red Army maintained the strategic 

initiative during the third and final period of war (1944 – 1945) and ultimately emerged victorious over Nazi Germany.

While each of these periods displayed unique political-military characteristics, each also reflected distinct changes in the Red Army’s force 

structure and operational maneuver capabilities—forces and capabilities 

that in turn helped produce the distinct political-military nature of each 

period. The first period of war was a formative phase during which the 

Wehrmacht virtually dismantled the Red Army’s force structure in heavy 

combat and forced the Soviet High Command (the Stavka) to reconstruct 

it in a painful and costly process of trial and experimentation. Soviet op248 historical perspectives of the operational art 

name) in a speech he delivered to senior commanders in late 1940.7 The 

purges, however, had eliminated the most effective large-unit commanders and those who best understood how operational maneuver fit with 

established offensive techniques. In addition to weak high- and mid-level 

leadership, the Red Army experienced a multitude of ills associated with 

simultaneous attempts to alter and entirely reequip its entire force structure. As a result, the Red Army was unprepared for war in 1941 in terms 

of leadership, command and control, logistics, and training, especially 

for a war begun by strategic and operational surprise.

The Test of War: Background

The surprise German invasion of June 1941 shook the Soviet nation 

to its very foundations, subjected the Red Army to six months of grave 

crisis, and subsequently led to over three years of grueling and costly 

war. The Red Army was utterly shattered during the first two months of 

war. Thereafter, it faced the arduous tasks of surviving, then reviving and 

maturing into an instrument that could compete with the Wehrmacht and 

achieve ultimate military victory.

Soviet military analysts and historians subdivide the war into three 

distinct periods, each of which reflected the basic political-military conditions that characterized its duration.8

 Although the Red Army was 

primarily on the strategic defensive during the first period of war (22 

June 1941–19 November 1942), this period was punctuated by the Red 

Army’s Moscow strategic counteroffensive and several operational offensives designed to wrest the initiative from German hands. The two 

massive German offensives during this period (October–December 1941 

and June–October 1942) placed the Soviet nation in jeopardy. The second period of war (19 November 1942 –31 December 1943), which commenced with the Soviet strategic counteroffensive at Stalingrad, was a 

transitional period marked by alternating attempts by both sides to secure 

strategic advantage. After the titanic Battle of Kursk, by 31 December 

1943, the Soviets had firmly secured the strategic initiative and advanced 

beyond the Dnepr River line. The Red Army maintained the strategic 

initiative during the third and final period of war (1944 – 1945) and ultimately emerged victorious over Nazi Germany.

While each of these periods displayed unique political-military characteristics, each also reflected distinct changes in the Red Army’s force 

structure and operational maneuver capabilities—forces and capabilities 

that in turn helped produce the distinct political-military nature of each 

period. The first period of war was a formative phase during which the 

Wehrmacht virtually dismantled the Red Army’s force structure in heavy 

combat and forced the Soviet High Command (the Stavka) to reconstruct 

it in a painful and costly process of trial and experimentation. Soviet op250 historical perspectives of the operational art 

viet rifle forces penetrated German tactical defenses and pursued into the 

operational depths at foot speed. They were, however, deficient in staying power; soon growing infantry casualties brought every advance to an 

abrupt and bloody end. Soviet cavalry corps reinforced by rifle and tank 

brigades also penetrated into the German operational rear. Once there 

and reinforced by airborne or air-landed forces, they ruled the countryside, forests, and swamps but were unable to drive the more mobile 

Germans from the main communications arteries and villages. At best, 

they could force limited German withdrawals, but only if in concert with 

pressure from forces along the front. At worst, these mobile forces were 

themselves encircled, only to be destroyed or driven from the German 

rear area when summer arrived.

At Rostov, in November 1941, the Soviets forced the overextended 

German First Panzer Army to withdraw to the Mius River line by striking 

German defenses with the 37th Army secretly deployed forward, supported by a cavalry corps and two separate tank brigades. However, no 

encirclements ensued, and German forces halted the Soviet advance at 

the Mius River defenses.13 Two months later, Red Army forces were frustrated as they launched another partially successful operation south of 

Khar’kov (the Barvenkovo-Lozovaia offensive). During the first stage of 

the Red Army’s Moscow counteroffensive in December 1941, the Soviets spearheaded their thrusts with rifle units on skis and tank brigades 

(roughly two or three per army). South of Moscow, General Belov’s 1st 

Guards Cavalry Corps penetrated into the rear of Second Panzer Army 

and advanced 100 kilometers deep into the Kaluga region. During the second phase of the Moscow counteroffensive in January 1942, the 11th, 2d 

Guards, and 1st Guards Cavalry Corps penetrated deep into the German 

rear area in an attempt to encircle German Army Group Center. Despite 

heroic efforts and the commitment into combat of the entire 4th Airborne 

Corps, the cavalry corps failed to link up and became encircled in the 

German rear area.14 The ambitious Soviet operation failed to achieve its 

ultimate strategic aim, due largely to the fragile nature of Soviet operational maneuver forces. Ultimately, in June 1942 German forces cleared 

“the Red louses from their hides,” although the elusive Belov escaped to 

Red Army lines with a quarter of his original strength. The geography of 

the Eastern Front in the summer of 1942, with huge salients occupied by 

German and Soviet forces at Demyansk, at Rzhev, and south of Khar’kov, 

bore mute testimony to the failure of Soviet operational maneuver during 

its winter counteroffensive.

The Stavka correctly judged that these operations had failed because 

of the Red Army’s lack of large, coherent, mechanized, and armored 

formations capable of performing sustained operational maneuver. To 

remedy the problem, in April 1942 the Soviets fielded new tank corps 

consisting of 3 tank brigades and 1 motorized rifle brigade and totaling 
250 historical perspectives of the operational art 

viet rifle forces penetrated German tactical defenses and pursued into the 

operational depths at foot speed. They were, however, deficient in staying power; soon growing infantry casualties brought every advance to an 

abrupt and bloody end. Soviet cavalry corps reinforced by rifle and tank 

brigades also penetrated into the German operational rear. Once there 

and reinforced by airborne or air-landed forces, they ruled the countryside, forests, and swamps but were unable to drive the more mobile 

Germans from the main communications arteries and villages. At best, 

they could force limited German withdrawals, but only if in concert with 

pressure from forces along the front. At worst, these mobile forces were 

themselves encircled, only to be destroyed or driven from the German 

rear area when summer arrived.

At Rostov, in November 1941, the Soviets forced the overextended 

German First Panzer Army to withdraw to the Mius River line by striking 

German defenses with the 37th Army secretly deployed forward, supported by a cavalry corps and two separate tank brigades. However, no 

encirclements ensued, and German forces halted the Soviet advance at 

the Mius River defenses.13 Two months later, Red Army forces were frustrated as they launched another partially successful operation south of 

Khar’kov (the Barvenkovo-Lozovaia offensive). During the first stage of 

the Red Army’s Moscow counteroffensive in December 1941, the Soviets spearheaded their thrusts with rifle units on skis and tank brigades 

(roughly two or three per army). South of Moscow, General Belov’s 1st 

Guards Cavalry Corps penetrated into the rear of Second Panzer Army 

and advanced 100 kilometers deep into the Kaluga region. During the second phase of the Moscow counteroffensive in January 1942, the 11th, 2d 

Guards, and 1st Guards Cavalry Corps penetrated deep into the German 

rear area in an attempt to encircle German Army Group Center. Despite 

heroic efforts and the commitment into combat of the entire 4th Airborne 

Corps, the cavalry corps failed to link up and became encircled in the 

German rear area.14 The ambitious Soviet operation failed to achieve its 

ultimate strategic aim, due largely to the fragile nature of Soviet operational maneuver forces. Ultimately, in June 1942 German forces cleared 

“the Red louses from their hides,” although the elusive Belov escaped to 

Red Army lines with a quarter of his original strength. The geography of 

the Eastern Front in the summer of 1942, with huge salients occupied by 

German and Soviet forces at Demyansk, at Rzhev, and south of Khar’kov, 

bore mute testimony to the failure of Soviet operational maneuver during 

its winter counteroffensive.

The Stavka correctly judged that these operations had failed because 

of the Red Army’s lack of large, coherent, mechanized, and armored 

formations capable of performing sustained operational maneuver. To 

remedy the problem, in April 1942 the Soviets fielded new tank corps 

consisting of 3 tank brigades and 1 motorized rifle brigade and totaling 
Table 2— Soviet Tank Army Composition, June 1942

1st Tank Army 3d Tank Army 4th Tank Army 5th Tank Army 5th Tank Army

(Second Formation)

2 tank corps1 separate tank brigade2 rifle divisions

2 tank corps1 motorized rifle division2 rifle divisions1 separate tank brigade

2 tank corps1 separate tank brigade1 antitank brigade1 rifle division

2 tank corps1 rifle division1 separate tank brigade

2 tank corps1 cavalry corps1 separate tank brigade6 rifle divisions

Source: I. M. Anan’yev, B.B. Vashelenko, and N.T. Konashenko, “Tankovye armii” [Tank armies], Sovetskaya voennaya entsiklopediya[Soviet military encyclopedia] (Moscow: Voyenizadt, 1980), 8: 665–69. For a critique of the tank armies’ performance, see P. A. Rotmistrov, Stal’naya gvardiya [Steel guard] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1984), pp. 163–64.

Type 1 Type 2 Type 3

3 mechanized brigades1 tank brigadeSupport unitsStrength: 175 tanks

3 mechanized brigades2 tank brigadesSupport unitsStrength: 224 tanks

3 mechanized brigades2 tank regimentsSupport unitsStrength: 204 tanks

Table 3— Soviet Mechanized Corps Types, September 1942
Table 2— Soviet Tank Army Composition, June 1942

1st Tank Army 3d Tank Army 4th Tank Army 5th Tank Army 5th Tank Army

(Second Formation)

2 tank corps1 separate tank brigade2 rifle divisions

2 tank corps1 motorized rifle division2 rifle divisions1 separate tank brigade

2 tank corps1 separate tank brigade1 antitank brigade1 rifle division

2 tank corps1 rifle division1 separate tank brigade

2 tank corps1 cavalry corps1 separate tank brigade6 rifle divisions

Source: I. M. Anan’yev, B.B. Vashelenko, and N.T. Konashenko, “Tankovye armii” [Tank armies], Sovetskaya voennaya entsiklopediya[Soviet military encyclopedia] (Moscow: Voyenizadt, 1980), 8: 665–69. For a critique of the tank armies’ performance, see P. A. Rotmistrov, Stal’naya gvardiya [Steel guard] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1984), pp. 163–64.

Type 1 Type 2 Type 3

3 mechanized brigades1 tank brigadeSupport unitsStrength: 175 tanks

3 mechanized brigades2 tank brigadesSupport unitsStrength: 224 tanks

3 mechanized brigades2 tank regimentsSupport unitsStrength: 204 tanks

Table 3— Soviet Mechanized Corps Types, September 1942
254 historical perspectives of the operational art 

reinforcements took advantage of the weakness and dispersion of Soviet 

mobile forces by counterattacking and temporarily halting the advance.

In the Donbas operation (29 January–20 February), in which the Soviets sought to encircle all of German Army Group Don, the Southwest 

Front commander formed four of his tank corps (3d, 10th, 18th, and 4th 

Guards) under a single headquarters (Group Popov) as the first Soviet 

front mobile group.26 To improve the sustainability of the group, truckmounted rifle divisions were attached to each of the tank corps. To a large 

degree, however, the overall weakness of the group (160 tanks) negated 

the group’s effectiveness. The weakness of the tank corps, their propensity for being caught up in operations along their flanks, and the lack 

of mobility of the attached rifle divisions almost instantly fragmented 

the group, and Popov was unable to concentrate and achieve decisive 

results. Overextension and dispersion of Soviet forces provided General 

Erich von Manstein, commander of Army Group South, an opportunity 

to orchestrate a counterstroke that cut the supply lines of overextended 

Soviet mobile forces and destroyed them. At the same time, Manstein’s 

forces encircled and severely damaged the 8th Cavalry and 4th Guards 

Mechanized Corps, which were attacking German forces in the Donbas 

region from the east (at Debalt’sevo and Anastasievka) and virtually cut 

off and annihilated the 25th Tank Corps, which had been advancing toward Zaporozh’ye.27

Concurrently, the Stavka mounted an ambitious offensive by its newly 

formed Central Front (the former Don Front), supported by the Western 

and Bryansk Fronts, against German defenses along the Orel-BryanskSmolensk axis. General K. K. Rokossovsky, the Central Front commander, 

spearheaded his offensive with the 2d Tank Army, the 2d Guards Cavalry 

Corps, and numerous ski brigades. In heavy fighting that endured from 25 

February through mid-March, Rokossovsky’s forces reached the banks of 

the Desna River, over one hundred kilometers into the German rear area, 

almost severing communications between German Army Groups Center 

and South. However, a combination of skillful German maneuver, poor 

Soviet logistical support, and clumsy operations by exhausted Red Army 

forces, all exacerbated by deteriorating weather and terrain conditions, 

spelled doom for the ambitious offensive. By mid-March the Soviet offensive fell victim to Manstein’s counteroffensive. Having suffered nearly 

500,000 casualties, the Red Army ceased its winter campaign and dug in 

around what would become the infamous Kursk bulge.28

An even more grisly fate befell the Voronezh Front’s 3d Tank Army 

operating in the Khar’kov region. This tank army was encircled and annihilated by counterattacking German forces in early March 1943, and its 

parent front was forced to abandon Khar’kov and withdraw to positions 

south of Kursk and east of the Northern Donets River.29 In the Donbas, 

Khar’kov, and Orel-Bryansk operations, the Soviets took a calculated 
254 historical perspectives of the operational art 

reinforcements took advantage of the weakness and dispersion of Soviet 

mobile forces by counterattacking and temporarily halting the advance.

In the Donbas operation (29 January–20 February), in which the Soviets sought to encircle all of German Army Group Don, the Southwest 

Front commander formed four of his tank corps (3d, 10th, 18th, and 4th 

Guards) under a single headquarters (Group Popov) as the first Soviet 

front mobile group.26 To improve the sustainability of the group, truckmounted rifle divisions were attached to each of the tank corps. To a large 

degree, however, the overall weakness of the group (160 tanks) negated 

the group’s effectiveness. The weakness of the tank corps, their propensity for being caught up in operations along their flanks, and the lack 

of mobility of the attached rifle divisions almost instantly fragmented 

the group, and Popov was unable to concentrate and achieve decisive 

results. Overextension and dispersion of Soviet forces provided General 

Erich von Manstein, commander of Army Group South, an opportunity 

to orchestrate a counterstroke that cut the supply lines of overextended 

Soviet mobile forces and destroyed them. At the same time, Manstein’s 

forces encircled and severely damaged the 8th Cavalry and 4th Guards 

Mechanized Corps, which were attacking German forces in the Donbas 

region from the east (at Debalt’sevo and Anastasievka) and virtually cut 

off and annihilated the 25th Tank Corps, which had been advancing toward Zaporozh’ye.27

Concurrently, the Stavka mounted an ambitious offensive by its newly 

formed Central Front (the former Don Front), supported by the Western 

and Bryansk Fronts, against German defenses along the Orel-BryanskSmolensk axis. General K. K. Rokossovsky, the Central Front commander, 

spearheaded his offensive with the 2d Tank Army, the 2d Guards Cavalry 

Corps, and numerous ski brigades. In heavy fighting that endured from 25 

February through mid-March, Rokossovsky’s forces reached the banks of 

the Desna River, over one hundred kilometers into the German rear area, 

almost severing communications between German Army Groups Center 

and South. However, a combination of skillful German maneuver, poor 

Soviet logistical support, and clumsy operations by exhausted Red Army 

forces, all exacerbated by deteriorating weather and terrain conditions, 

spelled doom for the ambitious offensive. By mid-March the Soviet offensive fell victim to Manstein’s counteroffensive. Having suffered nearly 

500,000 casualties, the Red Army ceased its winter campaign and dug in 

around what would become the infamous Kursk bulge.28

An even more grisly fate befell the Voronezh Front’s 3d Tank Army 

operating in the Khar’kov region. This tank army was encircled and annihilated by counterattacking German forces in early March 1943, and its 

parent front was forced to abandon Khar’kov and withdraw to positions 

south of Kursk and east of the Northern Donets River.29 In the Donbas, 

Khar’kov, and Orel-Bryansk operations, the Soviets took a calculated 
256 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The first “modern” Soviet operations in terms of operational maneuver occurred during the Kursk strategic operation (July–August 1943).32

Soviet strategic plans called for a temporary defensive phase to weaken 

German forces, diversionary attacks to draw German operational reserves 

to other sectors of the front, and two major counteroffensives, spearheaded by mobile groups, against weakened German forces, the first at 

Orel and the second near Belgorod. The Orel offensive by the Western, 

Bryansk, and later the Central Front began on 12 July 1943, just as the 

Germans’ Kursk assault ground to a halt. Tank corps (1st, 5th, 20th, and 

1st Guards) of attacking Soviet armies joined the struggle on the second 

day of the operation and were later joined by two tank armies, 3d and 4th 

Guards, attacking under front control on the eighth and fourteenth days 

of the operation. Heavy German defenses and quick reaction by German 

reserves prevented significant Soviet advances, and the operation evolved 

into a slugging match between both parties.

The Belgorod-Khar’kov operation, however, better characterized 

deep operations and more clearly reflected what the Soviets hoped to 

accomplish. It began on 3 August 1943, after German operational reserves (the XXIV Panzer Corps and II SS Panzer Corps) had been drawn 

away to other sectors of the front by Soviet diversionary offensives.33

The attacking armies of the Soviet Voronezh and Steppe Fronts advanced 

directly against the nose of the Belgorod salient to penetrate German 

tactical defenses. Once penetration was achieved, the army and front 

commanders were to commit both separate tank and mechanized corps 

or multiple tank armies to conduct operational maneuver and seize the 

Khar’kov region.

Before noon on 3 August, the Voronezh Front’s 1st and 5th Guards 

Tank Armies advanced through the 5th Guards Army into the penetration, with a forward detachment leading each of their four subordinate 

tank corps. By late afternoon, the four corps had penetrated thirty kilometers to begin an operational exploitation. Separate tank corps of adjacent Soviet armies also advanced on the first day of attack but had to deal 

with more extensive German defenses before exploiting into the operational depths. The operational exploitation of the 1st and 5th Guards Tank 

Armies lasted seven days and thrust to a depth of 110–120 kilometers. 

On 11 August German operational reserves, returned from other sectors 

of the front, intervened and within days halted the precipitous Soviet advance. After heavy fighting, which severely eroded the strength of both 

Soviet and German mobile forces, Khar’kov fell on 23 August, signaling 

the end of the operation.

Despite the early deep advance and the favorable outcome of the operation, severe problems emerged for Soviet mobile forces, which they 

would have to remedy in the future. The tank armies and mobile corps 

outran supporting forces by a factor of several days, thus exposing them256 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The first “modern” Soviet operations in terms of operational maneuver occurred during the Kursk strategic operation (July–August 1943).32

Soviet strategic plans called for a temporary defensive phase to weaken 

German forces, diversionary attacks to draw German operational reserves 

to other sectors of the front, and two major counteroffensives, spearheaded by mobile groups, against weakened German forces, the first at 

Orel and the second near Belgorod. The Orel offensive by the Western, 

Bryansk, and later the Central Front began on 12 July 1943, just as the 

Germans’ Kursk assault ground to a halt. Tank corps (1st, 5th, 20th, and 

1st Guards) of attacking Soviet armies joined the struggle on the second 

day of the operation and were later joined by two tank armies, 3d and 4th 

Guards, attacking under front control on the eighth and fourteenth days 

of the operation. Heavy German defenses and quick reaction by German 

reserves prevented significant Soviet advances, and the operation evolved 

into a slugging match between both parties.

The Belgorod-Khar’kov operation, however, better characterized 

deep operations and more clearly reflected what the Soviets hoped to 

accomplish. It began on 3 August 1943, after German operational reserves (the XXIV Panzer Corps and II SS Panzer Corps) had been drawn 

away to other sectors of the front by Soviet diversionary offensives.33

The attacking armies of the Soviet Voronezh and Steppe Fronts advanced 

directly against the nose of the Belgorod salient to penetrate German 

tactical defenses. Once penetration was achieved, the army and front 

commanders were to commit both separate tank and mechanized corps 

or multiple tank armies to conduct operational maneuver and seize the 

Khar’kov region.

Before noon on 3 August, the Voronezh Front’s 1st and 5th Guards 

Tank Armies advanced through the 5th Guards Army into the penetration, with a forward detachment leading each of their four subordinate 

tank corps. By late afternoon, the four corps had penetrated thirty kilometers to begin an operational exploitation. Separate tank corps of adjacent Soviet armies also advanced on the first day of attack but had to deal 

with more extensive German defenses before exploiting into the operational depths. The operational exploitation of the 1st and 5th Guards Tank 

Armies lasted seven days and thrust to a depth of 110–120 kilometers. 

On 11 August German operational reserves, returned from other sectors 

of the front, intervened and within days halted the precipitous Soviet advance. After heavy fighting, which severely eroded the strength of both 

Soviet and German mobile forces, Khar’kov fell on 23 August, signaling 

the end of the operation.

Despite the early deep advance and the favorable outcome of the operation, severe problems emerged for Soviet mobile forces, which they 

would have to remedy in the future. The tank armies and mobile corps 

outran supporting forces by a factor of several days, thus exposing them258 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the Battle of Kursk, only separate tank and cavalry corps were available 

to spearhead the advance into Belorussia. The Stavka would try again to 

smash German defenses in Belorussia during the following winter but 

would fail once again. The German bastion in Belorussia would not fall 

until the summer of 1944.

In the southern sector of the front, the Steppe and Southwestern 

Fronts advanced on the Dnepr and secured a large bridgehead south of 

Kremenchug and Dnepropetrovsk in October. However, despite constant 

heavy fighting throughout November and December, the fronts’ forces 

failed to capture their objectives, the cities of Krivoy Rog and Nikopol’, 

and drive the Germans from the Dnepr River’s eastern bend. At the same 

time, the Southern Front employed a cavalry-mechanized group to conduct deep operations and drive German Army Group South back through 

Melitopol’ toward the Dnepr River and Crimea.36 Clumsy employment 

of a mechanized corps (the 4th Guards) and a tank corps (the 19th) led 

to the bloody failure of four separate Soviet attempts to crush German 

defenders of the Nikopol’ bridgehead.37

In late fall 1943, Soviet forces wrestled with the problem of breaching the German’s Dnepr River defenses near Kiev. In five separate offensives during early October, the Central Front’s left wing (the 13th 

and 60th Armies) and the Voronezh Front’s 27th, 38th, 40th, and 47th 

Combined-arms Armies and the 3d Guards Tank Army failed to crack 

German defenses near Chernobyl’, Gornostaipol’, Lyutezh, and Velikiy 

Bukrin.38 These failures occurred despite Soviet massed employment of 

the 3d Guards Tank Army and three separate mobile corps in the Bukrin 

region. After these bloody failures, in early November the Soviets finally 

employed operational maneuver masked by successful deception to solve 

the strategic dilemma. Between 29 October and 3 November 1943, the 

Soviet 1st Ukrainian (formerly Voronezh) Front secretly redeployed the 

3d Guards Tank Army northward into the small Lyutezh bridgehead north 

of Kiev, and on 3 November the front assaulted out of the bridgehead.39

Subsequently, the 3d Guards Tank Army advanced over one hundred 

kilometers southwest of Kiev before being halted by redeploying German reserves. The operation bore many similarities to the Belgorod operation, for the 3d Guards Tank Army’s two forward detachments were 

destroyed in the German counterattacks. Subsequent German counterattacks failed to drive Soviet forces back to Kiev. During the waning 

stages of these counterattacks, the Soviets again secretly regrouped under 

the cloak of an effective deception plan and prepared a new offensive, 

this time spearheaded by two full tank armies (the 1st and 3d Guards).40

While German forces attacked what they falsely assumed to be the main 

Soviet concentration northwest of Kiev, on 24 December the new Soviet 

blow struck weakened German defenses southwest of Kiev. In the ensuing Zhitomir-Berdichev operation, Soviet operational maneuver forces 
258 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the Battle of Kursk, only separate tank and cavalry corps were available 

to spearhead the advance into Belorussia. The Stavka would try again to 

smash German defenses in Belorussia during the following winter but 

would fail once again. The German bastion in Belorussia would not fall 

until the summer of 1944.

In the southern sector of the front, the Steppe and Southwestern 

Fronts advanced on the Dnepr and secured a large bridgehead south of 

Kremenchug and Dnepropetrovsk in October. However, despite constant 

heavy fighting throughout November and December, the fronts’ forces 

failed to capture their objectives, the cities of Krivoy Rog and Nikopol’, 

and drive the Germans from the Dnepr River’s eastern bend. At the same 

time, the Southern Front employed a cavalry-mechanized group to conduct deep operations and drive German Army Group South back through 

Melitopol’ toward the Dnepr River and Crimea.36 Clumsy employment 

of a mechanized corps (the 4th Guards) and a tank corps (the 19th) led 

to the bloody failure of four separate Soviet attempts to crush German 

defenders of the Nikopol’ bridgehead.37

In late fall 1943, Soviet forces wrestled with the problem of breaching the German’s Dnepr River defenses near Kiev. In five separate offensives during early October, the Central Front’s left wing (the 13th 

and 60th Armies) and the Voronezh Front’s 27th, 38th, 40th, and 47th 

Combined-arms Armies and the 3d Guards Tank Army failed to crack 

German defenses near Chernobyl’, Gornostaipol’, Lyutezh, and Velikiy 

Bukrin.38 These failures occurred despite Soviet massed employment of 

the 3d Guards Tank Army and three separate mobile corps in the Bukrin 

region. After these bloody failures, in early November the Soviets finally 

employed operational maneuver masked by successful deception to solve 

the strategic dilemma. Between 29 October and 3 November 1943, the 

Soviet 1st Ukrainian (formerly Voronezh) Front secretly redeployed the 

3d Guards Tank Army northward into the small Lyutezh bridgehead north 

of Kiev, and on 3 November the front assaulted out of the bridgehead.39

Subsequently, the 3d Guards Tank Army advanced over one hundred 

kilometers southwest of Kiev before being halted by redeploying German reserves. The operation bore many similarities to the Belgorod operation, for the 3d Guards Tank Army’s two forward detachments were 

destroyed in the German counterattacks. Subsequent German counterattacks failed to drive Soviet forces back to Kiev. During the waning 

stages of these counterattacks, the Soviets again secretly regrouped under 

the cloak of an effective deception plan and prepared a new offensive, 

this time spearheaded by two full tank armies (the 1st and 3d Guards).40

While German forces attacked what they falsely assumed to be the main 

Soviet concentration northwest of Kiev, on 24 December the new Soviet 

blow struck weakened German defenses southwest of Kiev. In the ensuing Zhitomir-Berdichev operation, Soviet operational maneuver forces 
260 historical perspectives of the operational art 

120–180 kilometers, the three tank armies encircled German First Panzer 

Army, which barely escaped destruction by breaking out to the west. The 

offensive concluded in early May with a major offensive by the 2d Ukrainian Front toward Yassy in northern Romania. The operation, which the 

Germans called the Battle of Targul-Frumos, failed when German Panzer 

forces skillfully countered a poorly coordinated assault spearheaded by 

the Soviet 2d, 5th Guards, and 6th Tank Armies.

Soviet employment of multiple tank armies, mobile corps, and cavalry-mechanized corps fragmented German defenses in the Ukraine and 

forced German forces to withdraw from the Ukraine into Poland and Romania. Improved Soviet mobile force logistics permitted deeper operations over longer periods. Most important, the concentration of Soviet 

armor and mechanized units in the Ukraine convinced German planners 

that in the summer the Soviets would attack German forces in Poland and 

Romania. The Soviets reinforced this misperception by deliberately posturing offensively in the south while secretly moving large mobile formations northward into Belorussia. The Stavka prepared to conduct a series 

of devastating offensives in the summer that would rely on operational 

maneuver forces and deception to produce significant strategic success.

Planning for the 1944 summer-fall campaign began in May. Under 

the cloak of an extensive strategic deception plan, the Stavka planned four 

major successive strategic blows, each capitalizing on the results of the 

preceding offensive and each relying on operational maneuver forces to 

produce victory.47 Each operation targeted a single German army group 

for destruction, and three of the four relied for success on strategic-scale 

maneuver by large mobile forces. For the first time, the Soviets employed 

large mobile formations in the terrain of Belorussia, which the Soviets 

previously had considered less suited to armored operations than southern Russia or the Ukraine.

During the Belorussian operation, the Stavka employed simultaneous 

and then successive encirclement operations to destroy the German Third 

Panzer and Ninth Armies around Vitebsk and Bobruysk and, subsequently, Fourth Army and the bulk of Army Group Center east of Minsk.48

Separate tank corps served as army operational maneuver forces; and 

the 5th Guards Tank Army and two cavalry-mechanized groups formed 

front mobile groups for deep exploitation. In addition, tailored forward 

detachments created by combined-arms armies and rifle corps conducted 

tactical maneuver to produce shallow encirclements. These tactical and 

operational maneuver forces operated in concert to continue the exploitation after German forward forces had been encircled. The Belorussian offensive, code-named Operation Bagration, commenced on 22 June and 

developed rapidly and spectacularly. The armies’ mobile groups exploited 

the success of rifle forces on the first or second day of the operation; and, 

in the Vitebsk region, the advancing forward detachments and rifle forces 
260 historical perspectives of the operational art 

120–180 kilometers, the three tank armies encircled German First Panzer 

Army, which barely escaped destruction by breaking out to the west. The 

offensive concluded in early May with a major offensive by the 2d Ukrainian Front toward Yassy in northern Romania. The operation, which the 

Germans called the Battle of Targul-Frumos, failed when German Panzer 

forces skillfully countered a poorly coordinated assault spearheaded by 

the Soviet 2d, 5th Guards, and 6th Tank Armies.

Soviet employment of multiple tank armies, mobile corps, and cavalry-mechanized corps fragmented German defenses in the Ukraine and 

forced German forces to withdraw from the Ukraine into Poland and Romania. Improved Soviet mobile force logistics permitted deeper operations over longer periods. Most important, the concentration of Soviet 

armor and mechanized units in the Ukraine convinced German planners 

that in the summer the Soviets would attack German forces in Poland and 

Romania. The Soviets reinforced this misperception by deliberately posturing offensively in the south while secretly moving large mobile formations northward into Belorussia. The Stavka prepared to conduct a series 

of devastating offensives in the summer that would rely on operational 

maneuver forces and deception to produce significant strategic success.

Planning for the 1944 summer-fall campaign began in May. Under 

the cloak of an extensive strategic deception plan, the Stavka planned four 

major successive strategic blows, each capitalizing on the results of the 

preceding offensive and each relying on operational maneuver forces to 

produce victory.47 Each operation targeted a single German army group 

for destruction, and three of the four relied for success on strategic-scale 

maneuver by large mobile forces. For the first time, the Soviets employed 

large mobile formations in the terrain of Belorussia, which the Soviets 

previously had considered less suited to armored operations than southern Russia or the Ukraine.

During the Belorussian operation, the Stavka employed simultaneous 

and then successive encirclement operations to destroy the German Third 

Panzer and Ninth Armies around Vitebsk and Bobruysk and, subsequently, Fourth Army and the bulk of Army Group Center east of Minsk.48

Separate tank corps served as army operational maneuver forces; and 

the 5th Guards Tank Army and two cavalry-mechanized groups formed 

front mobile groups for deep exploitation. In addition, tailored forward 

detachments created by combined-arms armies and rifle corps conducted 

tactical maneuver to produce shallow encirclements. These tactical and 

operational maneuver forces operated in concert to continue the exploitation after German forward forces had been encircled. The Belorussian offensive, code-named Operation Bagration, commenced on 22 June and 

developed rapidly and spectacularly. The armies’ mobile groups exploited 

the success of rifle forces on the first or second day of the operation; and, 

in the Vitebsk region, the advancing forward detachments and rifle forces 
262 historical perspectives of the operational art 

thinking it to be the bulk of the Russian tank army, the main Russian 

Army advanced to the southwest, broke cleanly through German defenses, and advanced deep into their operational rear. Subsequently, Soviet operational maneuver forces drove to the Vistula River, where they 

secured a key bridgehead. By the end of the operation, the three Soviet 

tank armies had advanced up to 300 kilometers during only 15 days of 

continuous operations. Capitalizing on Red Army successes in Belorussia and southern Poland, on 17 July the 1st Belorussian Front’s left wing 

advanced from the Kovel’ area toward the Vistula River south of Warsaw, employing its secretly redeployed 2d Tank Army and a cavalrymechanized group as front mobile groups.51 The 2d Tank Army reached 

the banks of the Vistula River in early August and turned north toward 

Warsaw, only to be halted on the outskirts of Warsaw on 4 August by 

heavy German counterattacks.

Between 23 June and early August 1944, multiple Soviet mobile 

groups employed deep operational maneuver across an 800-kilometer 

front to thrust deep into the German rear along numerous axes. The attacking Soviet forces forced the shaken German defenders to frantically 

erect new defenses along the Narev and Vistula Rivers, over three hundred kilometers west of their original defense lines. Only the increased 

number, strength, and resilience of Soviet operational maneuver forces 

made this possible. To an increasing extent, the axiom held true that, 

where Red Army mobile forces operated successfully, Soviet offensives 

succeeded. Where they failed, offensives failed.

The final Soviet blow in the summer-fall campaign occurred in August 1944 where the Germans had expected the first blow to fall. On 

20 August the Soviet 1st and 2d Ukrainian Fronts struck German Army 

Group South Ukraine in Romania.52 The two Soviet fronts employed tank 

and mechanized corps, configured as army mobile groups, to conduct 

shallow encirclements, while the 1st Ukrainian Front’s mobile group, the 

6th Guards Tank Army, conducted deep operational maneuver toward 

Bucharest. The two Soviet fronts fully encircled and destroyed two Axis 

armies (the Sixth German and Third Romanian) within nine days. In the 

wake of this destruction, the remnants of German Army Group South 

Ukraine frantically erected defenses in the Carpathian Mountains to 

block the Soviet offensive from spreading into eastern Hungary.

Near the end of the summer-fall campaign, the Stavka ordered additional assaults to exploit the Germans’ unprecedented defeats. The 

3d Belorussian Front conducted the most important of these along the 

Gumbinnen-Königsberg and Goldap axes into the heartland of German 

East Prussia in late October. Once again, the limited availability of combat-capable operational maneuver forces at the end of a long strategic 

campaign (in this case, only the 2d Guards Tank Corps was available) 

permitted the Germans to parry the Soviet thrust. As was the case before 
262 historical perspectives of the operational art 

thinking it to be the bulk of the Russian tank army, the main Russian 

Army advanced to the southwest, broke cleanly through German defenses, and advanced deep into their operational rear. Subsequently, Soviet operational maneuver forces drove to the Vistula River, where they 

secured a key bridgehead. By the end of the operation, the three Soviet 

tank armies had advanced up to 300 kilometers during only 15 days of 

continuous operations. Capitalizing on Red Army successes in Belorussia and southern Poland, on 17 July the 1st Belorussian Front’s left wing 

advanced from the Kovel’ area toward the Vistula River south of Warsaw, employing its secretly redeployed 2d Tank Army and a cavalrymechanized group as front mobile groups.51 The 2d Tank Army reached 

the banks of the Vistula River in early August and turned north toward 

Warsaw, only to be halted on the outskirts of Warsaw on 4 August by 

heavy German counterattacks.

Between 23 June and early August 1944, multiple Soviet mobile 

groups employed deep operational maneuver across an 800-kilometer 

front to thrust deep into the German rear along numerous axes. The attacking Soviet forces forced the shaken German defenders to frantically 

erect new defenses along the Narev and Vistula Rivers, over three hundred kilometers west of their original defense lines. Only the increased 

number, strength, and resilience of Soviet operational maneuver forces 

made this possible. To an increasing extent, the axiom held true that, 

where Red Army mobile forces operated successfully, Soviet offensives 

succeeded. Where they failed, offensives failed.

The final Soviet blow in the summer-fall campaign occurred in August 1944 where the Germans had expected the first blow to fall. On 

20 August the Soviet 1st and 2d Ukrainian Fronts struck German Army 

Group South Ukraine in Romania.52 The two Soviet fronts employed tank 

and mechanized corps, configured as army mobile groups, to conduct 

shallow encirclements, while the 1st Ukrainian Front’s mobile group, the 

6th Guards Tank Army, conducted deep operational maneuver toward 

Bucharest. The two Soviet fronts fully encircled and destroyed two Axis 

armies (the Sixth German and Third Romanian) within nine days. In the 

wake of this destruction, the remnants of German Army Group South 

Ukraine frantically erected defenses in the Carpathian Mountains to 

block the Soviet offensive from spreading into eastern Hungary.

Near the end of the summer-fall campaign, the Stavka ordered additional assaults to exploit the Germans’ unprecedented defeats. The 

3d Belorussian Front conducted the most important of these along the 

Gumbinnen-Königsberg and Goldap axes into the heartland of German 

East Prussia in late October. Once again, the limited availability of combat-capable operational maneuver forces at the end of a long strategic 

campaign (in this case, only the 2d Guards Tank Corps was available) 

permitted the Germans to parry the Soviet thrust. As was the case before 
264 historical perspectives of the operational art 

into East Prussia toward Königsberg, the lower Vistula River, and Danzig. The offensive across Poland (named the Vistula-Oder operation) was 

aimed at dismembering and destroying German Army Group A by deep, 

cutting thrusts. The offensive into East Prussia (named the East Prussian operation) was designed to pin German Army Group Center against 

the coast between Königsberg and the mouth of the Vistula River and 

destroy it. The former began on 13–14 January and the latter on 14–15 

January, and Soviet mobile groups played a key role in three of the four 

front operations.55

In the Vistula-Oder operation, Marshal I. S. Konev’s 1st Ukrainian 

Front employed separate tank corps as mobile groups for each army participating in the main attack from the Sandomierz bridgehead. He used 

two tank armies (the 3d Guards and 4th) to exploit the initial offensive 

success. The 1st Belorussian Front, now commanded personally by Marshal Zhukov, exploited his front’s main attack from the smaller Magnushev bridgehead, with two tank armies (the 1st and 2d Guards), which 

entered the bridgehead soon after the rifle armies had commenced their 

assault. Zhukov supported the main effort by launching attacks from the 

even smaller Pulavy bridgehead with two separate tank corps functioning as army mobile groups.56 The two fronts also committed their mobile groups to combat in different fashion. Konev orchestrated a massive 

blow on the first day of operations, and his three army and two front 

mobile groups advanced into combat on the heels of the rifle armies’ assault. So close was the cooperation that tank army forward detachments 

deployed within the rifle army’s attacking formation. On the other hand, 

since Zhukov initially had no room within the bridgehead to deploy his 

two tank armies, the armies entered combat sequentially on the second 

and third day of operations after rifle armies had penetrated German tactical defenses.

Both techniques were equally devastating. Deception concealed the 

scale of Soviet concentration and, combined with economy of force elsewhere, produced Soviet force superiority of over 10:1 in manpower and 

6:1 in armor. Konev’s assault swept through German defenses in a matter of hours and smashed the two reinforcing German Panzer divisions; 

within two days the 3d Guards and 4th Tank Armies were streaming deep 

into the Germans’ operational rear.57 Zhukov’s forces penetrated German defenses quickly; and the 1st and 2d Guards Tank Armies began 

their operational exploitation on the second and third day of operations. 

The momentum of the four exploiting tank armies was so great that they 

swept around and encircled German operational reserves (Panzer Corps 

Grossdeutschland) deployed from East Prussia. Within a week the four 

Soviet tank armies and five tank corps advanced west, past Lodz and Krakow toward Poznan and Breslau, virtually obliterating organized German 

defenses across a 250-kilometer front.
264 historical perspectives of the operational art 

into East Prussia toward Königsberg, the lower Vistula River, and Danzig. The offensive across Poland (named the Vistula-Oder operation) was 

aimed at dismembering and destroying German Army Group A by deep, 

cutting thrusts. The offensive into East Prussia (named the East Prussian operation) was designed to pin German Army Group Center against 

the coast between Königsberg and the mouth of the Vistula River and 

destroy it. The former began on 13–14 January and the latter on 14–15 

January, and Soviet mobile groups played a key role in three of the four 

front operations.55

In the Vistula-Oder operation, Marshal I. S. Konev’s 1st Ukrainian 

Front employed separate tank corps as mobile groups for each army participating in the main attack from the Sandomierz bridgehead. He used 

two tank armies (the 3d Guards and 4th) to exploit the initial offensive 

success. The 1st Belorussian Front, now commanded personally by Marshal Zhukov, exploited his front’s main attack from the smaller Magnushev bridgehead, with two tank armies (the 1st and 2d Guards), which 

entered the bridgehead soon after the rifle armies had commenced their 

assault. Zhukov supported the main effort by launching attacks from the 

even smaller Pulavy bridgehead with two separate tank corps functioning as army mobile groups.56 The two fronts also committed their mobile groups to combat in different fashion. Konev orchestrated a massive 

blow on the first day of operations, and his three army and two front 

mobile groups advanced into combat on the heels of the rifle armies’ assault. So close was the cooperation that tank army forward detachments 

deployed within the rifle army’s attacking formation. On the other hand, 

since Zhukov initially had no room within the bridgehead to deploy his 

two tank armies, the armies entered combat sequentially on the second 

and third day of operations after rifle armies had penetrated German tactical defenses.

Both techniques were equally devastating. Deception concealed the 

scale of Soviet concentration and, combined with economy of force elsewhere, produced Soviet force superiority of over 10:1 in manpower and 

6:1 in armor. Konev’s assault swept through German defenses in a matter of hours and smashed the two reinforcing German Panzer divisions; 

within two days the 3d Guards and 4th Tank Armies were streaming deep 

into the Germans’ operational rear.57 Zhukov’s forces penetrated German defenses quickly; and the 1st and 2d Guards Tank Armies began 

their operational exploitation on the second and third day of operations. 

The momentum of the four exploiting tank armies was so great that they 

swept around and encircled German operational reserves (Panzer Corps 

Grossdeutschland) deployed from East Prussia. Within a week the four 

Soviet tank armies and five tank corps advanced west, past Lodz and Krakow toward Poznan and Breslau, virtually obliterating organized German 

defenses across a 250-kilometer front.
266 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The two assaults, however, developed in dissimilar fashion. Zhukov 

committed his tank armies on the first day, before his forces penetrated 

the dense German tactical defenses. The resulting crush of concentrated 

manpower and weaponry was so great and the German defenses so effective that a prolonged, costly penetration battle ensued virtually all the 

way to Berlin, during which all of Zhukov’s tank forces simply provided 

infantry support. On the other hand, Konev’s infantry and armor broke 

cleanly through the German tactical defenses and exploited so successfully that they earned for Konev the honor of participating in the seizure 

of Berlin. Although the Soviets relied on time-honored and combat-proven methods for employing their mobile forces in the Berlin operation, 

Zhukov experienced major difficulties and failed to fulfill his mission 

in the requisite time or manner. Although Konev’s forces operated successfully, they experienced similar difficulties to a lesser extent. The 

Berlin offensive made it apparent that armored and mechanized forces 

structured to maneuver in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union could 

not do so effectively in the more heavily urban and forested terrain of 

Central Europe. After the Berlin operation had ended, the Soviets studied 

its conduct and recommended force structure changes to overcome these 

problems in the future.

Postscript

Although not an integral part of the third period of war, one of the 

most intriguing wartime operations involving operational maneuver 

was the Soviet’s August 1945 Manchurian offensive operation, shaped 

by unique imperatives of time, geography, and politics.61 Although the 

Japanese faced inevitable defeat, that defeat would occur far more rapidly if the Soviet Union could eradicate the large Japanese force (the 

Kwantung Army) in Manchuria. At the request of the Allies, the Soviets 

agreed to engage Japanese forces in Manchuria in August 1945. However, Japanese reinforcement of their forces in Manchuria and the U.S. 

employment of the atomic bomb in early August forced the Stavka to 

accelerate its offensive plans. In short, the Stavka considered it essential 

to capture Manchuria and, if possible, southern Sakhalin and the Kurile 

Islands, northern Korea, and a portion of Hokkaido before the Japanese 

surrendered, if the Soviets were to reap any political rewards from their 

participation in the war against the Japanese. The immense size and challenging geographical configuration of Manchuria made the task facing 

the Stavka even more daunting. Therefore, it concluded that only bold, 

rapid maneuver on a strategic scale could preempt Japanese defenses, 

paralyze Japanese command and control, overcome the imposing terrain 

barriers, and guarantee seizure of the region before the Japanese Empire 

and its military collapsed.
266 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The two assaults, however, developed in dissimilar fashion. Zhukov 

committed his tank armies on the first day, before his forces penetrated 

the dense German tactical defenses. The resulting crush of concentrated 

manpower and weaponry was so great and the German defenses so effective that a prolonged, costly penetration battle ensued virtually all the 

way to Berlin, during which all of Zhukov’s tank forces simply provided 

infantry support. On the other hand, Konev’s infantry and armor broke 

cleanly through the German tactical defenses and exploited so successfully that they earned for Konev the honor of participating in the seizure 

of Berlin. Although the Soviets relied on time-honored and combat-proven methods for employing their mobile forces in the Berlin operation, 

Zhukov experienced major difficulties and failed to fulfill his mission 

in the requisite time or manner. Although Konev’s forces operated successfully, they experienced similar difficulties to a lesser extent. The 

Berlin offensive made it apparent that armored and mechanized forces 

structured to maneuver in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union could 

not do so effectively in the more heavily urban and forested terrain of 

Central Europe. After the Berlin operation had ended, the Soviets studied 

its conduct and recommended force structure changes to overcome these 

problems in the future.

Postscript

Although not an integral part of the third period of war, one of the 

most intriguing wartime operations involving operational maneuver 

was the Soviet’s August 1945 Manchurian offensive operation, shaped 

by unique imperatives of time, geography, and politics.61 Although the 

Japanese faced inevitable defeat, that defeat would occur far more rapidly if the Soviet Union could eradicate the large Japanese force (the 

Kwantung Army) in Manchuria. At the request of the Allies, the Soviets 

agreed to engage Japanese forces in Manchuria in August 1945. However, Japanese reinforcement of their forces in Manchuria and the U.S. 

employment of the atomic bomb in early August forced the Stavka to 

accelerate its offensive plans. In short, the Stavka considered it essential 

to capture Manchuria and, if possible, southern Sakhalin and the Kurile 

Islands, northern Korea, and a portion of Hokkaido before the Japanese 

surrendered, if the Soviets were to reap any political rewards from their 

participation in the war against the Japanese. The immense size and challenging geographical configuration of Manchuria made the task facing 

the Stavka even more daunting. Therefore, it concluded that only bold, 

rapid maneuver on a strategic scale could preempt Japanese defenses, 

paralyze Japanese command and control, overcome the imposing terrain 

barriers, and guarantee seizure of the region before the Japanese Empire 

and its military collapsed.
268 historical perspectives of the operational art 

European terrain than the older tank-heavy tank forces.64 The new combined-arms armies were also considerably more durable than their wartime counterparts. Each consisted of two rifle corps made up of two 

rifle divisions. Each rifle corps also contained a mechanized division, 

and each rifle division a tank and self-propelled gun battalion.65 In addition, Soviet industry created a new generation of tanks and armored 

personnel carriers to improve the survivability of operational and tactical maneuver forces.

The operational and tactical techniques that this reformed force 

structure adopted closely resembled procedures that Red Army mobile 

forces employed during the final two years of war. Offensive operational maneuver by mobile groups remained the most critical ingredient for achieving offensive success. As expressed by one contemporary Soviet source, “Mechanized troops are used for the exploitation 

of success into the depth of the operational area.”66 A wartime front 

commander, with two to four combined-arms armies and one or two 

mechanized armies under his control, employed the combined-arms 

armies’ rifle corps to conduct the penetration operation. The rifle corps’ 

mechanized divisions supported the penetrating rifle divisions and, if 

possible, began the operational exploitation. The combined-arms army 

commander then committed his mobile group, which consisted of one 

or two tank or mechanized divisions, into combat on the first or second 

day of the operation, with the mission of exploiting tactical success into 

the shallow operational depths. Thereafter, but probably on the second 

or third day of the operation, the front commander was to commit his 

mobile group(s), the one or two mechanized armies, into combat to extend the exploitation to even greater depth. The Soviets expected these 

operational maneuver forces to advance to a depth of up to two hundred 

kilometers within five to seven days.

The Zhukov Reforms (1954 –1959)

In the mid-1950s, Soviet recognition of the growing importance of 

atomic weaponry, reinforced by the United States’ adoption of new force 

structures and weaponry tailored to combat in the atomic age, prompted 

the Soviets once again to alter their force structure and operational and 

tactical concepts.67 After Stalin’s death in 1953, Ministers of Defense 

Zhukov and R. Y. Malinovsky implemented these reforms. The central 

focus of the Zhukov reforms was to create a force with greater mobility 

and troop protection that could better perform and survive in an atomic 

environment. The heavy mechanized armies and corps were too large, 

too cumbersome, and hence too vulnerable to survive on the atomic 

battlefield, while the rifle corps and divisions were too light and lacked 

mobility and troop protection.
268 historical perspectives of the operational art 

European terrain than the older tank-heavy tank forces.64 The new combined-arms armies were also considerably more durable than their wartime counterparts. Each consisted of two rifle corps made up of two 

rifle divisions. Each rifle corps also contained a mechanized division, 

and each rifle division a tank and self-propelled gun battalion.65 In addition, Soviet industry created a new generation of tanks and armored 

personnel carriers to improve the survivability of operational and tactical maneuver forces.

The operational and tactical techniques that this reformed force 

structure adopted closely resembled procedures that Red Army mobile 

forces employed during the final two years of war. Offensive operational maneuver by mobile groups remained the most critical ingredient for achieving offensive success. As expressed by one contemporary Soviet source, “Mechanized troops are used for the exploitation 

of success into the depth of the operational area.”66 A wartime front 

commander, with two to four combined-arms armies and one or two 

mechanized armies under his control, employed the combined-arms 

armies’ rifle corps to conduct the penetration operation. The rifle corps’ 

mechanized divisions supported the penetrating rifle divisions and, if 

possible, began the operational exploitation. The combined-arms army 

commander then committed his mobile group, which consisted of one 

or two tank or mechanized divisions, into combat on the first or second 

day of the operation, with the mission of exploiting tactical success into 

the shallow operational depths. Thereafter, but probably on the second 

or third day of the operation, the front commander was to commit his 

mobile group(s), the one or two mechanized armies, into combat to extend the exploitation to even greater depth. The Soviets expected these 

operational maneuver forces to advance to a depth of up to two hundred 

kilometers within five to seven days.

The Zhukov Reforms (1954 –1959)

In the mid-1950s, Soviet recognition of the growing importance of 

atomic weaponry, reinforced by the United States’ adoption of new force 

structures and weaponry tailored to combat in the atomic age, prompted 

the Soviets once again to alter their force structure and operational and 

tactical concepts.67 After Stalin’s death in 1953, Ministers of Defense 

Zhukov and R. Y. Malinovsky implemented these reforms. The central 

focus of the Zhukov reforms was to create a force with greater mobility 

and troop protection that could better perform and survive in an atomic 

environment. The heavy mechanized armies and corps were too large, 

too cumbersome, and hence too vulnerable to survive on the atomic 

battlefield, while the rifle corps and divisions were too light and lacked 

mobility and troop protection.
270 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the nature and conduct of military operations and for the Soviet force 

structure. The strategic nuclear exchange became all-important, and the 

newly formed strategic rocket forces replaced the ground forces as the 

premier arm of the armed forces. Strategic considerations eclipsed the 

realm of operational art, and operational maneuver ceased to be an area 

of fundamental concern.

Reflecting this doctrinal change, the Soviet ground force structure shrank to roughly 140 divisions, each better tailored to operate in 

a nuclear environment. Tank and combined-arms armies decreased in 

manpower and weaponry, and tank armies and divisions became armorpure entities more capable of surviving on a nuclear battlefield.73 Ground 

forces would perform the simple mission of cleaning up the battlefield 

after the nuclear exchange.

Given the more restrictive role of the ground forces, Soviet fronts 

and armies would normally deploy in two-echelon configuration across 

larger frontages and disperse to greater depths. At every level armor forces would operate in the first echelon, because of their reduced vulnerability to the effects of nuclear weapons, and advance along numerous axes 

to exploit gaps created by nuclear fires. Operational maneuver was irrelevant in these chaotic scenarios, since nuclear forces would be the principal means for destroying the enemy. Consequently, Soviet commanders did not employ operational maneuver forces as specific functional 

entities. However, tactical maneuver became far more important on this 

fragmented and potentially contaminated battlefield. Numerous, tankheavy forward detachments spearheaded ground operations, protected 

from the adverse effects of the nuclear environment by their small size, 

greater speed, and heavier armored protection. This offensive scheme 

also revived the utility and prestige of airborne forces, since they were 

particularly well suited to cooperate with tactical maneuver forces.

The Counterrevolution in Military Affairs (1971–1985)

At least in part, Khrushchev’s removal from power in 1964 reflected 

the Soviet military establishment’s growing uneasiness over existing doctrinal trends. Although displeased with the reduced size, importance, and 

prestige of the ground forces, Soviet military leaders and theorists had 

temporarily accepted the validity of the revolution in military affairs as 

long as the United States retained clear nuclear superiority. As that superiority waned, however, and the United States shifted from the strategy 

of massive retaliation to one of flexible response, the conventional option once again appeared more attractive and feasible. This transformation in Soviet military thought to renewed faith that warfare could be 

kept conventional took years to mature fully. First, it required that the 

Soviet Union checkmate U.S. nuclear capabilities at each level: strategic, 
270 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the nature and conduct of military operations and for the Soviet force 

structure. The strategic nuclear exchange became all-important, and the 

newly formed strategic rocket forces replaced the ground forces as the 

premier arm of the armed forces. Strategic considerations eclipsed the 

realm of operational art, and operational maneuver ceased to be an area 

of fundamental concern.

Reflecting this doctrinal change, the Soviet ground force structure shrank to roughly 140 divisions, each better tailored to operate in 

a nuclear environment. Tank and combined-arms armies decreased in 

manpower and weaponry, and tank armies and divisions became armorpure entities more capable of surviving on a nuclear battlefield.73 Ground 

forces would perform the simple mission of cleaning up the battlefield 

after the nuclear exchange.

Given the more restrictive role of the ground forces, Soviet fronts 

and armies would normally deploy in two-echelon configuration across 

larger frontages and disperse to greater depths. At every level armor forces would operate in the first echelon, because of their reduced vulnerability to the effects of nuclear weapons, and advance along numerous axes 

to exploit gaps created by nuclear fires. Operational maneuver was irrelevant in these chaotic scenarios, since nuclear forces would be the principal means for destroying the enemy. Consequently, Soviet commanders did not employ operational maneuver forces as specific functional 

entities. However, tactical maneuver became far more important on this 

fragmented and potentially contaminated battlefield. Numerous, tankheavy forward detachments spearheaded ground operations, protected 

from the adverse effects of the nuclear environment by their small size, 

greater speed, and heavier armored protection. This offensive scheme 

also revived the utility and prestige of airborne forces, since they were 

particularly well suited to cooperate with tactical maneuver forces.

The Counterrevolution in Military Affairs (1971–1985)

At least in part, Khrushchev’s removal from power in 1964 reflected 

the Soviet military establishment’s growing uneasiness over existing doctrinal trends. Although displeased with the reduced size, importance, and 

prestige of the ground forces, Soviet military leaders and theorists had 

temporarily accepted the validity of the revolution in military affairs as 

long as the United States retained clear nuclear superiority. As that superiority waned, however, and the United States shifted from the strategy 

of massive retaliation to one of flexible response, the conventional option once again appeared more attractive and feasible. This transformation in Soviet military thought to renewed faith that warfare could be 

kept conventional took years to mature fully. First, it required that the 

Soviet Union checkmate U.S. nuclear capabilities at each level: strategic, 
272 historical perspectives of the operational art 

continued to describe the function indirectly in both defensive and offensive contexts.

As Soviet theorists developed techniques for employing contemporary operational and tactical maneuver forces, they carefully examined 

how these forces operated in their Great Patriotic War. In particular, because of their flexible configuration, wartime mobile groups and forward 

detachments seemed ideally suited to conduct antinuclear maneuver at 

both the operational and the tactical levels. Their organization and operating procedures during the war provided a sound basis for the emerging concepts of operational maneuver by groups—OMGs—and tactical 

maneuver by forward detachments.

At the same time, the Soviets deemphasized the importance of operational second echelons (at the front and army level), because of their increased vulnerability to possible nuclear strikes, and began to emphasize 

the concept and utility of employing multiple operational maneuver forces and reserves at front and army level. Specifically, they recommended 

that fronts and armies concentrate the bulk of their forces well forward 

prior to launching an offensive and, once the offensive began, commit 

numerous operational maneuver groups into combat along multiple axes 

early in the operation. Tactical maneuver would pave the way for advancing operational maneuver forces and main force units.76 Employment of 

these antinuclear maneuver techniques provided increased opportunity to 

surprise the enemy with respect to the timing and form of the attack.

During the later 1970s Soviet theorists also carefully analyzed past 

“initial periods of war,” in particular the disastrous initial months of their 

Great Patriotic War (June–October 1941). They did so to determine what 

a nation’s army had to do to win quick victory or avoid precipitous defeat. 

Based on this study, they concluded that the most important factor contributing to offensive success was the early and surprise commitment of 

the bulk of one’s maneuver forces deployed well forward.77 Accordingly, 

the Soviets deemphasized preliminary large-scale mobilization (which 

had been the primary indicator of impending war) and recommended 

employing single strategic and operational echelons dominated by numerous tailored operational and tactical maneuver forces.

This modern variant for the employment of operational maneuver 

groups had fully matured by the early 1980s, and Soviet ground force 

strength and composition reflected these new warfighting concepts. The 

steady growth of the ground forces increased its total strength to well 

over 200 divisions by 1985. As the ground forces expanded, formations 

(divisions) and units (regiments) grew in size, and, although the Soviet 

Army still tended to be armor heavy, its force structure increasingly reflected the combined-arms balance so essential for success in conventional operations. In particular, tank armies and divisions received additional mechanized infantry, and divisions were augmented with more 
272 historical perspectives of the operational art 

continued to describe the function indirectly in both defensive and offensive contexts.

As Soviet theorists developed techniques for employing contemporary operational and tactical maneuver forces, they carefully examined 

how these forces operated in their Great Patriotic War. In particular, because of their flexible configuration, wartime mobile groups and forward 

detachments seemed ideally suited to conduct antinuclear maneuver at 

both the operational and the tactical levels. Their organization and operating procedures during the war provided a sound basis for the emerging concepts of operational maneuver by groups—OMGs—and tactical 

maneuver by forward detachments.

At the same time, the Soviets deemphasized the importance of operational second echelons (at the front and army level), because of their increased vulnerability to possible nuclear strikes, and began to emphasize 

the concept and utility of employing multiple operational maneuver forces and reserves at front and army level. Specifically, they recommended 

that fronts and armies concentrate the bulk of their forces well forward 

prior to launching an offensive and, once the offensive began, commit 

numerous operational maneuver groups into combat along multiple axes 

early in the operation. Tactical maneuver would pave the way for advancing operational maneuver forces and main force units.76 Employment of 

these antinuclear maneuver techniques provided increased opportunity to 

surprise the enemy with respect to the timing and form of the attack.

During the later 1970s Soviet theorists also carefully analyzed past 

“initial periods of war,” in particular the disastrous initial months of their 

Great Patriotic War (June–October 1941). They did so to determine what 

a nation’s army had to do to win quick victory or avoid precipitous defeat. 

Based on this study, they concluded that the most important factor contributing to offensive success was the early and surprise commitment of 

the bulk of one’s maneuver forces deployed well forward.77 Accordingly, 

the Soviets deemphasized preliminary large-scale mobilization (which 

had been the primary indicator of impending war) and recommended 

employing single strategic and operational echelons dominated by numerous tailored operational and tactical maneuver forces.

This modern variant for the employment of operational maneuver 

groups had fully matured by the early 1980s, and Soviet ground force 

strength and composition reflected these new warfighting concepts. The 

steady growth of the ground forces increased its total strength to well 

over 200 divisions by 1985. As the ground forces expanded, formations 

(divisions) and units (regiments) grew in size, and, although the Soviet 

Army still tended to be armor heavy, its force structure increasingly reflected the combined-arms balance so essential for success in conventional operations. In particular, tank armies and divisions received additional mechanized infantry, and divisions were augmented with more 
274 historical perspectives of the operational art 

by V. G. Reznichenko, “The continuous conduct of battle at a high tempo 

creates unfavorable conditions for enemy use of weapons of mass destruction. He cannot determine targets for nuclear strikes precisely and, besides, 

[he] will be forced to shift his nuclear delivery means often.”80 By the mid1980s, however, the Soviets openly acknowledged that the Western development of a wide variety of high-precision weapons posed a major new 

threat. If employed skillfully, these weapons could affect attacking forces 

in the same fashion as tactical nuclear weapons. Worse still, they could 

engage attacking maneuver forces even before they made actual contact 

with the enemy. Initially, at least, the Soviet solution to this dilemma was 

to place even greater emphasis on operational and tactical maneuver to 

counter enemy employment of high-precision weaponry.81 To capitalize 

fully on the effects of maneuver, the Soviets believed that they had to restructure their forces for maximum flexibility, reduce planning time, and 

execute command and control more precisely. This required the increased 

use of cybernetic tools, including automation of command and expanded 

reliance on tactical and operational calculations (nomograms, etc.).

A dialectical process of change governed this evolution of military 

techniques and force structure as multiple influences forced the Soviets to 

refine their concept of antinuclear maneuver and increasingly emphasize 

operational and tactical maneuver. This process continued in the 1980s 

as new stimuli provided impetus for Soviet definition of new forms of 

combat, new operational concepts, and combat structures and formations 

(echelonment) to carry them out. At the same time, Soviet views on the 

nature of contemporary combat also evolved, and the Soviets redefined 

the requirements for a force to achieve offensive success. One writer 

articulated the chief characteristics of future battle as:

● Transformation of traditional land actions into land-air actions;

● Broadening of the role of mobility in all troop actions;

● Development and dissemination of the practice of combat actions within 

enemy formations, especially raid actions;

● Initiation of battle at increasingly greater distances;

● Growth of the significance of the “information struggle,” having as its 

goal the steering of the enemy in the direction of one’s own plans and 

intentions.82

This offensive scheme posited certain distinct requirements, which 

included:

● The achievement of a degree of surprise to create necessary force superiority and to gain initial advantage, which involves deception regarding 

attack intentions, timing, location, and scale;

● Avoidance of major attack indicators, which requires extensive prewar 

theater preparations and the use of selective covert mobilization techniques 
274 historical perspectives of the operational art 

by V. G. Reznichenko, “The continuous conduct of battle at a high tempo 

creates unfavorable conditions for enemy use of weapons of mass destruction. He cannot determine targets for nuclear strikes precisely and, besides, 

[he] will be forced to shift his nuclear delivery means often.”80 By the mid1980s, however, the Soviets openly acknowledged that the Western development of a wide variety of high-precision weapons posed a major new 

threat. If employed skillfully, these weapons could affect attacking forces 

in the same fashion as tactical nuclear weapons. Worse still, they could 

engage attacking maneuver forces even before they made actual contact 

with the enemy. Initially, at least, the Soviet solution to this dilemma was 

to place even greater emphasis on operational and tactical maneuver to 

counter enemy employment of high-precision weaponry.81 To capitalize 

fully on the effects of maneuver, the Soviets believed that they had to restructure their forces for maximum flexibility, reduce planning time, and 

execute command and control more precisely. This required the increased 

use of cybernetic tools, including automation of command and expanded 

reliance on tactical and operational calculations (nomograms, etc.).

A dialectical process of change governed this evolution of military 

techniques and force structure as multiple influences forced the Soviets to 

refine their concept of antinuclear maneuver and increasingly emphasize 

operational and tactical maneuver. This process continued in the 1980s 

as new stimuli provided impetus for Soviet definition of new forms of 

combat, new operational concepts, and combat structures and formations 

(echelonment) to carry them out. At the same time, Soviet views on the 

nature of contemporary combat also evolved, and the Soviets redefined 

the requirements for a force to achieve offensive success. One writer 

articulated the chief characteristics of future battle as:

● Transformation of traditional land actions into land-air actions;

● Broadening of the role of mobility in all troop actions;

● Development and dissemination of the practice of combat actions within 

enemy formations, especially raid actions;

● Initiation of battle at increasingly greater distances;

● Growth of the significance of the “information struggle,” having as its 

goal the steering of the enemy in the direction of one’s own plans and 

intentions.82

This offensive scheme posited certain distinct requirements, which 

included:

● The achievement of a degree of surprise to create necessary force superiority and to gain initial advantage, which involves deception regarding 

attack intentions, timing, location, and scale;

● Avoidance of major attack indicators, which requires extensive prewar 

theater preparations and the use of selective covert mobilization techniques 
276 historical perspectives of the operational art 

● Social

Reducing social tensions within the military (problem of first year soldiers)

Solving the nationalities problem

● Military

Preemption in the initial period of war

Surprise (deception)

Operational and tactical maneuver (antinuclear maneuver)

The political and economic components of these realities triumphed, at 

least temporarily, during the late 1980s and shaped Soviet force structure 

and concepts for conducting operational and tactical maneuver. Impelled 

by economic, political, and even military considerations, in 1988 the Soviets embraced the concept of “defensiveness” in their military doctrine. 

They admitted that defensiveness contradicted and altered what had 

in reality been a long-standing offensive orientation in the component 

levels of Soviet military science—strategy, operational art, and tactics. 

They underscored their sincerity by proposing to create a new military 

force structure, which by its very nature had to be construed by the West 

as defensive.83

However, as the shape and form of the new Soviet force structure 

emerged, it became clear that there was a sharp dichotomy between the 

offensively oriented force so evident in Soviet writings up to and through 

1985 and the new and apparently defensive force being implemented. In 

essence the former force, offensive in its orientation, seemed to accord 

with strictly military requirements, while the new defensive structure reflected the dictates of sharply adverse economic and political conditions. 

Addendum: The Soviet and Russian Army After 1988

During the period 1988 through 1991, political and economic realities prompted the Soviets to enunciate a new defensive military doctrine 

within the context of the twin programs of perestroika and glasnost’. The 

central notion of defensiveness was a Soviet commitment to a strategic 

defensive posture based upon the principle of “defensive sufficiency” 

and a military strategy based upon premeditated defense. Driven by political and economic necessity, the Soviets shelved their attempts to restructure their armed forces to meet the demands of nonlinear war and 

temporarily abandoned public attempts to create a corps, brigade, and 

combined-arms force structure that could fight and survive in the fragmented modern battlefield. While doing so, however, both the economic 

situation within the Soviet Union and the technological dilemmas that 

the Soviet Army faced worsened sharply.

In accordance with defensiveness, the Soviets introduced two new 

divisional structures. The first, called Division 89, fielded in the forward 
276 historical perspectives of the operational art 

● Social

Reducing social tensions within the military (problem of first year soldiers)

Solving the nationalities problem

● Military

Preemption in the initial period of war

Surprise (deception)

Operational and tactical maneuver (antinuclear maneuver)

The political and economic components of these realities triumphed, at 

least temporarily, during the late 1980s and shaped Soviet force structure 

and concepts for conducting operational and tactical maneuver. Impelled 

by economic, political, and even military considerations, in 1988 the Soviets embraced the concept of “defensiveness” in their military doctrine. 

They admitted that defensiveness contradicted and altered what had 

in reality been a long-standing offensive orientation in the component 

levels of Soviet military science—strategy, operational art, and tactics. 

They underscored their sincerity by proposing to create a new military 

force structure, which by its very nature had to be construed by the West 

as defensive.83

However, as the shape and form of the new Soviet force structure 

emerged, it became clear that there was a sharp dichotomy between the 

offensively oriented force so evident in Soviet writings up to and through 

1985 and the new and apparently defensive force being implemented. In 

essence the former force, offensive in its orientation, seemed to accord 

with strictly military requirements, while the new defensive structure reflected the dictates of sharply adverse economic and political conditions. 

Addendum: The Soviet and Russian Army After 1988

During the period 1988 through 1991, political and economic realities prompted the Soviets to enunciate a new defensive military doctrine 

within the context of the twin programs of perestroika and glasnost’. The 

central notion of defensiveness was a Soviet commitment to a strategic 

defensive posture based upon the principle of “defensive sufficiency” 

and a military strategy based upon premeditated defense. Driven by political and economic necessity, the Soviets shelved their attempts to restructure their armed forces to meet the demands of nonlinear war and 

temporarily abandoned public attempts to create a corps, brigade, and 

combined-arms force structure that could fight and survive in the fragmented modern battlefield. While doing so, however, both the economic 

situation within the Soviet Union and the technological dilemmas that 

the Soviet Army faced worsened sharply.

In accordance with defensiveness, the Soviets introduced two new 

divisional structures. The first, called Division 89, fielded in the forward 
278 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the new Russian State mandated a peacetime military establishment of 

about 1.5 million men. Although unattainable for a variety of reasons, 

this establishment was to consist of two types of forces, permanently 

ready forces and mobile, rapid-reaction forces, backed up by a one million-man strategic reserve. Economic and geographic constraints dictated that permanently ready forces would deploy in limited numbers along 

critical axes to serve as covering forces in the event of war. Mobile reserves, structured flexibly to respond to any crisis, would deploy within 

the depth of the state to assist ready forces in repelling aggression, while 

strategic reserves would mobilize and deploy in the event of major war. 

Given these doctrinal requirements, the most critical question facing the 

General Staff was determining the size, form, and shape these forces take 

in peacetime. The General Staff also continued to define the nature and 

requirements of future war.

The debate within the General Staff over the nature of future war 

represented a dynamic and virtually seamless continuation of the debates 

that dominated the 1980s. The General Staff concluded that future war 

would be fragmented and nonlinear and would be dominated by increasingly lethal, high-precision weapon systems. This warfare would place a 

premium on combat flexibility at all levels and exploitation of the time 

factor in decision making, planning, command and control of forces, and 

battlefield communications. Among the many themes Russian military 

theorists analyzed were:

● The future of AirLand Battle;

● The nature of the air echelon;

● Vertical maneuver and envelopment by air assault;

● The conduct of operational and tactical maneuver on the nonlinear battlefield, particularly during defensive actions, counterattacks, counterstrokes, 

and counteroffensives;

● The utility of raid actions;

● The modernization, reorganization, and proliferation of fire systems, organization, and tactics.

New concepts such as fire strike of the enemy and the employment of 

mobile fortified regions and mobile covering brigades supplemented the 

ongoing study of such familiar themes as reconnaissance strike, airmobile defense, raids, and antipartisan combat.

Characteristic of this analysis, one perceptive theorist concluded:

In our view, new forms of combat operations will be established in the 

next 5–15 years; a massive, integrated strike by electronic, precision, laser, 

and super-high-frequency weapons; strikes by large groups of helicopters with 

simultaneous suppression of the enemy; raiding operations of air-land tactical 

combat groups; massive reconnaissance-fire and anti-reconnaissance strikes; 

and so on.84
278 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the new Russian State mandated a peacetime military establishment of 

about 1.5 million men. Although unattainable for a variety of reasons, 

this establishment was to consist of two types of forces, permanently 

ready forces and mobile, rapid-reaction forces, backed up by a one million-man strategic reserve. Economic and geographic constraints dictated that permanently ready forces would deploy in limited numbers along 

critical axes to serve as covering forces in the event of war. Mobile reserves, structured flexibly to respond to any crisis, would deploy within 

the depth of the state to assist ready forces in repelling aggression, while 

strategic reserves would mobilize and deploy in the event of major war. 

Given these doctrinal requirements, the most critical question facing the 

General Staff was determining the size, form, and shape these forces take 

in peacetime. The General Staff also continued to define the nature and 

requirements of future war.

The debate within the General Staff over the nature of future war 

represented a dynamic and virtually seamless continuation of the debates 

that dominated the 1980s. The General Staff concluded that future war 

would be fragmented and nonlinear and would be dominated by increasingly lethal, high-precision weapon systems. This warfare would place a 

premium on combat flexibility at all levels and exploitation of the time 

factor in decision making, planning, command and control of forces, and 

battlefield communications. Among the many themes Russian military 

theorists analyzed were:

● The future of AirLand Battle;

● The nature of the air echelon;

● Vertical maneuver and envelopment by air assault;

● The conduct of operational and tactical maneuver on the nonlinear battlefield, particularly during defensive actions, counterattacks, counterstrokes, 

and counteroffensives;

● The utility of raid actions;

● The modernization, reorganization, and proliferation of fire systems, organization, and tactics.

New concepts such as fire strike of the enemy and the employment of 

mobile fortified regions and mobile covering brigades supplemented the 

ongoing study of such familiar themes as reconnaissance strike, airmobile defense, raids, and antipartisan combat.

Characteristic of this analysis, one perceptive theorist concluded:

In our view, new forms of combat operations will be established in the 

next 5–15 years; a massive, integrated strike by electronic, precision, laser, 

and super-high-frequency weapons; strikes by large groups of helicopters with 

simultaneous suppression of the enemy; raiding operations of air-land tactical 

combat groups; massive reconnaissance-fire and anti-reconnaissance strikes; 

and so on.84
280 historical perspectives of the operational art 

will consist of divisions (perhaps corps), light motorized rifle brigades, 

mobile fortified regions, and mobile covering brigades. Mobile forces 

will consist of two operational-strategic force components: immediate 

reaction forces and rapid deployment forces. The former will be light 

forces with a strong air component capable of deploying within one to 

three days after alert, and the latter will contain heavier combined-arms 

formations (probably corps) capable of reinforcing IRF forces within 

three to seven days.

In the near term, the nucleus of immediate reaction forces will comprise 5 airborne divisions, 8 separate airborne brigades, 6 light motorized 

rifle brigades; the reaction forces will be supplemented by naval infantry 

battalions, air assault battalions, and reconnaissance-diversionary forces. 

The air component will include bomber aviation, fighter ground-attack 

aviation, and helicopter regiments; surface-to-air missile brigades will 

provide air defense. Helicopter regiments and air transport divisions will 

provide mobility support, and a mobile signal center exploiting satellite 

communications will form the upper end of the information component.

The rapid deployment force will provide tailored heavier support to 

IRF elements. It will likely include several mobile corps of from three 

to five brigades (tank, mechanized, or motorized rifle, depending upon 

battalion mix, and at least one light motorized rifle battalion), at least one 

tank and one motorized rifle division during the transitional period, a large 

air component, and enhanced mobility and communications support.

Economic necessity dictates that the new corps and brigade structures are likely to be truncated in form and often experimental during the 

immediate future. In the interim, remaining motorized rifle and tank divisions and their component regiments will take on some of the characteristics of corps and brigades, particularly in terms of diverse attachments, 

and the Russians will field a wide variety of test brigade structures, some 

separate, some within corps, and some, perhaps, also within divisions.

Conclusions

Whether or not political and economic developments within Russia 

permit further rational and orderly development of military art and force 

structuring, it is clear that the Russian military will continue to be perplexed by those same issues that their Soviet forebears found daunting. 

Despite the past and continuing turmoil and the persistent uncertainties 

that now plague the Russian Federation and its military establishment, 

to date key and striking continuities are evident. First, examination of 

Russian military theoretical writings indicates a continuing keen appreciation on the part of military theorists of the altered nature and unprecedented new challenges of future war. Russian military theory remains 

alive and vibrant; and, in terms of operational art, tactics, and force 
280 historical perspectives of the operational art 

will consist of divisions (perhaps corps), light motorized rifle brigades, 

mobile fortified regions, and mobile covering brigades. Mobile forces 

will consist of two operational-strategic force components: immediate 

reaction forces and rapid deployment forces. The former will be light 

forces with a strong air component capable of deploying within one to 

three days after alert, and the latter will contain heavier combined-arms 

formations (probably corps) capable of reinforcing IRF forces within 

three to seven days.

In the near term, the nucleus of immediate reaction forces will comprise 5 airborne divisions, 8 separate airborne brigades, 6 light motorized 

rifle brigades; the reaction forces will be supplemented by naval infantry 

battalions, air assault battalions, and reconnaissance-diversionary forces. 

The air component will include bomber aviation, fighter ground-attack 

aviation, and helicopter regiments; surface-to-air missile brigades will 

provide air defense. Helicopter regiments and air transport divisions will 

provide mobility support, and a mobile signal center exploiting satellite 

communications will form the upper end of the information component.

The rapid deployment force will provide tailored heavier support to 

IRF elements. It will likely include several mobile corps of from three 

to five brigades (tank, mechanized, or motorized rifle, depending upon 

battalion mix, and at least one light motorized rifle battalion), at least one 

tank and one motorized rifle division during the transitional period, a large 

air component, and enhanced mobility and communications support.

Economic necessity dictates that the new corps and brigade structures are likely to be truncated in form and often experimental during the 

immediate future. In the interim, remaining motorized rifle and tank divisions and their component regiments will take on some of the characteristics of corps and brigades, particularly in terms of diverse attachments, 

and the Russians will field a wide variety of test brigade structures, some 

separate, some within corps, and some, perhaps, also within divisions.

Conclusions

Whether or not political and economic developments within Russia 

permit further rational and orderly development of military art and force 

structuring, it is clear that the Russian military will continue to be perplexed by those same issues that their Soviet forebears found daunting. 

Despite the past and continuing turmoil and the persistent uncertainties 

that now plague the Russian Federation and its military establishment, 

to date key and striking continuities are evident. First, examination of 

Russian military theoretical writings indicates a continuing keen appreciation on the part of military theorists of the altered nature and unprecedented new challenges of future war. Russian military theory remains 

alive and vibrant; and, in terms of operational art, tactics, and force 
282 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. The newly published Soviet casualty figures resulting from the purges include: 3 of 

5 marshals of the Soviet Union, 14 of 16 army commanders (first and second rank), 60 of 

87 corps commanders, 136 of 199 division commanders, 221 of 397 brigade commanders, all 11 vice-commissars of war, 75 of 80 members of the Supreme Military Council, 

and all military district commanders as of May 1937. The estimated 35,000 purged represented half the officer corps, 90 percent of all generals and 80 percent of all colonels. The 

purges were, in fact, still in progress when the German invasion of June 1941 began. O. F. 

Suvenirov, “Vsearmeiskaya tragediya” [An all-army tragedy], Voyenno-istoricheskiy zhurnal [Military-historical journal] (hereafter cited as VIZh) no. 3 (March 1989): 41. These 

update already published Western estimates. See Leonard Shapiro, “The Great Purge,” in 

The Soviet Army, ed. Basil H. Liddell Hart (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1956), p. 

69.

2. Analysis of the experiences of Soviet tank units and armored specialists who participated in the Spanish Civil War cast doubt on the feasibility of using large tank units in 

modern combat. The units proved difficult to command and control; enemy fire separated 

tanks from supporting infantry; and the light tanks were vulnerable to destruction by artillery fire and even crude infantry antitank weapons (including explosives and bottles filled 

with flammables). The Kulik Commission ultimately acted upon these reports. Since most 

high-level defenders of armored operations had been purged, the defense of armored operations before that commission was weak. The Soviet occupation of eastern Poland in September 1939 illustrated command and control difficulties experienced by the tank corps. 

In addition, their logistical support proved inadequate. At Khalkhin-Gol in August 1939, 

a large Soviet force, commanded by G. Zhukov, used mechanized and armored forces to 

encircle and ultimately destroy two Japanese divisions. Critiques of Zhukov’s performance 

gave him credit for surprising and encircling the Japanese force but criticized the time it 

took to destroy the encircled force and the heavy casualties his force incurred.

3. The Kulik Commission recommended changes that resulted in a subsequent order to 

form eight motorized divisions in 1940 and seven more in the first half of 1941. Details 

of the commission’s work are found in A. Ryzhakov, “K voprosy o stroitel’stve bronetankovykh voîsk Krasnoy armii 30–e gody” [Concerning the question of the formation of 

Red Army armored forces in the thirties], VIZh no. 8 (August 1968): 109–11.

4. Contemporary Soviet critiques of the invasion include A. Konenenko, “Boy vo flandrii (Mai 1940 gg.)” [The battle in Flanders (May 1940)], VIZh no. 3 (March 1941):3–25; 

A. I. Starunin, “Operativnaya vnezapnost’” [Operational surprise], Voennaya mysl’ [Military thought] no. 3 (March 1941): 27–35.

5. The new mechanized corps consisted of 2 tank divisions, 1 motorized division, a 

motorcycle regiment, a signal battalion, a motorized engineer battalion, and an aviation 

troop. Each had an armored strength of 1,031 tanks. The average materiel strength of 

these corps in June 1941 was 53 percent, consisting primarily of obsolete T–26 and BT–5 

tanks. Just over 1,475 new T–34 and KV tanks and 10,150 older models were deployed 

with corps in the border military districts, but they were distributed unequally. See S. P. 
282 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. The newly published Soviet casualty figures resulting from the purges include: 3 of 

5 marshals of the Soviet Union, 14 of 16 army commanders (first and second rank), 60 of 

87 corps commanders, 136 of 199 division commanders, 221 of 397 brigade commanders, all 11 vice-commissars of war, 75 of 80 members of the Supreme Military Council, 

and all military district commanders as of May 1937. The estimated 35,000 purged represented half the officer corps, 90 percent of all generals and 80 percent of all colonels. The 

purges were, in fact, still in progress when the German invasion of June 1941 began. O. F. 

Suvenirov, “Vsearmeiskaya tragediya” [An all-army tragedy], Voyenno-istoricheskiy zhurnal [Military-historical journal] (hereafter cited as VIZh) no. 3 (March 1989): 41. These 

update already published Western estimates. See Leonard Shapiro, “The Great Purge,” in 

The Soviet Army, ed. Basil H. Liddell Hart (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1956), p. 

69.

2. Analysis of the experiences of Soviet tank units and armored specialists who participated in the Spanish Civil War cast doubt on the feasibility of using large tank units in 

modern combat. The units proved difficult to command and control; enemy fire separated 

tanks from supporting infantry; and the light tanks were vulnerable to destruction by artillery fire and even crude infantry antitank weapons (including explosives and bottles filled 

with flammables). The Kulik Commission ultimately acted upon these reports. Since most 

high-level defenders of armored operations had been purged, the defense of armored operations before that commission was weak. The Soviet occupation of eastern Poland in September 1939 illustrated command and control difficulties experienced by the tank corps. 

In addition, their logistical support proved inadequate. At Khalkhin-Gol in August 1939, 

a large Soviet force, commanded by G. Zhukov, used mechanized and armored forces to 

encircle and ultimately destroy two Japanese divisions. Critiques of Zhukov’s performance 

gave him credit for surprising and encircling the Japanese force but criticized the time it 

took to destroy the encircled force and the heavy casualties his force incurred.

3. The Kulik Commission recommended changes that resulted in a subsequent order to 

form eight motorized divisions in 1940 and seven more in the first half of 1941. Details 

of the commission’s work are found in A. Ryzhakov, “K voprosy o stroitel’stve bronetankovykh voîsk Krasnoy armii 30–e gody” [Concerning the question of the formation of 

Red Army armored forces in the thirties], VIZh no. 8 (August 1968): 109–11.

4. Contemporary Soviet critiques of the invasion include A. Konenenko, “Boy vo flandrii (Mai 1940 gg.)” [The battle in Flanders (May 1940)], VIZh no. 3 (March 1941):3–25; 

A. I. Starunin, “Operativnaya vnezapnost’” [Operational surprise], Voennaya mysl’ [Military thought] no. 3 (March 1941): 27–35.

5. The new mechanized corps consisted of 2 tank divisions, 1 motorized division, a 

motorcycle regiment, a signal battalion, a motorized engineer battalion, and an aviation 

troop. Each had an armored strength of 1,031 tanks. The average materiel strength of 

these corps in June 1941 was 53 percent, consisting primarily of obsolete T–26 and BT–5 

tanks. Just over 1,475 new T–34 and KV tanks and 10,150 older models were deployed 

with corps in the border military districts, but they were distributed unequally. See S. P. 
284 historical perspectives of the operational art 

lery battalions). The high command stripped armor, artillery, and engineer assets from the 

divisions and former corps and centralized them in newly created specialized units under 

high command control to allocate to armies where they were most needed.

12. I. V. Pavlovsky, Sukhoputnye voîska SSSR [Ground forces of the USSR] (Moscow: 

Voyenizdat, 1985), pp. 65–69. On paper, tank brigades had forty-six tanks each.

13. I. K. Bagramyan, Tak nachinalas’ voîna [How war begins] (Kiev: Izdatel’stvo 

politicheskoy literatury Ukrainy, 1984), pp. 391–435; Franz Halder, The Halder Diaries: 

The Private War Journals of Colonel General Franz Halder (Boulder, Colo.: Westview 

Press, 1977), pp. 1303–21.

14. For details on the use of operational maneuver forces in the Moscow counteroffensive, see I. Y. Krupchenko, ed., Sovetskye tankovye voîska 1941–1945 [Soviet tank forces, 1941–1945] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1973), pp. 46–51; F. Tamanov, 

“Primeneniye bronetankovykh voîsk v bitve pod Moskvoî” [Use of armored forces 

in the battle of Moscow], VIZh no. 1 (January 1967): 14–23; P. A. Belov, Za nami 

Moskva [Behind us Moscow] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1963). Belov was 1st Guards 

Cavalry Corps commander. The Soviets also created and used separate ski battalions for deep maneuver in the German rear area during the Moscow operation. The 

weather, terrain, and unequal mobility of these diverse forces made them difficult 

to coordinate in combat. Their lack of firepower exacerbated the problem, as their 

heaviest weapon was the 50-mm. mortar. Soviet units could seize the countryside 

but could not expel German forces from the towns, villages, and main road network.

15. O. A. Losik, ed., Stroitel’stvo i boevoye primenenie Sovetskykh tankovykh voîsk 

v gody Velikoî Otechestvennoy voiny [The formation and combat use of Soviet tank 

forces in the years of the Great Patriotic War] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1979), pp. 50–

53. Initially, the tank corps consisted of two tank brigades and one motorized rifle 

brigade with 100 tanks. In late April the Soviets added an additional tank brigade to 

the corps. The Soviets created 28 tank corps by the end of 1942. Ultimately, the tank 

corps’ strength rose to over 200 tanks and self-propelled guns each.

16. For details on the Khar’kov operation, see David M. Glantz, Kharkov 1942: 

Anatomy of a Military Disaster (Rockville Center, N.Y.: Ian Allan and Sarpedon), 

1998.

17. Krupchenko, Sovetskye tankovye, pp. 58–60; A. I. Radzievsky, Proryv [Penetration], (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1979), pp. 25–29; I. K. Bagramyan, Tak shli my k 

pobede, [As we marched to victory] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1977), pp. 47–128; K. S. 

Moskalenko, Na yugo-zapadnom napravlenii 1941–1943 [On the southwestern axis 

1941–1943] (Moscow: Nauka, 1973), pp. 187–218. The German deception plan is 

discussed in E. F. Ziemke, “Operation Kreml: Deception, Strategy, and the Fortunes 

of War,” Parameters 91, no. 1 (March 1979).

18. A. I. Radzievsky, Tankovyi udar [Tank blow] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1977), pp. 

24–25. The actual tank army composition was as shown in Table 2.

19. The counterattacking forces included the 5th Tank Army (the 2d, 7th, and 11th Tank 

Corps); the 1st, 16th, 4th, and 24th Tank Corps; and the 8th Cavalry Corps. This force 

totaled about 1,500 tanks commanded by such future luminaries as Generals Katukov and 

Rotmistrov. Poor command and control during the month of fighting seriously reduced the 

forces’ effectiveness. For details on these forgotten operations, see David M. Glantz, Forgotten Battles of the German-Soviet War (1941–1945), Vol. II: The Summer Campaign (12 

May–18 November 1942) (Carlisle, Pa.: Self-published, 1999).
284 historical perspectives of the operational art 

lery battalions). The high command stripped armor, artillery, and engineer assets from the 

divisions and former corps and centralized them in newly created specialized units under 

high command control to allocate to armies where they were most needed.

12. I. V. Pavlovsky, Sukhoputnye voîska SSSR [Ground forces of the USSR] (Moscow: 

Voyenizdat, 1985), pp. 65–69. On paper, tank brigades had forty-six tanks each.

13. I. K. Bagramyan, Tak nachinalas’ voîna [How war begins] (Kiev: Izdatel’stvo 

politicheskoy literatury Ukrainy, 1984), pp. 391–435; Franz Halder, The Halder Diaries: 

The Private War Journals of Colonel General Franz Halder (Boulder, Colo.: Westview 

Press, 1977), pp. 1303–21.

14. For details on the use of operational maneuver forces in the Moscow counteroffensive, see I. Y. Krupchenko, ed., Sovetskye tankovye voîska 1941–1945 [Soviet tank forces, 1941–1945] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1973), pp. 46–51; F. Tamanov, 

“Primeneniye bronetankovykh voîsk v bitve pod Moskvoî” [Use of armored forces 

in the battle of Moscow], VIZh no. 1 (January 1967): 14–23; P. A. Belov, Za nami 

Moskva [Behind us Moscow] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1963). Belov was 1st Guards 

Cavalry Corps commander. The Soviets also created and used separate ski battalions for deep maneuver in the German rear area during the Moscow operation. The 

weather, terrain, and unequal mobility of these diverse forces made them difficult 

to coordinate in combat. Their lack of firepower exacerbated the problem, as their 

heaviest weapon was the 50-mm. mortar. Soviet units could seize the countryside 

but could not expel German forces from the towns, villages, and main road network.

15. O. A. Losik, ed., Stroitel’stvo i boevoye primenenie Sovetskykh tankovykh voîsk 

v gody Velikoî Otechestvennoy voiny [The formation and combat use of Soviet tank 

forces in the years of the Great Patriotic War] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1979), pp. 50–

53. Initially, the tank corps consisted of two tank brigades and one motorized rifle 

brigade with 100 tanks. In late April the Soviets added an additional tank brigade to 

the corps. The Soviets created 28 tank corps by the end of 1942. Ultimately, the tank 

corps’ strength rose to over 200 tanks and self-propelled guns each.

16. For details on the Khar’kov operation, see David M. Glantz, Kharkov 1942: 

Anatomy of a Military Disaster (Rockville Center, N.Y.: Ian Allan and Sarpedon), 

1998.

17. Krupchenko, Sovetskye tankovye, pp. 58–60; A. I. Radzievsky, Proryv [Penetration], (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1979), pp. 25–29; I. K. Bagramyan, Tak shli my k 

pobede, [As we marched to victory] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1977), pp. 47–128; K. S. 

Moskalenko, Na yugo-zapadnom napravlenii 1941–1943 [On the southwestern axis 

1941–1943] (Moscow: Nauka, 1973), pp. 187–218. The German deception plan is 

discussed in E. F. Ziemke, “Operation Kreml: Deception, Strategy, and the Fortunes 

of War,” Parameters 91, no. 1 (March 1979).

18. A. I. Radzievsky, Tankovyi udar [Tank blow] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1977), pp. 

24–25. The actual tank army composition was as shown in Table 2.

19. The counterattacking forces included the 5th Tank Army (the 2d, 7th, and 11th Tank 

Corps); the 1st, 16th, 4th, and 24th Tank Corps; and the 8th Cavalry Corps. This force 

totaled about 1,500 tanks commanded by such future luminaries as Generals Katukov and 

Rotmistrov. Poor command and control during the month of fighting seriously reduced the 

forces’ effectiveness. For details on these forgotten operations, see David M. Glantz, Forgotten Battles of the German-Soviet War (1941–1945), Vol. II: The Summer Campaign (12 

May–18 November 1942) (Carlisle, Pa.: Self-published, 1999).
286 historical perspectives of the operational art 

27. For details on these forgotten operations, see Glantz, Forgotten Battles, IV: 83–183.

28. For details on the failed February–March offensive, see Ibid., pp. 213–311.

29. A. M. Zvartsev, 3-ya gvardeiskaya tankovaya [3d Guards Tank] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1982), pp. 50–54. General P. S. Rybalko’s 3d Tank Army, after about thirty days of 

continuous operations, received orders to attack directly into the path of the unfolding 

German counteroffensive. Already reduced in strength to as few as thirty tanks, the army 

was destroyed in the process. Within two months, however, Rybalko received command of 

the new 3d Guards Tank Army.

30. Losik, Sovetskykh tankovykh, pp. 70–73. A sixth tank army would be formed in January 1944. All tank army components possessed similar mobility, although Soviet efforts 

were still hindered by the absence of a true armored personnel carrier.

31. S. A. Tyushkevich, ed., Sovetskiye vooruzhennye sily [The Soviet armed forces] 

(Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1978), pp. 320–21. By 31 December 1943, the Soviet armored and 

mechanized force structure consisted of 5 tank armies, 24 tank corps, 13 mechanized 

corps, 80 separate tank brigades, 106 separate tank regiments, and 43 separate self-propelled artillery regiments.

32. See David M. Glantz and Jonathan M. House, The Battle of Kursk (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1999); P. Rotmistrov, “Bronetankovye i mekhanizirovannye voîska v bitva pod Kurskom” [Armored and mechanized forces in the battle of Kursk], VIZh

no. 1 (January 1970): 12–23; I. Krupchenko, “Osobennosti primeniya bronetankovykh i 

mekhanizirovannykh voîsk v Kurskoy bitve” [Characteristics of the use of armored and 

mechanized forces in the battle of Kursk], VIZh no. 7 (July 1983): 19–25. For details concerning the operations of the 1st and 5th Guards Tank Armies, see A. K. Babadzhanyan 

et al., Lyuki otkryli v Berline [They opened the hatchway to Berlin] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 

1973), pp. 62–94; P. Y. Yegorov et al., Dorogami Pobed [By the roads of victory] (Moscow: 

Voyenizdat, 1969), pp. 55–86. Initially, the 1st Tank Army contained 571 tanks and selfpropelled guns and the 5th Guards Tank Army 543 tanks and self-propelled guns.

33. These diversionary offensives were conducted on 17 July by the Southwestern Front 

near Izyum and by the Southern Front along the Mius River. The two offensives continued 

until 27 July and 3 August, respectively—up to the very time the Belgorod-Khar’kov 

operation commenced.

During the Belgorod-Khar’kov operation, tank armies and subordinate corps led 

operations with forward detachments of reinforced tank-brigade size that performed 

tactical maneuver. The forward detachments were tasked with securing key objectives, 

preempting defenses, and facilitating the advance of their parent units (later with deception). The question was how large should the detachments be and how far in advance should they operate? At Belgorod-Khar’kov, they were as much as 60 tanks each, 

operating up to 20 kilometers in advance of the main body. The initial German counterattacks destroyed these detachments and in so doing severely reduced the strength 

of the parent tank army. Later, the Soviets better task-organized the detachments (principally with antitank and artillery elements) and matched their distance of advance to 

enemy strength and the nature of terrain to ensure support was available if needed. The 

Belgorod-Khar’kov experience, the first case when both front and army commanders 

possessed dedicated operational maneuver forces, indicated what could be achieved in 

the future once all problems were solved.

34. Zvartsev, 3-ya gvardeiskaya tankovaya, pp. 86–111. The 3d Guards Tank Army began 

the pursuit with a strength of 686 tanks and self-propelled guns. See also David M. Glantz, A 

History of Soviet Airborne Forces (London: Frank Cass, 1994), pp. 262–89.
286 historical perspectives of the operational art 

27. For details on these forgotten operations, see Glantz, Forgotten Battles, IV: 83–183.

28. For details on the failed February–March offensive, see Ibid., pp. 213–311.

29. A. M. Zvartsev, 3-ya gvardeiskaya tankovaya [3d Guards Tank] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1982), pp. 50–54. General P. S. Rybalko’s 3d Tank Army, after about thirty days of 

continuous operations, received orders to attack directly into the path of the unfolding 

German counteroffensive. Already reduced in strength to as few as thirty tanks, the army 

was destroyed in the process. Within two months, however, Rybalko received command of 

the new 3d Guards Tank Army.

30. Losik, Sovetskykh tankovykh, pp. 70–73. A sixth tank army would be formed in January 1944. All tank army components possessed similar mobility, although Soviet efforts 

were still hindered by the absence of a true armored personnel carrier.

31. S. A. Tyushkevich, ed., Sovetskiye vooruzhennye sily [The Soviet armed forces] 

(Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1978), pp. 320–21. By 31 December 1943, the Soviet armored and 

mechanized force structure consisted of 5 tank armies, 24 tank corps, 13 mechanized 

corps, 80 separate tank brigades, 106 separate tank regiments, and 43 separate self-propelled artillery regiments.

32. See David M. Glantz and Jonathan M. House, The Battle of Kursk (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1999); P. Rotmistrov, “Bronetankovye i mekhanizirovannye voîska v bitva pod Kurskom” [Armored and mechanized forces in the battle of Kursk], VIZh

no. 1 (January 1970): 12–23; I. Krupchenko, “Osobennosti primeniya bronetankovykh i 

mekhanizirovannykh voîsk v Kurskoy bitve” [Characteristics of the use of armored and 

mechanized forces in the battle of Kursk], VIZh no. 7 (July 1983): 19–25. For details concerning the operations of the 1st and 5th Guards Tank Armies, see A. K. Babadzhanyan 

et al., Lyuki otkryli v Berline [They opened the hatchway to Berlin] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 

1973), pp. 62–94; P. Y. Yegorov et al., Dorogami Pobed [By the roads of victory] (Moscow: 

Voyenizdat, 1969), pp. 55–86. Initially, the 1st Tank Army contained 571 tanks and selfpropelled guns and the 5th Guards Tank Army 543 tanks and self-propelled guns.

33. These diversionary offensives were conducted on 17 July by the Southwestern Front 

near Izyum and by the Southern Front along the Mius River. The two offensives continued 

until 27 July and 3 August, respectively—up to the very time the Belgorod-Khar’kov 

operation commenced.

During the Belgorod-Khar’kov operation, tank armies and subordinate corps led 

operations with forward detachments of reinforced tank-brigade size that performed 

tactical maneuver. The forward detachments were tasked with securing key objectives, 

preempting defenses, and facilitating the advance of their parent units (later with deception). The question was how large should the detachments be and how far in advance should they operate? At Belgorod-Khar’kov, they were as much as 60 tanks each, 

operating up to 20 kilometers in advance of the main body. The initial German counterattacks destroyed these detachments and in so doing severely reduced the strength 

of the parent tank army. Later, the Soviets better task-organized the detachments (principally with antitank and artillery elements) and matched their distance of advance to 

enemy strength and the nature of terrain to ensure support was available if needed. The 

Belgorod-Khar’kov experience, the first case when both front and army commanders 

possessed dedicated operational maneuver forces, indicated what could be achieved in 

the future once all problems were solved.

34. Zvartsev, 3-ya gvardeiskaya tankovaya, pp. 86–111. The 3d Guards Tank Army began 

the pursuit with a strength of 686 tanks and self-propelled guns. See also David M. Glantz, A 

History of Soviet Airborne Forces (London: Frank Cass, 1994), pp. 262–89.
288 historical perspectives of the operational art 

49. M. A. Polushkin, Na sandomirskom napravlenii-L’vovsko-Sandomirskaya operatsiya (iyul’–avgust 1944g.) [On the Sandomierz direction—The L’vov Sandomierz 

operation (July–August 1944)] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1969). The armored strength of 

the tank armies was 3d Guards, 555; 4th, 464; and 1st, 416.

50. S. Petrov, “Dostizheniye vnezapnost’ v L’vovsko-Sandomirskoy operatsii” [The 

achievement of surprise in the L’vov-Sandomierz operation], VIZh no. 7 (July 1974): 

33–36. Confirmed by German intelligence reports contained in OKH [Oberkommando des Heeres], Kriegsgeschichtliche Abteilung, “Der grosse Durchbruch bei HGr, 

Nord-Ukraine u, kampfe am grossen Weichselbruchenkopf v. 8.7–20.–.44.”

51. B. Petrov, “O sozdanii udarnoy gruppirovki voîsk v lyublinsko-brestskoy 

nastupatel’noy operatsii” [Concerning the creation of the shock group of forces in 

the Lublin-Brest offensive operation], VIZh no. 3 (March 1978): 83; F. I. Vysotsky et 

al., Gvardeyskaîa tankovaya [Guards tank] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1963), pp. 109–28. 

This is a history of the 2d Guards Tank Army. The tank army began the operation with 

732 tanks and self-propelled guns.

52. M. V. Zakharov, ed., Osvobozhdeniye yugo-vostochnoy i tsentral’noy evropy voiskami 2–go i 3–go ukrainskikh frontov 1944–1945 [The liberation of southeastern and 

central Europe by forces of the 2d and 3d Ukrainian Fronts 1944–1945] (Moscow: 

Nauka, 1970); G. T. Zavizion and P. A. Kornyushin, I na Tikhim Okeane [And to the 

Pacific Ocean] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1967), pp. 60–94. This is a history of the 6th 

Guards Tank Army, which had 531 tanks and self-propelled guns. The Soviets treat 

this operation as a modern Cannae—a perfect encirclement—although the process 

was helped along a bit when elements of two Romanian armies quit the fight early in 

the operation and left their German allies to fend for themselves.

53. Polevoy ustav Krasnoy armii 1944 (PU-44) [Field regulation of the Red Army 

1944] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1944]. Translated by the Office of the Assistant Chief of 

Staff, G–2, GSUSA, 9–16. The Soviets expressed their faith in the new operational 

maneuver techniques in their 1944 regulations. The 1944 Ustav stated: “Maneuver 

is one of the most important conditions for achieving success. Maneuver comprises 

the organized movement of troops for the purpose of creating the most favorable 

grouping and in placing this grouping in the most favorable position for striking the 

enemy a crushing blow to gain time and space. Maneuver should be simple in conception and be carried out secretly, rapidly, and in such a way as to surprise the enemy.” 

The regulation went on to articulate the function of tank corps, mechanized corps, 

and cavalry. Together they formed an echelon to exploit success “for the purpose of 

breaking up and encircling the main groups of enemy forces and smashing them in 

cooperation with aviation and ground troops of the front.” Cavalry, with its high degree of mobility, was capable of “executing wide operational maneuver and striking 

swift and sudden blows in both mounted and dismounted formation.” The largest mobile force, the tank army, could perform operational maneuver with possible strategic 

consequences.

54. Soviet losses by late 1944 probably exceeded 9 million men. For German estimates of those losses, see Fremde Heere Ost (IIc), Die Personelle Starke der Roten 

Armee. Entwicklung seit Kriegsbeginn [The personnel strength of the Red Army, 

developed since the beginning of war], [1945]. Soviet sources reflect manpower deficiencies by emphasizing the low strength of rifle units and the draconian measures 

used to enlist soldiers in liberated regions. By 1945 Soviet rifle divisions were often 

below 50 percent strength, with only 3,500–5,000 men each.
288 historical perspectives of the operational art 

49. M. A. Polushkin, Na sandomirskom napravlenii-L’vovsko-Sandomirskaya operatsiya (iyul’–avgust 1944g.) [On the Sandomierz direction—The L’vov Sandomierz 

operation (July–August 1944)] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1969). The armored strength of 

the tank armies was 3d Guards, 555; 4th, 464; and 1st, 416.

50. S. Petrov, “Dostizheniye vnezapnost’ v L’vovsko-Sandomirskoy operatsii” [The 

achievement of surprise in the L’vov-Sandomierz operation], VIZh no. 7 (July 1974): 

33–36. Confirmed by German intelligence reports contained in OKH [Oberkommando des Heeres], Kriegsgeschichtliche Abteilung, “Der grosse Durchbruch bei HGr, 

Nord-Ukraine u, kampfe am grossen Weichselbruchenkopf v. 8.7–20.–.44.”

51. B. Petrov, “O sozdanii udarnoy gruppirovki voîsk v lyublinsko-brestskoy 

nastupatel’noy operatsii” [Concerning the creation of the shock group of forces in 

the Lublin-Brest offensive operation], VIZh no. 3 (March 1978): 83; F. I. Vysotsky et 

al., Gvardeyskaîa tankovaya [Guards tank] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1963), pp. 109–28. 

This is a history of the 2d Guards Tank Army. The tank army began the operation with 

732 tanks and self-propelled guns.

52. M. V. Zakharov, ed., Osvobozhdeniye yugo-vostochnoy i tsentral’noy evropy voiskami 2–go i 3–go ukrainskikh frontov 1944–1945 [The liberation of southeastern and 

central Europe by forces of the 2d and 3d Ukrainian Fronts 1944–1945] (Moscow: 

Nauka, 1970); G. T. Zavizion and P. A. Kornyushin, I na Tikhim Okeane [And to the 

Pacific Ocean] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1967), pp. 60–94. This is a history of the 6th 

Guards Tank Army, which had 531 tanks and self-propelled guns. The Soviets treat 

this operation as a modern Cannae—a perfect encirclement—although the process 

was helped along a bit when elements of two Romanian armies quit the fight early in 

the operation and left their German allies to fend for themselves.

53. Polevoy ustav Krasnoy armii 1944 (PU-44) [Field regulation of the Red Army 

1944] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1944]. Translated by the Office of the Assistant Chief of 

Staff, G–2, GSUSA, 9–16. The Soviets expressed their faith in the new operational 

maneuver techniques in their 1944 regulations. The 1944 Ustav stated: “Maneuver 

is one of the most important conditions for achieving success. Maneuver comprises 

the organized movement of troops for the purpose of creating the most favorable 

grouping and in placing this grouping in the most favorable position for striking the 

enemy a crushing blow to gain time and space. Maneuver should be simple in conception and be carried out secretly, rapidly, and in such a way as to surprise the enemy.” 

The regulation went on to articulate the function of tank corps, mechanized corps, 

and cavalry. Together they formed an echelon to exploit success “for the purpose of 

breaking up and encircling the main groups of enemy forces and smashing them in 

cooperation with aviation and ground troops of the front.” Cavalry, with its high degree of mobility, was capable of “executing wide operational maneuver and striking 

swift and sudden blows in both mounted and dismounted formation.” The largest mobile force, the tank army, could perform operational maneuver with possible strategic 

consequences.

54. Soviet losses by late 1944 probably exceeded 9 million men. For German estimates of those losses, see Fremde Heere Ost (IIc), Die Personelle Starke der Roten 

Armee. Entwicklung seit Kriegsbeginn [The personnel strength of the Red Army, 

developed since the beginning of war], [1945]. Soviet sources reflect manpower deficiencies by emphasizing the low strength of rifle units and the draconian measures 

used to enlist soldiers in liberated regions. By 1945 Soviet rifle divisions were often 

below 50 percent strength, with only 3,500–5,000 men each.
290 historical perspectives of the operational art 

(three tank battalions and one motorized rifle battalion), a rifle regiment or battalion (on 

trucks), a tank destroyer battalion, a guards mortar (Katusha) battalion, a light artillery 

battalion or regiment, a self-propelled artillery battalion, an antiaircraft regiment, a mortar 

battalion, and a sapper company or battalion.

63. “Iz doklada komandyushchego bronetankovymi i mekhanizirovannymi voîskami 

Gruppy sovetskikh voîsk v Germanii marshala bronetankovykh voîsk P. A. Rotmistrova na 

voenno-nauchnoy konferentsii po izucheniyu Berlinskoy operatsii” [From the report of the 

commander of armored and mechanized forces of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany, 

Marshal of Armored Forces, P. A. Rotmistrov, at a military-scientific conference on the 

study of the Berlin operation], VIZh no. 9 (September 1985): 43–50.

64. Tyushkevich, Sovetskiye vooruzhennye sily, p. 393; A. Dunin, “Razvitiye sukhoputnykh voîsk v poslevoennyy period” [The development of ground forces in the postwar 

period], VIZh no. 5 (May 1978): 34–35.

65. Pavlovsky, Sukhoputnye voîska, pp. 208–12; Tyushkevich, Sovetskiye vooruzhennye 

sily, pp. 392–94.

66. “Osnovy obshevoyskobogo boya (Lektsiya)” [Principles of combined arms battle (a 

lesson)], Vystrel’ [Advanced infantry course], trans. Directorate of Military Intelligence, 

Army Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada, 1954.

67. In the mid-1950s the United States reorganized its ground forces into pentomic divisions, which were designed to operate on an atomic battlefield.

68. Dunin, “Razvitiye sukhoputnykh voîsk,” p. 38. At this point the Soviet description of 

their force structure shifts into use of generic terms and comparisons between old and new 

units on the basis of percentage changes in strength and firepower. More detail is available 

in “Recent Changes in Soviet Divisional Organization,” Intelligence Review no. 222 (August–September 1955): 10–14; “Organizational Employment of Soviet Line Divisions,” 

Intelligence Review no. 254 (July 1962): 9–12.

69. The new Soviet attitude is best articulated in V. A. Semenov, Kratkiy ocherk razvitiya 

Sovetskogo operativnogo iskusstva [A short survey of the development of Soviet military 

art] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1960), pp. 290–91.

70. Ibid., p. 296.

71. B. Arushanyan, “Manevr v nastupatel’nykh operatsiyakh Velikoy Otechestvennoy 

voyny” [Maneuver in offensive operations of the Great Patriotic War], VIZh no. 12 (December 1963): 3–12. Most Soviet works of this period replaced the term mobile group 

with older terms such as exploitation force or echelon to develop success.

72. V. D. Sokolovsky, Voennaya strategiya [Military strategy] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 

1963), p. 383.

73. Dunin, “Razvitiye sukhoputnykh voîsk,” pp. 38–39; “Soviet Field Armies: Organizational and Operational Concepts,” Intelligence Research Project No. P3–10 (Washington, 

D.C.: Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, 1962), declassified. Average-size 

wartime fronts would consist of a mixture of combined-arms and tank armies; the combined-arms army of three or four motorized rifle divisions, one tank division, and the tank 

army of two to four medium tank divisions; possibly one heavy tank division; and under 

special circumstances, a motorized rifle division.

74. Among the many articles, see F. Sverdlov, “K voprosy o manevre v boyu” [Concerning the question of maneuver in combat], Voennyy vestnik [Military herald] no. 88 (August 

1972): 31; V. Savkin, “Manevr v boyu” [Maneuver in battle], Voennyy vestnik no. 4 (April 

1972): 23.

75. Sverdlov, “K voprosy o manevre v boyu,” p. 31.
290 historical perspectives of the operational art 

(three tank battalions and one motorized rifle battalion), a rifle regiment or battalion (on 

trucks), a tank destroyer battalion, a guards mortar (Katusha) battalion, a light artillery 

battalion or regiment, a self-propelled artillery battalion, an antiaircraft regiment, a mortar 

battalion, and a sapper company or battalion.

63. “Iz doklada komandyushchego bronetankovymi i mekhanizirovannymi voîskami 

Gruppy sovetskikh voîsk v Germanii marshala bronetankovykh voîsk P. A. Rotmistrova na 

voenno-nauchnoy konferentsii po izucheniyu Berlinskoy operatsii” [From the report of the 

commander of armored and mechanized forces of the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany, 

Marshal of Armored Forces, P. A. Rotmistrov, at a military-scientific conference on the 

study of the Berlin operation], VIZh no. 9 (September 1985): 43–50.

64. Tyushkevich, Sovetskiye vooruzhennye sily, p. 393; A. Dunin, “Razvitiye sukhoputnykh voîsk v poslevoennyy period” [The development of ground forces in the postwar 

period], VIZh no. 5 (May 1978): 34–35.

65. Pavlovsky, Sukhoputnye voîska, pp. 208–12; Tyushkevich, Sovetskiye vooruzhennye 

sily, pp. 392–94.

66. “Osnovy obshevoyskobogo boya (Lektsiya)” [Principles of combined arms battle (a 

lesson)], Vystrel’ [Advanced infantry course], trans. Directorate of Military Intelligence, 

Army Headquarters, Ottawa, Canada, 1954.

67. In the mid-1950s the United States reorganized its ground forces into pentomic divisions, which were designed to operate on an atomic battlefield.

68. Dunin, “Razvitiye sukhoputnykh voîsk,” p. 38. At this point the Soviet description of 

their force structure shifts into use of generic terms and comparisons between old and new 

units on the basis of percentage changes in strength and firepower. More detail is available 

in “Recent Changes in Soviet Divisional Organization,” Intelligence Review no. 222 (August–September 1955): 10–14; “Organizational Employment of Soviet Line Divisions,” 

Intelligence Review no. 254 (July 1962): 9–12.

69. The new Soviet attitude is best articulated in V. A. Semenov, Kratkiy ocherk razvitiya 

Sovetskogo operativnogo iskusstva [A short survey of the development of Soviet military 

art] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 1960), pp. 290–91.

70. Ibid., p. 296.

71. B. Arushanyan, “Manevr v nastupatel’nykh operatsiyakh Velikoy Otechestvennoy 

voyny” [Maneuver in offensive operations of the Great Patriotic War], VIZh no. 12 (December 1963): 3–12. Most Soviet works of this period replaced the term mobile group 

with older terms such as exploitation force or echelon to develop success.

72. V. D. Sokolovsky, Voennaya strategiya [Military strategy] (Moscow: Voyenizdat, 

1963), p. 383.

73. Dunin, “Razvitiye sukhoputnykh voîsk,” pp. 38–39; “Soviet Field Armies: Organizational and Operational Concepts,” Intelligence Research Project No. P3–10 (Washington, 

D.C.: Office of the Assistant Chief of Staff, Intelligence, 1962), declassified. Average-size 

wartime fronts would consist of a mixture of combined-arms and tank armies; the combined-arms army of three or four motorized rifle divisions, one tank division, and the tank 

army of two to four medium tank divisions; possibly one heavy tank division; and under 

special circumstances, a motorized rifle division.

74. Among the many articles, see F. Sverdlov, “K voprosy o manevre v boyu” [Concerning the question of maneuver in combat], Voennyy vestnik [Military herald] no. 88 (August 

1972): 31; V. Savkin, “Manevr v boyu” [Maneuver in battle], Voennyy vestnik no. 4 (April 

1972): 23.

75. Sverdlov, “K voprosy o manevre v boyu,” p. 31.
292 historical perspectives of the operational art

82. Stanislaw Koziej, “Anticipated Directions for Change in Tactics of Ground 

Forces,” Przeglad Wojsk Ladowych [Ground Forces Review] no. 9 (September 1986): 

9, trans. Harold Orenstein in Selected Translations from the Polish Military Press (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: Soviet Army Studies Office, 1988), I: 7. Colonel Koziej, a graduate 

of the General Staff Academy of the Polish Armed Forces, has written extensively in the 

Polish journal of the general staff, Mysl Woiskowa [Military thought], on, among other 

topics, air-land operations and the Polish theory of operational art.

83. Jacob W. Kipp, “Gorbachev’s Gambit: Soviet Military Doctrine and Conventional 

Arms Control in an Era of Reform,” in The Soviet Army in an Era of Reform (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Soviet Army Studies Office, 1989). This article exhaustively investigates 

the roots of Soviet defensiveness.

84. Ibid., pp. 55–56.
Soviet Operational Logistics, 1939–1990

Graham H. Turbiville, Jr.

Introduction

The disintegration of the Soviet armed forces is continuing well 

after the official demise of the Soviet State at the end of 1991. Military 

manpower and materiel of the former Soviet Union has been divided or 

claimed by USSR successor states, with the largest share of these resources now incorporated into the Armed Forces of the Russian Republic. Russian military forces themselves sit in shrinking, isolated garrisons 

in what is now termed the “near abroad” beyond Russia’s borders, on the 

territory of a now united Germany, or in installations spread across Russia. One consequence of this enormous and continuing military turmoil 

has been the shattering of a centralized logistic support system designed 

to sustain joint and combined operations of unprecedented size and 

scope, which also is integrated with the military and civilian resources 

of the former Soviet Union’s Warsaw Pact allies. Nevertheless, Soviet 

concepts for the conduct of combined operations—logistics theory, organizational structure, and resources integral to their support—remain 

instructive for military planners and historians alike and deserve the closest study and evaluation.

The development of Soviet military art and operational logistics—that complex of rear service roles, missions, procedures, and 

resources intended to sustain military operations by army and front 

groupings—clearly occupied a prominent place within overall Soviet 

efforts to formulate or adapt warfighting approaches to new conditions.1

As Soviet military theorists and planners have long emphasized, logistic 

theory and practice are shaped by the same historical and technological developments that influence Soviet warfighting approaches at every 

level. In turn, they play a major role in defining directions and parameters 

for Soviet warfighting approaches.

Soviet military writings point also to the need for logistic theory and 

practice that are wholly consistent with other components of strategy, operational art, and tactics. Despite the many changes in the political, economic, and military environment and the quickening pace of technological change, Soviet military theorists and planners continue to emphasize 

the importance of applying pertinent historical precedent to contemporary military problems. This process is evident now in the area of logistic 
294 historical perspectives of the operational art 

support, where formulating or adapting logistic support concepts for fundamentally different circumstances is a particularly complex task.2

This chapter will address the development of logistic concepts and 

resources integral to sustaining large-scale combined-arms operations as 

the Soviets have conceived them over the last five decades from 1939. 

It will also consider what Soviet specialists see as rear service developments that will shape logistic support in the 1990s.

Prewar Preparation, Wartime Reorganization, and the 

Support of Strategic Operations, 1939–1945

When German forces began their rapid advance into the Soviet 

Union on 22 June 1941—the beginning of the Soviet-termed Great Patriotic War—the logistic support system of the Red Army and Navy 

was in virtually every respect unprepared for the demands that were to 

be placed upon it. Rear service responsibilities were largely decentralized; analogous rear service control and management entities often absent from key tactical, operational, and central command levels; existing 

rear service directorates understaffed; and logistic resources of all types 

badly deployed for dealing with the “difficult” support situations faced 

by Soviet military forces. Indeed, the whole concept of providing logistic support to armies and fronts—operational logistic support—proved 

badly flawed from both organizational and resource standpoints.

Prewar logistic planners anticipated these systemic and resource 

problems, though senior Soviet commanders (severely attrited by the 

1930s purges) gave logistic matters only secondary attention. Thus, when 

a 47-year-old corps commissar named A. V. Khrulev was appointed supply chief of the Red Army in October 1939, he found himself in a job that 

was ill defined and possessed little real authority over those many agencies charged with logistic support.3

 Khrulev, a decorated veteran of S. M. 

Budennyî’s First Cavalry Army in the civil war, set out with his staff to 

reconstruct a rear service establishment that even in peacetime seemed 

clearly unsuited to support large-scale combined-arms operations.

Almost from the beginning of his tenure, however, he became immersed in the numerous problems engendered by the 1939–1940 Winter 

War with Finland. Transportation and logistic management problems 

were particularly acute in the Winter War. Even from the earliest days, 

railway cars supplying front forces were backed up on a number of lines 

because of inadequate tracking and poor planning. An attempt to alleviate this problem by also supplying the Northwest Front by sea from 

Arkhangelsk through Murmansk instead created chaotic conditions at the 

Arkhangelsk port. Every Red Army branch of service (artillery, engineer, 

signal, etc.) operated on its own schedule with no overall coordination. 
294 historical perspectives of the operational art 

support, where formulating or adapting logistic support concepts for fundamentally different circumstances is a particularly complex task.2

This chapter will address the development of logistic concepts and 

resources integral to sustaining large-scale combined-arms operations as 

the Soviets have conceived them over the last five decades from 1939. 

It will also consider what Soviet specialists see as rear service developments that will shape logistic support in the 1990s.

Prewar Preparation, Wartime Reorganization, and the 

Support of Strategic Operations, 1939–1945

When German forces began their rapid advance into the Soviet 

Union on 22 June 1941—the beginning of the Soviet-termed Great Patriotic War—the logistic support system of the Red Army and Navy 

was in virtually every respect unprepared for the demands that were to 

be placed upon it. Rear service responsibilities were largely decentralized; analogous rear service control and management entities often absent from key tactical, operational, and central command levels; existing 

rear service directorates understaffed; and logistic resources of all types 

badly deployed for dealing with the “difficult” support situations faced 

by Soviet military forces. Indeed, the whole concept of providing logistic support to armies and fronts—operational logistic support—proved 

badly flawed from both organizational and resource standpoints.

Prewar logistic planners anticipated these systemic and resource 

problems, though senior Soviet commanders (severely attrited by the 

1930s purges) gave logistic matters only secondary attention. Thus, when 

a 47-year-old corps commissar named A. V. Khrulev was appointed supply chief of the Red Army in October 1939, he found himself in a job that 

was ill defined and possessed little real authority over those many agencies charged with logistic support.3

 Khrulev, a decorated veteran of S. M. 

Budennyî’s First Cavalry Army in the civil war, set out with his staff to 

reconstruct a rear service establishment that even in peacetime seemed 

clearly unsuited to support large-scale combined-arms operations.

Almost from the beginning of his tenure, however, he became immersed in the numerous problems engendered by the 1939–1940 Winter 

War with Finland. Transportation and logistic management problems 

were particularly acute in the Winter War. Even from the earliest days, 

railway cars supplying front forces were backed up on a number of lines 

because of inadequate tracking and poor planning. An attempt to alleviate this problem by also supplying the Northwest Front by sea from 

Arkhangelsk through Murmansk instead created chaotic conditions at the 

Arkhangelsk port. Every Red Army branch of service (artillery, engineer, 

signal, etc.) operated on its own schedule with no overall coordination. 
296 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of supply (weapons and equipment, ammunition, POL [petroleum, oil, 

and lubricants], repair parts, food, etc.) subordinate to the various central 

directorates of the Commissariat of Defense, and to military districts. 

These stockpiles were intended for the mobilizational deployment of 

operational formations. However, in addition to the lack of centralized 

rear service management (and likely because of it), there were dangerous 

anomalies in what supplies were found at which levels. For example, the 

General Staff’s POL reserves were virtually all located at military district 

level or in facilities of the national economy, with almost no stocks under 

direct central control.9

 Thus, the general staff was limited in how quickly 

it could influence the POL supply of field formations.

On the other hand, ammunition stockpiles, which were the responsibility of the Main Artillery Directorate’s (GAU) Artillery Supply Service 

at each level, were located in GAU central, military district, and field 

army depots. In wartime central depots were expected to supply forward 

army ammunition dumps directly, while army depots in turn would supply lower echelons.10 No provision was made for a front link, though 

fronts would be expected to plan for the expenditure and resupply of 

ammunition while army entities carried out the actual resupply operations.11 The problems and confusion resulting from this kind of arrangement were not difficult for Khrulev and his staff to imagine and indeed 

became quickly manifest once the war began.

It is clear that the rear service support establishment existing at the 

time of the German attack would have had substantial problems meeting 

large-scale support requirements even with adequate preparation time 

and favorable circumstances at the beginning of war. The German attack, 

however, totally disrupted prewar plans for rear service mobilization and 

support. Huge quantities of supplies were overrun or destroyed by German forces in the first days of the conflict. Those supplies surviving or 

located further in the interior were often “in the hands of various services 

that were not subordinated to combined-arms headquarters” and thus 

were not made available to combat units.12 Rear service elements had 

to simultaneously provide retreating units with supplies, undertake the 

mobilization deployment of rear service units, and evacuate supplies.13 In 

addition, because of the concurrent requirements to sustain Soviet units 

and operational formations in combat and evacuate over 1,300 industrial 

enterprises as well as agricultural and other resources, “two gigantic train 

flows were moving in opposite directions with incredible difficulty under 

constant air attack by the enemy.”14

It is not surprising, in light of the above, that the Soviet logistic 

support system failed in most respects to meet the enormous demands 

so suddenly placed upon it. By early July 1941, by Soviet assessment, 

Zhukov and the General Staff were so immersed in operational matters 

that they had neither a conception of the logistic situation at the fronts, 
296 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of supply (weapons and equipment, ammunition, POL [petroleum, oil, 

and lubricants], repair parts, food, etc.) subordinate to the various central 

directorates of the Commissariat of Defense, and to military districts. 

These stockpiles were intended for the mobilizational deployment of 

operational formations. However, in addition to the lack of centralized 

rear service management (and likely because of it), there were dangerous 

anomalies in what supplies were found at which levels. For example, the 

General Staff’s POL reserves were virtually all located at military district 

level or in facilities of the national economy, with almost no stocks under 

direct central control.9

 Thus, the general staff was limited in how quickly 

it could influence the POL supply of field formations.

On the other hand, ammunition stockpiles, which were the responsibility of the Main Artillery Directorate’s (GAU) Artillery Supply Service 

at each level, were located in GAU central, military district, and field 

army depots. In wartime central depots were expected to supply forward 

army ammunition dumps directly, while army depots in turn would supply lower echelons.10 No provision was made for a front link, though 

fronts would be expected to plan for the expenditure and resupply of 

ammunition while army entities carried out the actual resupply operations.11 The problems and confusion resulting from this kind of arrangement were not difficult for Khrulev and his staff to imagine and indeed 

became quickly manifest once the war began.

It is clear that the rear service support establishment existing at the 

time of the German attack would have had substantial problems meeting 

large-scale support requirements even with adequate preparation time 

and favorable circumstances at the beginning of war. The German attack, 

however, totally disrupted prewar plans for rear service mobilization and 

support. Huge quantities of supplies were overrun or destroyed by German forces in the first days of the conflict. Those supplies surviving or 

located further in the interior were often “in the hands of various services 

that were not subordinated to combined-arms headquarters” and thus 

were not made available to combat units.12 Rear service elements had 

to simultaneously provide retreating units with supplies, undertake the 

mobilization deployment of rear service units, and evacuate supplies.13 In 

addition, because of the concurrent requirements to sustain Soviet units 

and operational formations in combat and evacuate over 1,300 industrial 

enterprises as well as agricultural and other resources, “two gigantic train 

flows were moving in opposite directions with incredible difficulty under 

constant air attack by the enemy.”14

It is not surprising, in light of the above, that the Soviet logistic 

support system failed in most respects to meet the enormous demands 

so suddenly placed upon it. By early July 1941, by Soviet assessment, 

Zhukov and the General Staff were so immersed in operational matters 

that they had neither a conception of the logistic situation at the fronts, 
298 historical perspectives of the operational art 

formation, and subordinate “in a special sense” to the chief of the rear at 

the next higher level.23 They were responsible for planning and controlling designated rear service activities of the fronts and armies, while the 

commanders and other staff officers concerned themselves with force 

planning and employment issues.

Stalin himself emphasized that supplying armies and fronts required 

an “iron discipline” and that the new deputy commanders for rear services 

“must be dictators in the rear zone” of their fronts.24 The rear service 

chiefs at all levels exercised a coordinating role even in regard to those 

technical support entities that were not directly subordinate to them. They 

accomplished this through their control of transportation—a role that 

grew as the war progressed—and were thus the center for all rear service 

planning from strategic to tactical levels.25 On 19 August a Chief of Rear 

Services of the Soviet Army Air Forces was established.26 This officer 

and his staff (replicated at lower levels) handled all aviation-specific supply items for flying and ground support units in the air armies of the fronts 

or other air units, while coordinating with the Red Army Chief of Rear 

Services and staff for all other supply items.27 Since the Main Administration of the Air Force was a component of the Red Army, the Air Force 

Chief of Rear Services was subordinate in a “special sense” to Khrulev.

By mid-August 1941, then, with a basic rear support structure in 

place, Khrulev and his subordinates undertook the staggering task of imposing order on a logistic situation that was failing at every level. He 

was, more specifically, charged with

Managing the rear’s organization, transporting troops and replacements, delivering 

all types of materiel to the fronts ..., evacuating casualties, patients and military 

property [and] ... maintaining information on the presence of military materiel 

reserves in the fronts (armies) and bases, as well as on the availability of all kinds 

of materiel in the field army.28

Each of these functions encompassed numerous and complex components that had to be thoroughly planned and coordinated in accord with 

developing combat operations.

In performing these myriad tasks, a workable delineation of responsibility was developed between the central rear service bodies and the 

general staff, and between front and army commanders and their new 

rear service deputies. The general staff’s Main Operations Directorate (and in an analogous way the front and army operations department staffs) would communicate to the rear services general, initial 

data on forthcoming combat operations and possible requirements. On 

this basis, rear service staffs worked out detailed logistic support plans 

for the operation.29

Each of the three periods of the Great Patriotic War and the 1945 

Manchurian operation against Japanese forces, as analyzed by the Sovi298 historical perspectives of the operational art 

formation, and subordinate “in a special sense” to the chief of the rear at 

the next higher level.23 They were responsible for planning and controlling designated rear service activities of the fronts and armies, while the 

commanders and other staff officers concerned themselves with force 

planning and employment issues.

Stalin himself emphasized that supplying armies and fronts required 

an “iron discipline” and that the new deputy commanders for rear services 

“must be dictators in the rear zone” of their fronts.24 The rear service 

chiefs at all levels exercised a coordinating role even in regard to those 

technical support entities that were not directly subordinate to them. They 

accomplished this through their control of transportation—a role that 

grew as the war progressed—and were thus the center for all rear service 

planning from strategic to tactical levels.25 On 19 August a Chief of Rear 

Services of the Soviet Army Air Forces was established.26 This officer 

and his staff (replicated at lower levels) handled all aviation-specific supply items for flying and ground support units in the air armies of the fronts 

or other air units, while coordinating with the Red Army Chief of Rear 

Services and staff for all other supply items.27 Since the Main Administration of the Air Force was a component of the Red Army, the Air Force 

Chief of Rear Services was subordinate in a “special sense” to Khrulev.

By mid-August 1941, then, with a basic rear support structure in 

place, Khrulev and his subordinates undertook the staggering task of imposing order on a logistic situation that was failing at every level. He 

was, more specifically, charged with

Managing the rear’s organization, transporting troops and replacements, delivering 

all types of materiel to the fronts ..., evacuating casualties, patients and military 

property [and] ... maintaining information on the presence of military materiel 

reserves in the fronts (armies) and bases, as well as on the availability of all kinds 

of materiel in the field army.28

Each of these functions encompassed numerous and complex components that had to be thoroughly planned and coordinated in accord with 

developing combat operations.

In performing these myriad tasks, a workable delineation of responsibility was developed between the central rear service bodies and the 

general staff, and between front and army commanders and their new 

rear service deputies. The general staff’s Main Operations Directorate (and in an analogous way the front and army operations department staffs) would communicate to the rear services general, initial 

data on forthcoming combat operations and possible requirements. On 

this basis, rear service staffs worked out detailed logistic support plans 

for the operation.29

Each of the three periods of the Great Patriotic War and the 1945 

Manchurian operation against Japanese forces, as analyzed by the Sovi300 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Simultaneously with supporting forces participating in the strategic 

defensive efforts of 1941 and 1942 the VGK began to build substantial 

strategic reserves of all types, including rear service reserves. The logistic 

components of these reserves comprised transport resources of all kinds, 

weapons systems and equipment, ammunition and POL stockpiles, and 

other resources. These assets, managed by central rear service organizations, could be employed only at the discretion of the VGK, and were 

intended to replace losses, create new units, and decisively influence the 

support of operational formations in key sectors.40 The employment of 

such strategic rear service reserves was to be critical for the support of 

subsequent Soviet counteroffensives and strategic offensive operations 

throughout the war, and the experience gained in their employment has 

clearly been incorporated into Soviet theater logistic support planning in 

the 1970s and 1980s.41

Overall, then, by the end of the first period of the war a basic rear 

service support system had been established that with considerable difficulty had imposed a measure of order on what had been a chaotic rear 

area situation. The system was sustaining strategic defensive operations 

across a broad front and, in accord with strictly followed VGK directives, 

central rear service organs were building a strategic logistic base for the 

conduct of far more ambitious operations.42

The second period of the war, as the Soviets assess it, was a fundamental turning point “not only in the course of the Great Patriotic War 

and the strategic situation, but also in the work of all levels of the Soviet 

Army’s rear.”43 New problems for the Soviet rear services surfaced during the November 1942 counteroffensive by the Southwestern, Don, and 

Stalingrad Fronts, as well as from the battles for the Caucasus in 1942–

1943, the summer 1943 Battle of Kursk, and the subsequent battle for 

the Dnieper.44 These centered principally on supplying huge combinedarms groupings, often poorly equipped in terms of combat and support 

equipment, that now were advancing over sweeping frontages and territory on which lines of communication had been largely destroyed. As 

in the first period of the war, the strategic rear services played a major 

role in this effort, amassing enormous quantities of materiel prior to the 

counteroffensives/offensives and directly supplying operational formations during their course. Golushko, for example, in noting that “the 

influence of the agencies of the strategic rear on the organization of 

rear support for the fronts increased with the increase in the scale of 

military actions” went on to indicate that “a number of central bases 

were prepositioned in the Transcaucasus republics when the battle for 

the Caucasus unfolded almost simultaneously with the enormous battle 

between the Volga and the Don.”45 In preparing for the Stalingrad offensive, the central rear services deployed supply bases forward to support 

the Stalingrad, Southern, and Briansk Fronts and managed other rear 
300 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Simultaneously with supporting forces participating in the strategic 

defensive efforts of 1941 and 1942 the VGK began to build substantial 

strategic reserves of all types, including rear service reserves. The logistic 

components of these reserves comprised transport resources of all kinds, 

weapons systems and equipment, ammunition and POL stockpiles, and 

other resources. These assets, managed by central rear service organizations, could be employed only at the discretion of the VGK, and were 

intended to replace losses, create new units, and decisively influence the 

support of operational formations in key sectors.40 The employment of 

such strategic rear service reserves was to be critical for the support of 

subsequent Soviet counteroffensives and strategic offensive operations 

throughout the war, and the experience gained in their employment has 

clearly been incorporated into Soviet theater logistic support planning in 

the 1970s and 1980s.41

Overall, then, by the end of the first period of the war a basic rear 

service support system had been established that with considerable difficulty had imposed a measure of order on what had been a chaotic rear 

area situation. The system was sustaining strategic defensive operations 

across a broad front and, in accord with strictly followed VGK directives, 

central rear service organs were building a strategic logistic base for the 

conduct of far more ambitious operations.42

The second period of the war, as the Soviets assess it, was a fundamental turning point “not only in the course of the Great Patriotic War 

and the strategic situation, but also in the work of all levels of the Soviet 

Army’s rear.”43 New problems for the Soviet rear services surfaced during the November 1942 counteroffensive by the Southwestern, Don, and 

Stalingrad Fronts, as well as from the battles for the Caucasus in 1942–

1943, the summer 1943 Battle of Kursk, and the subsequent battle for 

the Dnieper.44 These centered principally on supplying huge combinedarms groupings, often poorly equipped in terms of combat and support 

equipment, that now were advancing over sweeping frontages and territory on which lines of communication had been largely destroyed. As 

in the first period of the war, the strategic rear services played a major 

role in this effort, amassing enormous quantities of materiel prior to the 

counteroffensives/offensives and directly supplying operational formations during their course. Golushko, for example, in noting that “the 

influence of the agencies of the strategic rear on the organization of 

rear support for the fronts increased with the increase in the scale of 

military actions” went on to indicate that “a number of central bases 

were prepositioned in the Transcaucasus republics when the battle for 

the Caucasus unfolded almost simultaneously with the enormous battle 

between the Volga and the Don.”45 In preparing for the Stalingrad offensive, the central rear services deployed supply bases forward to support 

the Stalingrad, Southern, and Briansk Fronts and managed other rear 
302 historical perspectives of the operational art 

other sources of equipment, including Lend-Lease shipments—contributed also to the rapid reequipping and reorganization of the USSR’s 

armed forces. It made possible the buildup of strategic reserves that 

enabled the successful switch “from strategic defense, to counteroffensive, and then to strategic offensive operations of tremendous scope.”54

The third period of the war saw the Soviet armed forces engaged in 

three major campaigns that could each be fairly characterized as of “tremendous scope.” Supporting the strategic offensives conducted within 

the course of these campaigns presented all levels of the Soviet rear services with enormous problems and necessitated the development of new 

support concepts. As the winter campaign developed, for example, rear 

services fell far behind the advancing fronts, and armies engaged in the 

offensive had to rely heavily on local procurement, assets provided by the 

Trophy Service, and repaired equipment to sustain themselves.55 Shortages of motor transport, disrupted rail and road lines of communication, 

and early spring thaws compounded the problems.56 Overcoming these 

difficulties involved a range of field expedients, including a renewed reliance on animal transport, the hand delivery of ammunition and other supplies by rear service personnel on foot, and the increased use of transport 

aviation to deliver supplies, principally ammunition, to those forces most 

intensively engaged.57

Overall, despite the numerous tactical, operational, and strategic 

logistic support problems encountered, the winter 1944 campaign concluded successfully and rear service preparations for the subsequent 

summer/fall campaign began well before its completion. These rear 

service support plans were predicated on the concept of successive offensives on different axes. Joint planning involving the VGK, the chief 

of the rear, GAU, and other central rear agencies set out supply requirements that had to be fulfilled before and during the course of the 

operations. Rear service support was to meet both consumption needs 

as the operation unfolded and, of particular importance, establish operational and strategic reserves that would enable the fronts to undertake subsequent operations without significant pauses.58 This logistic 

planning approach remains key to contemporary theater rear service 

support concepts.

In supporting operations of the summer and fall of 1944 and the 

concluding 1945 campaign in eastern Europe, rear service units, reinforced with motor transport and making heavy use of rail, were brought 

much closer to the combat forces they would be sustaining:

As a rule, the front rear was deployed in three echelons at the start of the Belorussian, Iassk-Kishinev, Vistula-Oder, Berlin, and other offensive operations. 

Usually, 70–80% of all front rear service units and facilities were in the first 

and second echelons, while only about 5% were deployed farther away than 220 

kilometers from the front line.59
302 historical perspectives of the operational art 

other sources of equipment, including Lend-Lease shipments—contributed also to the rapid reequipping and reorganization of the USSR’s 

armed forces. It made possible the buildup of strategic reserves that 

enabled the successful switch “from strategic defense, to counteroffensive, and then to strategic offensive operations of tremendous scope.”54

The third period of the war saw the Soviet armed forces engaged in 

three major campaigns that could each be fairly characterized as of “tremendous scope.” Supporting the strategic offensives conducted within 

the course of these campaigns presented all levels of the Soviet rear services with enormous problems and necessitated the development of new 

support concepts. As the winter campaign developed, for example, rear 

services fell far behind the advancing fronts, and armies engaged in the 

offensive had to rely heavily on local procurement, assets provided by the 

Trophy Service, and repaired equipment to sustain themselves.55 Shortages of motor transport, disrupted rail and road lines of communication, 

and early spring thaws compounded the problems.56 Overcoming these 

difficulties involved a range of field expedients, including a renewed reliance on animal transport, the hand delivery of ammunition and other supplies by rear service personnel on foot, and the increased use of transport 

aviation to deliver supplies, principally ammunition, to those forces most 

intensively engaged.57

Overall, despite the numerous tactical, operational, and strategic 

logistic support problems encountered, the winter 1944 campaign concluded successfully and rear service preparations for the subsequent 

summer/fall campaign began well before its completion. These rear 

service support plans were predicated on the concept of successive offensives on different axes. Joint planning involving the VGK, the chief 

of the rear, GAU, and other central rear agencies set out supply requirements that had to be fulfilled before and during the course of the 

operations. Rear service support was to meet both consumption needs 

as the operation unfolded and, of particular importance, establish operational and strategic reserves that would enable the fronts to undertake subsequent operations without significant pauses.58 This logistic 

planning approach remains key to contemporary theater rear service 

support concepts.

In supporting operations of the summer and fall of 1944 and the 

concluding 1945 campaign in eastern Europe, rear service units, reinforced with motor transport and making heavy use of rail, were brought 

much closer to the combat forces they would be sustaining:

As a rule, the front rear was deployed in three echelons at the start of the Belorussian, Iassk-Kishinev, Vistula-Oder, Berlin, and other offensive operations. 

Usually, 70–80% of all front rear service units and facilities were in the first 

and second echelons, while only about 5% were deployed farther away than 220 

kilometers from the front line.59
304 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and front levels, and most often comprised reinforced tank, mechanized, 

or cavalry corps at army level, or tank-mechanized-cavalry groupings 

of up to army size at front level.65 These mobile groupings were tasked 

to advance rapidly into the operational depths of the enemy, “cut up 

enemy groupings,” and otherwise facilitate his defeat—missions that 

required them to operate at great distances from the main forces and 

their rear service bases.66 A number of specialized supply and support 

procedures for the operational and exploitation groups were developed. 

These included the allocation of “slices” of the more mobile army, front, 

and central rear service assets to the mobile groups, and innovative approaches to provide for their continuing supply and technical support. 

As Soviet sources note, special rear service headquarters groups were 

sometimes organized to oversee mobile group support, which included 

motor transport, supply stocks, special troops (i.e., line of communications [LOC] construction and repair, combat engineer, etc.), medical support assets, and other rear service resources.67 The direct supply 

of mobile groups by transport aviation resources was also provided for 

when practical, and by the end of the war it was considered a standard 

component of support for deep operations forces.68 While transport aircraft were limited throughout the war, aviation’s potential for the rear 

service support of mobile formations made a profound impression on 

Soviet planners.

Protecting, defending, and securing operational and deep rear areas 

was a major Soviet concern throughout the war. In the third period, this 

emphasis was focused on securing the rear areas of advancing front forces as well as the increasingly long lines of communication running back 

to the Soviet Union. This task was principally assigned to the Border 

Guard and Internal Troop units of the People’s Commissariat of Internal 

Affairs, or the NKVD, which were most typically organized into security 

regiments, security battalions, and maneuver groups.

The number of security regiments or other NKVD units assigned to 

front rear areas varied widely with the perceived threat, though half a 

dozen or more security regiments per front was not unusual. Their actions were controlled by chief of rear security, usually a senior NKVD 

officer, by the front military council, and directly determined by the decisions of the deputy front commander for rear services in his formulation 

of the rear service plan.69 In addition to the units drawn from the NKVD, 

regular line maneuver units and logistic units—all of whose actions were 

coordinated with NKVD forces—were assigned rear area security duties.70 Overall, rear area security, carried out by both dedicated and temporarily assigned forces, was considered a rear service responsibility and 

remained so for the next 40 years.

The final Soviet strategic operation of World War II, the 1945 strategic offensive in Manchuria, required the redeployment of substantial 
304 historical perspectives of the operational art 

and front levels, and most often comprised reinforced tank, mechanized, 

or cavalry corps at army level, or tank-mechanized-cavalry groupings 

of up to army size at front level.65 These mobile groupings were tasked 

to advance rapidly into the operational depths of the enemy, “cut up 

enemy groupings,” and otherwise facilitate his defeat—missions that 

required them to operate at great distances from the main forces and 

their rear service bases.66 A number of specialized supply and support 

procedures for the operational and exploitation groups were developed. 

These included the allocation of “slices” of the more mobile army, front, 

and central rear service assets to the mobile groups, and innovative approaches to provide for their continuing supply and technical support. 

As Soviet sources note, special rear service headquarters groups were 

sometimes organized to oversee mobile group support, which included 

motor transport, supply stocks, special troops (i.e., line of communications [LOC] construction and repair, combat engineer, etc.), medical support assets, and other rear service resources.67 The direct supply 

of mobile groups by transport aviation resources was also provided for 

when practical, and by the end of the war it was considered a standard 

component of support for deep operations forces.68 While transport aircraft were limited throughout the war, aviation’s potential for the rear 

service support of mobile formations made a profound impression on 

Soviet planners.

Protecting, defending, and securing operational and deep rear areas 

was a major Soviet concern throughout the war. In the third period, this 

emphasis was focused on securing the rear areas of advancing front forces as well as the increasingly long lines of communication running back 

to the Soviet Union. This task was principally assigned to the Border 

Guard and Internal Troop units of the People’s Commissariat of Internal 

Affairs, or the NKVD, which were most typically organized into security 

regiments, security battalions, and maneuver groups.

The number of security regiments or other NKVD units assigned to 

front rear areas varied widely with the perceived threat, though half a 

dozen or more security regiments per front was not unusual. Their actions were controlled by chief of rear security, usually a senior NKVD 

officer, by the front military council, and directly determined by the decisions of the deputy front commander for rear services in his formulation 

of the rear service plan.69 In addition to the units drawn from the NKVD, 

regular line maneuver units and logistic units—all of whose actions were 

coordinated with NKVD forces—were assigned rear area security duties.70 Overall, rear area security, carried out by both dedicated and temporarily assigned forces, was considered a rear service responsibility and 

remained so for the next 40 years.

The final Soviet strategic operation of World War II, the 1945 strategic offensive in Manchuria, required the redeployment of substantial 
306 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Despite maritime materiel deliveries to Far East ports, theater-level 

rear services were linked principally to the “center” by the Trans-Siberian Railroad, which had extremely limited feeder lines in the Far East. 

Therefore, supplies for some theater forces had to be moved by motor 

transport to front forces and concentration areas, in some cases a distance 

of hundreds of kilometers. In addition, the primitive road network, insufficient motor transport, and rapid advances by many maneuver units on 

the fronts made it difficult to relocate operational-level logistic bases so 

far forward.

Front supply depots of the Transbaikal Front, for example, did 

not relocate during the operation because of this combination of 

factors, with the increasing distance between bases and supported 

forces causing substantial logistic problems as the operation progressed.77 Fuel consumption in particular was extremely high. By 

the third day of the operation, elements of the front’s fast moving Sixth Guards Tank Army had to be resupplied with fuel by 

air transport.78 From 11–16 August the Sixth Guards Tank Army 

received as much fuel by air as it did by motor transport, with the 

Transbaikal Front overall receiving some 2,456 metric tons of fuel 

by air during the course of the operation.79

Certainly, the Soviets experienced problems in logistic support 

of Far East Theater forces in their successful twenty-four day campaign, many of which are enumerated in Soviet historical writings.80 Notable among these, in addition to the movement and fuel 

problems noted above, were providing water and cooking fuel, accomplishing road maintenance, ensuring adequate levels of rear 

service communications, providing for the timely evacuation of 

casualties, dealing with motor transport shortages, and other difficulties. Regarding the overall effectiveness of rear service support, 

however, Soviet military historians make the following judgment:

All the work accomplished by rear agencies in the preparatory period 

ensured the successful course of the operation. Despite the fact that Soviet 

troops advanced 300–800 kms during the first 10–15 days, they did not 

experience serious supply difficulties, with the exception of temporary interruptions in fuel supply for the 6th Guards Tank Army.81

Despite this generally positive assessment, one major rear service shortcoming highlighted in retrospective assessments of the 

operation has considerable implications for the contemporary support of theater operations on a strategic scale. That is, while emphasizing the importance of having the Rear Service Directorate in 

the headquarters of the Far Eastern High Command of Forces, the 

absence of logistic resources directly under its control was a major 

drawback to its effective operation.82
306 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Despite maritime materiel deliveries to Far East ports, theater-level 

rear services were linked principally to the “center” by the Trans-Siberian Railroad, which had extremely limited feeder lines in the Far East. 

Therefore, supplies for some theater forces had to be moved by motor 

transport to front forces and concentration areas, in some cases a distance 

of hundreds of kilometers. In addition, the primitive road network, insufficient motor transport, and rapid advances by many maneuver units on 

the fronts made it difficult to relocate operational-level logistic bases so 

far forward.

Front supply depots of the Transbaikal Front, for example, did 

not relocate during the operation because of this combination of 

factors, with the increasing distance between bases and supported 

forces causing substantial logistic problems as the operation progressed.77 Fuel consumption in particular was extremely high. By 

the third day of the operation, elements of the front’s fast moving Sixth Guards Tank Army had to be resupplied with fuel by 

air transport.78 From 11–16 August the Sixth Guards Tank Army 

received as much fuel by air as it did by motor transport, with the 

Transbaikal Front overall receiving some 2,456 metric tons of fuel 

by air during the course of the operation.79

Certainly, the Soviets experienced problems in logistic support 

of Far East Theater forces in their successful twenty-four day campaign, many of which are enumerated in Soviet historical writings.80 Notable among these, in addition to the movement and fuel 

problems noted above, were providing water and cooking fuel, accomplishing road maintenance, ensuring adequate levels of rear 

service communications, providing for the timely evacuation of 

casualties, dealing with motor transport shortages, and other difficulties. Regarding the overall effectiveness of rear service support, 

however, Soviet military historians make the following judgment:

All the work accomplished by rear agencies in the preparatory period 

ensured the successful course of the operation. Despite the fact that Soviet 

troops advanced 300–800 kms during the first 10–15 days, they did not 

experience serious supply difficulties, with the exception of temporary interruptions in fuel supply for the 6th Guards Tank Army.81

Despite this generally positive assessment, one major rear service shortcoming highlighted in retrospective assessments of the 

operation has considerable implications for the contemporary support of theater operations on a strategic scale. That is, while emphasizing the importance of having the Rear Service Directorate in 

the headquarters of the Far Eastern High Command of Forces, the 

absence of logistic resources directly under its control was a major 

drawback to its effective operation.82
308 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ceive materiel from the national economy and deliver it to the fronts and 

fleets.84 However, the experience of the war from its earliest days caused 

the role of the central rear services to broaden substantially.85

As Russian assessments stress, the role and significance of central 

rear services increased, especially “during strategic offensive operations 

on foreign territory, when the rear service efforts of operational formations had to be augmented in the theater of strategic military action.” A 

broad spectrum of logistic units, facilities, and materiel under central rear 

service subordination was moved forward with the fronts and directly supported these formations during strategic offensives, including the utilization of transport, military, and economic resources on foreign territory.86

At the end of the war, then, the USSR had established a large and 

complex logistic system from strategic to tactical levels that despite its 

shortcomings and limited resource base had successfully sustained the 

Soviet armed forces through four years of war. This logistical system 

was critical to sustaining operational maneuver. As with the Soviet armed 

forces overall, however, Soviet rear service planners and theorists were 

soon faced with new kinds of military problems generated by rapidly 

changing weapons technology and future battlefields that promised to be 

far more demanding for the conduct of combined-arms operations.

Operational Logistics after World War II

The wartime experience addressed above became the focus of study in 

the immediate postwar years, with Soviet rear service personnel who had distinguished themselves in the war selected for study or teaching at advanced 

military schools and academies.87 The logistic lessons learned from the Great 

Patriotic War and the Manchurian Campaign began to be generalized and incorporated into rear service support concepts and planning, with relatively 

modest transport and equipment modernization programs simultaneously 

instituted. By 1950 the last animal-drawn logistic transport means were removed from rear service units and replaced by medium cargo trucks.88 Nevertheless, motor transport was in limited supply for some years, with LendLease Studebaker trucks provided by the U.S. continuing to be found in Soviet 

motor transport units into the 1960s.

Clearly, much of the attention of rear service personnel and organizations 

in the years immediately after the war was directed at the enormous problems 

of demobilization, force restructuring and modernization, and assistance in 

rebuilding the national economy that had been devastated by four years of 

war.89 But at the rear service schools and academies, attention to important 

theoretical questions of rear service support was much in evidence, including 

issues that were to play such an important role in later “new” Soviet operational concepts, including such issues as the support of “operational maneuver groups” and other deep operations forces of various types.90
308 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ceive materiel from the national economy and deliver it to the fronts and 

fleets.84 However, the experience of the war from its earliest days caused 

the role of the central rear services to broaden substantially.85

As Russian assessments stress, the role and significance of central 

rear services increased, especially “during strategic offensive operations 

on foreign territory, when the rear service efforts of operational formations had to be augmented in the theater of strategic military action.” A 

broad spectrum of logistic units, facilities, and materiel under central rear 

service subordination was moved forward with the fronts and directly supported these formations during strategic offensives, including the utilization of transport, military, and economic resources on foreign territory.86

At the end of the war, then, the USSR had established a large and 

complex logistic system from strategic to tactical levels that despite its 

shortcomings and limited resource base had successfully sustained the 

Soviet armed forces through four years of war. This logistical system 

was critical to sustaining operational maneuver. As with the Soviet armed 

forces overall, however, Soviet rear service planners and theorists were 

soon faced with new kinds of military problems generated by rapidly 

changing weapons technology and future battlefields that promised to be 

far more demanding for the conduct of combined-arms operations.

Operational Logistics after World War II

The wartime experience addressed above became the focus of study in 

the immediate postwar years, with Soviet rear service personnel who had distinguished themselves in the war selected for study or teaching at advanced 

military schools and academies.87 The logistic lessons learned from the Great 

Patriotic War and the Manchurian Campaign began to be generalized and incorporated into rear service support concepts and planning, with relatively 

modest transport and equipment modernization programs simultaneously 

instituted. By 1950 the last animal-drawn logistic transport means were removed from rear service units and replaced by medium cargo trucks.88 Nevertheless, motor transport was in limited supply for some years, with LendLease Studebaker trucks provided by the U.S. continuing to be found in Soviet 

motor transport units into the 1960s.

Clearly, much of the attention of rear service personnel and organizations 

in the years immediately after the war was directed at the enormous problems 

of demobilization, force restructuring and modernization, and assistance in 

rebuilding the national economy that had been devastated by four years of 

war.89 But at the rear service schools and academies, attention to important 

theoretical questions of rear service support was much in evidence, including 

issues that were to play such an important role in later “new” Soviet operational concepts, including such issues as the support of “operational maneuver groups” and other deep operations forces of various types.90
310 historical perspectives of the operational art 

mander among other duties, was named Chief of the Rear, with all of his 

successors to date coming from major field/military district commands.94

This practice was intended to further the integration of logistic support 

personnel, organizations, and resources within combined arms units and 

formations.

While the questions of rear service support under conditions of nuclear weapons employment had begun to be addressed during the 1950s, 

it was only at the start of the 1960s that nuclear warfighting variants 

became for a time the principal focus for the Soviet armed forces. Under 

the apocalyptic view of future war prominent in the early to mid-1960s, 

it seemed to some Soviet military theorists and planners that traditional 

methods of rear service support in part had lost their relevance. In their 

view, a nuclear war of short duration would reduce the requirement for 

the kinds of sustained logistic support associated with multifront strategic offensives of the last war. Logistic support for fast-moving maneuver 

forces would have to be far more mobile, and the measured buildup and 

movement of logistic forces and means would be both dangerous and 

problematic. Ammunition requirements would be reduced in any case, 

since nuclear strikes would create large gaps in enemy defenses formerly 

created by conventional artillery. The reconstitution of weakened maneuver units and formations would neither be possible nor desirable, 

since warfighting contingencies were based on a ten- to fourteen-day 

race to the Channel coast and entire divisions would replace those that 

had lost their combat effectiveness.95 Such judgments sparked intense 

debate within the Soviet General Staff.96

By the mid-1960s the process of debate and discussion—centered 

on reconciling traditional approaches to sustaining operations with new 

requirements—had already modified some of the most extreme views 

of Soviet theorists predicated on war variants seen as nuclear from the 

onset of initial operations. Nevertheless, rear services during this period 

had been tailored to support a fast-moving war of relatively short duration, one almost certainly to be fought with the widespread employment 

of nuclear weapons throughout the depths of theaters and the USSR itself 

and with support concepts tailored in accord with such variants.

By 1965, with an emerging Soviet assessment that future general 

wars would have at least conventional phases, however, rear service planners began to reexamine more intensively just what would be required to 

support large combined-arms forces under both nuclear and nonnuclear 

conditions. In preparing a logistic support structure for nuclear war, they 

renewed their attention to the increasingly complex problems of conventional rear service support. Thus, by 1966 the current rear service chief 

of staff, Lt. Gen. M. Novikov, felt compelled to assert that “at present we 

have a logistical arm capable of ensuring mobile operations by the troops 

in any situation, with or without nuclear weapons involved.”97 Regard310 historical perspectives of the operational art 

mander among other duties, was named Chief of the Rear, with all of his 

successors to date coming from major field/military district commands.94

This practice was intended to further the integration of logistic support 

personnel, organizations, and resources within combined arms units and 

formations.

While the questions of rear service support under conditions of nuclear weapons employment had begun to be addressed during the 1950s, 

it was only at the start of the 1960s that nuclear warfighting variants 

became for a time the principal focus for the Soviet armed forces. Under 

the apocalyptic view of future war prominent in the early to mid-1960s, 

it seemed to some Soviet military theorists and planners that traditional 

methods of rear service support in part had lost their relevance. In their 

view, a nuclear war of short duration would reduce the requirement for 

the kinds of sustained logistic support associated with multifront strategic offensives of the last war. Logistic support for fast-moving maneuver 

forces would have to be far more mobile, and the measured buildup and 

movement of logistic forces and means would be both dangerous and 

problematic. Ammunition requirements would be reduced in any case, 

since nuclear strikes would create large gaps in enemy defenses formerly 

created by conventional artillery. The reconstitution of weakened maneuver units and formations would neither be possible nor desirable, 

since warfighting contingencies were based on a ten- to fourteen-day 

race to the Channel coast and entire divisions would replace those that 

had lost their combat effectiveness.95 Such judgments sparked intense 

debate within the Soviet General Staff.96

By the mid-1960s the process of debate and discussion—centered 

on reconciling traditional approaches to sustaining operations with new 

requirements—had already modified some of the most extreme views 

of Soviet theorists predicated on war variants seen as nuclear from the 

onset of initial operations. Nevertheless, rear services during this period 

had been tailored to support a fast-moving war of relatively short duration, one almost certainly to be fought with the widespread employment 

of nuclear weapons throughout the depths of theaters and the USSR itself 

and with support concepts tailored in accord with such variants.

By 1965, with an emerging Soviet assessment that future general 

wars would have at least conventional phases, however, rear service planners began to reexamine more intensively just what would be required to 

support large combined-arms forces under both nuclear and nonnuclear 

conditions. In preparing a logistic support structure for nuclear war, they 

renewed their attention to the increasingly complex problems of conventional rear service support. Thus, by 1966 the current rear service chief 

of staff, Lt. Gen. M. Novikov, felt compelled to assert that “at present we 

have a logistical arm capable of ensuring mobile operations by the troops 

in any situation, with or without nuclear weapons involved.”97 Regard312 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ater of Strategic Military Action (TSMA), went on to note that “in the 

implementation of complex modern operations,” the nation’s logistic 

support system “must make good in a shorter space of time the loss of 

a huge quantity of combat equipment and weapons, without which it is 

virtually impossible to maintain the armed forces’ combat capability at 

the necessary level.”100

In fact, the developments that Ogarkov publicly articulated in 1981 

had not sprung full-blown in the 1980s. Rather, Soviet concepts for strategic combined-arms operations in continental TSMAs had been integral to Soviet planning for at least a decade and a half. Thus, by the 

early 1970s Soviet military educational institutions like the Voroshilov 

General Staff Academy were instructing Soviet officers in the conduct 

of all components of theater strategic operations, including rear service 

support.101 As Soviet planners envisioned it, a theater strategic operation would comprise a number of major components, coordinated and 

integrated with each other and carried out in accord with a common plan 

and concept to achieve defined military-political aims of strategic significance. The Soviet goal was to achieve these aims with the use of 

conventional weapons only, by rapidly attriting enemy nuclear delivery 

means and associated control and support facilities, quickly achieving 

an intermingling of friendly and enemy forces, and so rapidly penetrating opposing defenses that nuclear employment was no longer a useful 

enemy option. Nevertheless, the constant threat of nuclear use by the 

enemy would shape the conduct of operations by all force groupings and 

require contingency nuclear fire planning and readiness for nuclear operations on the part of Soviet commanders and staffs at all levels. Control 

and planning for theater strategic operations would be exercised by high 

commands of forces in the TSMAs or, in some cases, directly by the 

Supreme High Command.102

One of the major tasks to which Soviet logistic planners addressed 

themselves in the early l970s was the accelerated development of a logistic infrastructure better able to sustain such sweeping conventional operations. Many of these rear service preparations are associated with that 

component of strategy Soviet planners term strategic deployment and 

more specifically the discipline within strategic deployment, “preparing 

the theater of strategic military action.” Theater preparation encompasses 

a broad spectrum of engineer, signal, line of communication, and other 

preparations for conducting large-scale combined-arms operations. The 

logistic aspects of these preparations consisted of major programs designed to establish logistic reserves of all types of supplies throughout 

theater areas, with particular emphasis put on pre-positioning in Eastern Europe ammunition and POL stockpiles capable of supporting many 

weeks of operations.103

The Soviets expected that establishing a theater logistic support 
312 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ater of Strategic Military Action (TSMA), went on to note that “in the 

implementation of complex modern operations,” the nation’s logistic 

support system “must make good in a shorter space of time the loss of 

a huge quantity of combat equipment and weapons, without which it is 

virtually impossible to maintain the armed forces’ combat capability at 

the necessary level.”100

In fact, the developments that Ogarkov publicly articulated in 1981 

had not sprung full-blown in the 1980s. Rather, Soviet concepts for strategic combined-arms operations in continental TSMAs had been integral to Soviet planning for at least a decade and a half. Thus, by the 

early 1970s Soviet military educational institutions like the Voroshilov 

General Staff Academy were instructing Soviet officers in the conduct 

of all components of theater strategic operations, including rear service 

support.101 As Soviet planners envisioned it, a theater strategic operation would comprise a number of major components, coordinated and 

integrated with each other and carried out in accord with a common plan 

and concept to achieve defined military-political aims of strategic significance. The Soviet goal was to achieve these aims with the use of 

conventional weapons only, by rapidly attriting enemy nuclear delivery 

means and associated control and support facilities, quickly achieving 

an intermingling of friendly and enemy forces, and so rapidly penetrating opposing defenses that nuclear employment was no longer a useful 

enemy option. Nevertheless, the constant threat of nuclear use by the 

enemy would shape the conduct of operations by all force groupings and 

require contingency nuclear fire planning and readiness for nuclear operations on the part of Soviet commanders and staffs at all levels. Control 

and planning for theater strategic operations would be exercised by high 

commands of forces in the TSMAs or, in some cases, directly by the 

Supreme High Command.102

One of the major tasks to which Soviet logistic planners addressed 

themselves in the early l970s was the accelerated development of a logistic infrastructure better able to sustain such sweeping conventional operations. Many of these rear service preparations are associated with that 

component of strategy Soviet planners term strategic deployment and 

more specifically the discipline within strategic deployment, “preparing 

the theater of strategic military action.” Theater preparation encompasses 

a broad spectrum of engineer, signal, line of communication, and other 

preparations for conducting large-scale combined-arms operations. The 

logistic aspects of these preparations consisted of major programs designed to establish logistic reserves of all types of supplies throughout 

theater areas, with particular emphasis put on pre-positioning in Eastern Europe ammunition and POL stockpiles capable of supporting many 

weeks of operations.103

The Soviets expected that establishing a theater logistic support 
314 historical perspectives of the operational art 

system charged with the receipt, storage, movement, and delivery of ammunition, POL, and other consumable supply items. New, streamlined 

“materiel support brigades,” each under a single commander, replaced 

the loosely coordinated and managed army mobile bases and front forward bases. At division and regimental levels, fragmented transport/supply entities were replaced by “materiel support battalions” and “materiel 

support companies,” respectively. This reorganization increased transport lift capabilities, improved rear service responsiveness, facilitated the 

tailoring and allocation of logistic support packages—especially important for the support of deep operations forces—and assigned rear service 

units increased responsibilities for their own defense.107 This logistic reorganization was clearly tied to force-restructuring efforts under way at 

the same time in other theater force components, which were intended 

in large measure to structure combined-armed forces for the conduct of 

nonnuclear theater-strategic operations.

In all these restructuring efforts, a careful examination of historical 

precedent, supplemented by new battlefield technologies and capabilities, characterized the Soviet approach. As noted earlier the 1981 publication of sanctioned military-historical research topics encompassing a 

spectrum of critical rear service issues illustrates the role of applicable 

military precedent in this process.108 As the 1980s ended, however, Soviet military planners were faced with military restructuring problems 

the scope of which they had not imagined just a few years earlier, and 

whose precise direction was far from clear.

Logistics Dimensions of Military Posture 

in the Late Soviet Period

Even before Mikhail S. Gorbachev’s 7 December 1988 unilateral 

troop reduction announcement, logistic restructuring programs already under way in the 1980s and the application of new technologies 

to logistic materiel and equipment were both streamlining and reducing the size of the Soviet logistic infrastructure.109 As noted above, 

the materiel support system had already been restructured. Because 

the new materiel support units at all levels provided a much enhanced 

framework for incremental reinforcement, reductions in their active 

strength could be reconstituted rapidly through the addition of transport companies and battalions activated from stored equipment sets 

or mobilized from the national economy, as well as the addition of 

requisite servicing units of various types. This process would have 

been far more difficult under the old materiel base system used until 

the end of the 1970s.110

It was clear that both the technical and medical support components 
314 historical perspectives of the operational art 

system charged with the receipt, storage, movement, and delivery of ammunition, POL, and other consumable supply items. New, streamlined 

“materiel support brigades,” each under a single commander, replaced 

the loosely coordinated and managed army mobile bases and front forward bases. At division and regimental levels, fragmented transport/supply entities were replaced by “materiel support battalions” and “materiel 

support companies,” respectively. This reorganization increased transport lift capabilities, improved rear service responsiveness, facilitated the 

tailoring and allocation of logistic support packages—especially important for the support of deep operations forces—and assigned rear service 

units increased responsibilities for their own defense.107 This logistic reorganization was clearly tied to force-restructuring efforts under way at 

the same time in other theater force components, which were intended 

in large measure to structure combined-armed forces for the conduct of 

nonnuclear theater-strategic operations.

In all these restructuring efforts, a careful examination of historical 

precedent, supplemented by new battlefield technologies and capabilities, characterized the Soviet approach. As noted earlier the 1981 publication of sanctioned military-historical research topics encompassing a 

spectrum of critical rear service issues illustrates the role of applicable 

military precedent in this process.108 As the 1980s ended, however, Soviet military planners were faced with military restructuring problems 

the scope of which they had not imagined just a few years earlier, and 

whose precise direction was far from clear.

Logistics Dimensions of Military Posture 

in the Late Soviet Period

Even before Mikhail S. Gorbachev’s 7 December 1988 unilateral 

troop reduction announcement, logistic restructuring programs already under way in the 1980s and the application of new technologies 

to logistic materiel and equipment were both streamlining and reducing the size of the Soviet logistic infrastructure.109 As noted above, 

the materiel support system had already been restructured. Because 

the new materiel support units at all levels provided a much enhanced 

framework for incremental reinforcement, reductions in their active 

strength could be reconstituted rapidly through the addition of transport companies and battalions activated from stored equipment sets 

or mobilized from the national economy, as well as the addition of 

requisite servicing units of various types. This process would have 

been far more difficult under the old materiel base system used until 

the end of the 1970s.110

It was clear that both the technical and medical support components 
316 historical perspectives of the operational art 

doctrine, presented new considerations.117 Additionally, the prospects for 

sweeping conventional arms control agreements and a rapidly changing 

political, economic, and international security environment pointed to 

a radical change in force posture. Without question, Soviet troop withdrawals from Eastern Europe, the German reunification, and the increasingly independent posture of former Warsaw Pact allies fundamentally 

alters Russian concepts for conducting theater strategic operations, as 

do nationality problems within the former Soviet bloc itself. They also 

changed earlier Soviet assumptions about every dimension of coalition 

logistic support, called into question the future of forward-based logistic stockpiles in Eastern Europe and portions of the former USSR, and 

raised questions about the security of transport and other support operations in some national republics. All these fears, of course, turned out to 

be more than justified.

Without question, all the issues noted above utterly disrupted Russian logistic force structure and support concepts in the final days of the 

Warsaw Pact and the Soviet State. The dismemberment of forward logistic bases in Eastern Europe, the rapid loss of those transportation systems 

and other military and civilian resources of Warsaw Pact states upon 

which theater sustainability was to be so heavily based, the declared independence of constituent republics of the USSR and the consequent 

disruption of cohesive transport and mobilization systems, simultaneous troop withdrawals and drawdowns, and a host of other “logistic” 

problems in some respects overshadowed the calamitous events of the 

first period of the Great Patriotic War. In any event, the elaborate, carefully conceived, and heavily resourced system of Soviet/Russian logistic support that reached its high-water mark in the late 1980s was in a 

few short years destroyed. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that 

the concepts that underpinned this system, the historical experience and 

theoretical formulations upon which they were based, and emerging approaches to complex logistic support problems during the last days of the 

USSR armed forces all provide a rich body of material for historians and 

military planners alike. In this respect, Soviet approaches to logistic support in all its dimensions—especially operational logistics—remains a 

worthwhile focus of study and evaluation.
316 historical perspectives of the operational art 

doctrine, presented new considerations.117 Additionally, the prospects for 

sweeping conventional arms control agreements and a rapidly changing 

political, economic, and international security environment pointed to 

a radical change in force posture. Without question, Soviet troop withdrawals from Eastern Europe, the German reunification, and the increasingly independent posture of former Warsaw Pact allies fundamentally 

alters Russian concepts for conducting theater strategic operations, as 

do nationality problems within the former Soviet bloc itself. They also 

changed earlier Soviet assumptions about every dimension of coalition 

logistic support, called into question the future of forward-based logistic stockpiles in Eastern Europe and portions of the former USSR, and 

raised questions about the security of transport and other support operations in some national republics. All these fears, of course, turned out to 

be more than justified.

Without question, all the issues noted above utterly disrupted Russian logistic force structure and support concepts in the final days of the 

Warsaw Pact and the Soviet State. The dismemberment of forward logistic bases in Eastern Europe, the rapid loss of those transportation systems 

and other military and civilian resources of Warsaw Pact states upon 

which theater sustainability was to be so heavily based, the declared independence of constituent republics of the USSR and the consequent 

disruption of cohesive transport and mobilization systems, simultaneous troop withdrawals and drawdowns, and a host of other “logistic” 

problems in some respects overshadowed the calamitous events of the 

first period of the Great Patriotic War. In any event, the elaborate, carefully conceived, and heavily resourced system of Soviet/Russian logistic support that reached its high-water mark in the late 1980s was in a 

few short years destroyed. Nevertheless, it should be emphasized that 

the concepts that underpinned this system, the historical experience and 

theoretical formulations upon which they were based, and emerging approaches to complex logistic support problems during the last days of the 

USSR armed forces all provide a rich body of material for historians and 

military planners alike. In this respect, Soviet approaches to logistic support in all its dimensions—especially operational logistics—remains a 

worthwhile focus of study and evaluation.
318 historical perspectives of the operational art 

10. I. Volkotrubenko, “Artilleriîskoe snabzhenie v pervom periode voîny” [Artillery 

supply in the first period of the war], VIZh (May 1980): 71.

11. Ibid.

12. S. K. Kurkotkin, ed., Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil v Velikoi Otechestvennoi 

voine, 1941–1945 gg. [Rear of the Soviet Armed Forces in the Great Patriotic War, 1941–

1945] (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1977), p. 75. In Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” pp. 65–66, the author 

blames the People’s Commissar for State Control, I. Mekhlis, for the extensive concentration of stockpiles in the border areas that were subsequently lost.

13. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” p. 65.

14. Ibid.

15. Skriyabin, “Iz istorii sozdaniya organov,” p. 58.

16. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” p. 69.

17. Skriyabin, “Iz istorii sozdaniya organov,” pp. 58–59. One of Khrulev’s key consultants at this time was the former chief quartermaster of the tsarist Russian Army and 

former assistant chief of the Red Army’s Central Supply Directorate, K. E. Goretskiî. 

Goretskiî was one of a number of former tsarist quartermaster officers who served the 

new regime in the first years of Soviet power and in some cases subsequently. See A. G. 

Kavtaradze, Voennye spetsialisty na sluzhbe Respubliki Sovetov. 1917–1920 gg. [Military 

specialists in the service of the Soviet Republic, 1917–1920] (Moscow: Nauka, 1988), p. 

180. In the process of putting together the draft (as described in Skriyabin, “Iz istorii sozdaniya organov,” p. 58), Khrulev and Goretskiî disagreed again over a fundamental issue 

of rear service organization that had been raised first in a discussion they had in 1939. Khrulev, in delineating those rear service entities that should come under his control, “took a 

pencil and added one more service, artillery supply, to those under the rear service chief’s 

jurisdiction.” This would have given Khrulev direct control of all ammunition, artillery, 

and small-arms supply, as well as weapon repair and maintenance responsibilities. This 

major logistic role was then the responsibility of GAU. Goretskiî, however, as he had 

earlier, objected strongly to Khrulev’s penciled annotation, and was able to dissuade him 

from adding the artillery supply service to the proposal on the grounds that this key function, because of its vast scope, would be incompatible with Khrulev’s other proposed duties. Khrulev reluctantly agreed, thus setting in motion a division of logistic responsibility 

that continues to the present.

18. As mentioned, Zhukov was opposed to the centralization of rear services outside 

of the general staff, a view he continued to hold even in the face of the general staff’s 

obvious inability to deal simultaneously with operational and logistic matters. Zhukov 

attended Khrulev’s 28 July meeting with Stalin, and upon reading the draft State Defense 

Committee directive “declared peremptorily” that: “I do not agree. The authors of the 

draft want the rear services to undercut the general staff.” Stalin, “casting an expressive 

glance at G. K. Zhukov,” took back the draft and immediately signed it. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” p. 69.

19. This is apparent in part from the continued justifications set out by senior rear service officers after the war and to the present. They reiterate the need for centralized rear 

service planning and execution to be undertaken by logistic commanders and staffs at the 

strategic and operational level and point to the consequences suffered in the initial period 

of the Great Patriotic War when this system was not in place.

20. Golushko, “Iz opyta raboty shtaba Tyla,” p. 38.

21. Ibid.

22. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,”p. 69.
318 historical perspectives of the operational art 

10. I. Volkotrubenko, “Artilleriîskoe snabzhenie v pervom periode voîny” [Artillery 

supply in the first period of the war], VIZh (May 1980): 71.

11. Ibid.

12. S. K. Kurkotkin, ed., Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil v Velikoi Otechestvennoi 

voine, 1941–1945 gg. [Rear of the Soviet Armed Forces in the Great Patriotic War, 1941–

1945] (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1977), p. 75. In Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” pp. 65–66, the author 

blames the People’s Commissar for State Control, I. Mekhlis, for the extensive concentration of stockpiles in the border areas that were subsequently lost.

13. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” p. 65.

14. Ibid.

15. Skriyabin, “Iz istorii sozdaniya organov,” p. 58.

16. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” p. 69.

17. Skriyabin, “Iz istorii sozdaniya organov,” pp. 58–59. One of Khrulev’s key consultants at this time was the former chief quartermaster of the tsarist Russian Army and 

former assistant chief of the Red Army’s Central Supply Directorate, K. E. Goretskiî. 

Goretskiî was one of a number of former tsarist quartermaster officers who served the 

new regime in the first years of Soviet power and in some cases subsequently. See A. G. 

Kavtaradze, Voennye spetsialisty na sluzhbe Respubliki Sovetov. 1917–1920 gg. [Military 

specialists in the service of the Soviet Republic, 1917–1920] (Moscow: Nauka, 1988), p. 

180. In the process of putting together the draft (as described in Skriyabin, “Iz istorii sozdaniya organov,” p. 58), Khrulev and Goretskiî disagreed again over a fundamental issue 

of rear service organization that had been raised first in a discussion they had in 1939. Khrulev, in delineating those rear service entities that should come under his control, “took a 

pencil and added one more service, artillery supply, to those under the rear service chief’s 

jurisdiction.” This would have given Khrulev direct control of all ammunition, artillery, 

and small-arms supply, as well as weapon repair and maintenance responsibilities. This 

major logistic role was then the responsibility of GAU. Goretskiî, however, as he had 

earlier, objected strongly to Khrulev’s penciled annotation, and was able to dissuade him 

from adding the artillery supply service to the proposal on the grounds that this key function, because of its vast scope, would be incompatible with Khrulev’s other proposed duties. Khrulev reluctantly agreed, thus setting in motion a division of logistic responsibility 

that continues to the present.

18. As mentioned, Zhukov was opposed to the centralization of rear services outside 

of the general staff, a view he continued to hold even in the face of the general staff’s 

obvious inability to deal simultaneously with operational and logistic matters. Zhukov 

attended Khrulev’s 28 July meeting with Stalin, and upon reading the draft State Defense 

Committee directive “declared peremptorily” that: “I do not agree. The authors of the 

draft want the rear services to undercut the general staff.” Stalin, “casting an expressive 

glance at G. K. Zhukov,” took back the draft and immediately signed it. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,” p. 69.

19. This is apparent in part from the continued justifications set out by senior rear service officers after the war and to the present. They reiterate the need for centralized rear 

service planning and execution to be undertaken by logistic commanders and staffs at the 

strategic and operational level and point to the consequences suffered in the initial period 

of the Great Patriotic War when this system was not in place.

20. Golushko, “Iz opyta raboty shtaba Tyla,” p. 38.

21. Ibid.

22. Khrulev, “Stanovlenie,”p. 69.
320 historical perspectives of the operational art 

port during the war years was centered on permanent naval bases with modest numbers of 

support ships that sustained the fleets and their operations along coastal axes. As the war 

progressed, the navy gained increasing experience with the deployment of advanced naval 

bases along coastal axes for the support of amphibious operations and sustaining naval 

combatants. In the process, naval rear services made far greater use of land transportation 

and particularly of motor transport to move supplies from fleet main bases to forward 

facilities. V. Shlomin, “Organizatsiya i sovershenstvovanie tyla VMF” [Organization and 

improvement of the VMF rear], VIZh (November 1975): 42–47, as translated in Joint 

Publications Research Service, USSR Military Affairs no. 66518. The critical importance 

of rapidly and effectively establishing such advanced bases was impressed on Soviet rear 

service specialists and naval planners during the war and continues to be identified as a 

support area requiring the closest attention. Overall, cooperation between the Red Army 

and Navy rear services became increasingly important in the war, if not as widespread 

or as effective as Soviet planners judge it should have been. As one authoritative Soviet 

source put it: 

The experience of the past war demonstrated the importance and necessity 

of organizing efficient, continuous interaction of fleet rear services with those of 

other Services of the Armed Forces and their operational formations during joint 

actions in one or adjacent theaters of military action, as well as unifying designated 

models of armament and standardizing various Army and Navy materiel support. 

(Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, pp. 450–51.)

40. For a definition of strategic reserves, see Ogarkov, SVE 7: 553. In building strategic 

logistic reserves, the GAU retained such a tight control of artillery weapons, small arms, 

and ammunition in 1941 that Zhukov complained he had to beg Stalin for their release. 

Volkotrubenko, “Artilleriîskoe snabzhenie,” p. 72.

41. See Ogarkov, SVE, 7: 554, for a discussion of the strategic rear services.

42. Colonel-General Golushko gave a retrospective assessment that summarized the status of Soviet rear services in this period. He noted that while many difficulties lay ahead 

of the Soviet rear services and changes and improvements would have to be made, “the 

main thing was done: the system had begun to work with confidence, and its materiel 

base was being used more purposefully.” See Golushko, “2. Razvitie sistemy upravleniya 

tylom,” p. 17.

43. Plotnikov and Chaban, “Rear Services,” p. 8.

44. Ibid.; Golushko, “2. Razvitie sistemy upravleniya tylom,” p. 17.

45. Golushko, “2. Razvitie sistemy upravleniya tylom,” p. 13. See also S. N. Skriyabin, 

“Sozdanie baz snabzheniya Tsentra” [Creation of the supply base of the Center], VIZh 

(October 1986): 54–60, for an excellent discussion of the role of strategic rear service 

bases in this period.

46. Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 108.

47. Ibid., p. 111.

48. As noted in Golushko, “Iz opyta raboty shtaba,” p. 43:

In the course of preparing for the Kursk Battle, the staff of the rear, on the basis 

of instructions from the general staff, worked out a plan for troop rear support. In 

behalf of the Voronezh Front, it supervised the construction of the new Stariî Oskol 

Rzhava railway spur and preparations for the dirt roads; the operation of motor trans320 historical perspectives of the operational art 

port during the war years was centered on permanent naval bases with modest numbers of 

support ships that sustained the fleets and their operations along coastal axes. As the war 

progressed, the navy gained increasing experience with the deployment of advanced naval 

bases along coastal axes for the support of amphibious operations and sustaining naval 

combatants. In the process, naval rear services made far greater use of land transportation 

and particularly of motor transport to move supplies from fleet main bases to forward 

facilities. V. Shlomin, “Organizatsiya i sovershenstvovanie tyla VMF” [Organization and 

improvement of the VMF rear], VIZh (November 1975): 42–47, as translated in Joint 

Publications Research Service, USSR Military Affairs no. 66518. The critical importance 

of rapidly and effectively establishing such advanced bases was impressed on Soviet rear 

service specialists and naval planners during the war and continues to be identified as a 

support area requiring the closest attention. Overall, cooperation between the Red Army 

and Navy rear services became increasingly important in the war, if not as widespread 

or as effective as Soviet planners judge it should have been. As one authoritative Soviet 

source put it: 

The experience of the past war demonstrated the importance and necessity 

of organizing efficient, continuous interaction of fleet rear services with those of 

other Services of the Armed Forces and their operational formations during joint 

actions in one or adjacent theaters of military action, as well as unifying designated 

models of armament and standardizing various Army and Navy materiel support. 

(Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, pp. 450–51.)

40. For a definition of strategic reserves, see Ogarkov, SVE 7: 553. In building strategic 

logistic reserves, the GAU retained such a tight control of artillery weapons, small arms, 

and ammunition in 1941 that Zhukov complained he had to beg Stalin for their release. 

Volkotrubenko, “Artilleriîskoe snabzhenie,” p. 72.

41. See Ogarkov, SVE, 7: 554, for a discussion of the strategic rear services.

42. Colonel-General Golushko gave a retrospective assessment that summarized the status of Soviet rear services in this period. He noted that while many difficulties lay ahead 

of the Soviet rear services and changes and improvements would have to be made, “the 

main thing was done: the system had begun to work with confidence, and its materiel 

base was being used more purposefully.” See Golushko, “2. Razvitie sistemy upravleniya 

tylom,” p. 17.

43. Plotnikov and Chaban, “Rear Services,” p. 8.

44. Ibid.; Golushko, “2. Razvitie sistemy upravleniya tylom,” p. 17.

45. Golushko, “2. Razvitie sistemy upravleniya tylom,” p. 13. See also S. N. Skriyabin, 

“Sozdanie baz snabzheniya Tsentra” [Creation of the supply base of the Center], VIZh 

(October 1986): 54–60, for an excellent discussion of the role of strategic rear service 

bases in this period.

46. Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 108.

47. Ibid., p. 111.

48. As noted in Golushko, “Iz opyta raboty shtaba,” p. 43:

In the course of preparing for the Kursk Battle, the staff of the rear, on the basis 

of instructions from the general staff, worked out a plan for troop rear support. In 

behalf of the Voronezh Front, it supervised the construction of the new Stariî Oskol 

Rzhava railway spur and preparations for the dirt roads; the operation of motor trans322 historical perspectives of the operational art 

70. Veselov, “Tyl armii,” pp. 33–34. 

71. L. N. Vnotchenko, Pobeda na dal’nem vostoke [Victory in the Far East] (Moscow: 

Voenizdat, 1971), provides one the best Soviet assessments of the Manchurian campaign, 

particularly the preparatory activities.

72. Ibid. For a discussion of the composition and missions of the three fronts, see especially pp. 51–53 and 59–84.

73. Ibid., p. 50. 

74. Ibid. The direct control of the Pacific Fleet and the Amur River Flotilla, operating in 

behalf of the overall plans for the strategic operation, was delegated by the Supreme High 

Command to Navy Commander in Chief N. G. Kuznetsov. See A. Vasilevskiî, “Pobeda na 

Dal’nem Vostoke” [Campaign in the Far East], VIZh (August 1970): 7; A. M. Vasilevskiî, 

Delo vsei zhizni [The work of an entire life] (Moscow: Politizdat, 1983), p. 505; N. G. 

Kuznetsov, Kyrsom k pobede [On a course to victory] (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1977), p. 

498.

75. Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 387.

76. Ibid.

77. Ibid., p. 403.

78. Ibid., pp. 408–09.

79. Ibid.

80. Ibid., pp. 342–86.

81. V. I. Achkasov, ed., “Voennoe iskusstvo osnovnykh gosudarstv, uchastvovavshikh v 

voine” [Military art of the principal states participating in the war], Istoriiya vtoroî mirovoî voîny [History of World War II] (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1980), 11: 440–41.

82. As noted in Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 420:

The absence of materiel reserves and reserves of the most important rear service 

units and establishments (railroad, road, motor transport, air transport, technical 

support, medical) at the immediate disposal of the Rear Service Directorate prevented it from reacting effectively to all crises occurring in troop rear support. 

It did not have the potential for extensively maneuvering rear service forces and 

means among the fronts or operational directions when the situation urgently required such maneuvering.

83. S. Mariakhin, “The Rear and the Front during World War II,” RS (May 1972): 24, 

in the translation prepared by the Foreign Science and Technology Center, FSTC-HT23-

973-73.

84. Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 508.

85. As noted in Kurkotin’s work cited above (p. 106), the central rear services “not only 

received military products from the national economy and delivered them to the fronts, 

fleets, and military districts, but also stockpiled designated reserves of materiel, supported operational and troop evacuation movements, and built, provided technical support to, 

and restored the most important lines of communication. Centrally subordinated repair 

facilities carried out the most complex forms of repair on weapons, combat equipment, 

and property, and manufactured a number of types of military items. A large network of 

medical institutions provided care to casualties and patients.”

86. Ibid., pp. 508–09; Plotnikov and Chaban, “Rear Services,” pp. 18–19.

87. For example, in 1946–1947, the faculty of the Military Academy of Rear and Supply 

included seventy-two generals and officers with combat experience. See I. M. Golushko, 
322 historical perspectives of the operational art 

70. Veselov, “Tyl armii,” pp. 33–34. 

71. L. N. Vnotchenko, Pobeda na dal’nem vostoke [Victory in the Far East] (Moscow: 

Voenizdat, 1971), provides one the best Soviet assessments of the Manchurian campaign, 

particularly the preparatory activities.

72. Ibid. For a discussion of the composition and missions of the three fronts, see especially pp. 51–53 and 59–84.

73. Ibid., p. 50. 

74. Ibid. The direct control of the Pacific Fleet and the Amur River Flotilla, operating in 

behalf of the overall plans for the strategic operation, was delegated by the Supreme High 

Command to Navy Commander in Chief N. G. Kuznetsov. See A. Vasilevskiî, “Pobeda na 

Dal’nem Vostoke” [Campaign in the Far East], VIZh (August 1970): 7; A. M. Vasilevskiî, 

Delo vsei zhizni [The work of an entire life] (Moscow: Politizdat, 1983), p. 505; N. G. 

Kuznetsov, Kyrsom k pobede [On a course to victory] (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1977), p. 

498.

75. Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 387.

76. Ibid.

77. Ibid., p. 403.

78. Ibid., pp. 408–09.

79. Ibid.

80. Ibid., pp. 342–86.

81. V. I. Achkasov, ed., “Voennoe iskusstvo osnovnykh gosudarstv, uchastvovavshikh v 

voine” [Military art of the principal states participating in the war], Istoriiya vtoroî mirovoî voîny [History of World War II] (Moscow: Voenizdat, 1980), 11: 440–41.

82. As noted in Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 420:

The absence of materiel reserves and reserves of the most important rear service 

units and establishments (railroad, road, motor transport, air transport, technical 

support, medical) at the immediate disposal of the Rear Service Directorate prevented it from reacting effectively to all crises occurring in troop rear support. 

It did not have the potential for extensively maneuvering rear service forces and 

means among the fronts or operational directions when the situation urgently required such maneuvering.

83. S. Mariakhin, “The Rear and the Front during World War II,” RS (May 1972): 24, 

in the translation prepared by the Foreign Science and Technology Center, FSTC-HT23-

973-73.

84. Kurkotkin, Tyl sovetskikh vooruzhennykh sil, p. 508.

85. As noted in Kurkotin’s work cited above (p. 106), the central rear services “not only 

received military products from the national economy and delivered them to the fronts, 

fleets, and military districts, but also stockpiled designated reserves of materiel, supported operational and troop evacuation movements, and built, provided technical support to, 

and restored the most important lines of communication. Centrally subordinated repair 

facilities carried out the most complex forms of repair on weapons, combat equipment, 

and property, and manufactured a number of types of military items. A large network of 

medical institutions provided care to casualties and patients.”

86. Ibid., pp. 508–09; Plotnikov and Chaban, “Rear Services,” pp. 18–19.

87. For example, in 1946–1947, the faculty of the Military Academy of Rear and Supply 

included seventy-two generals and officers with combat experience. See I. M. Golushko, 
324 historical perspectives of the operational art 

96. See Golushko, Soldaty tyla, p. 182. Colonel-General Golushko attended the Voroshilov General Staff Academy from 1960 to 1962, during the height of the internal 

debates that surfaced these views, and his somewhat understated observations from this 

period are worth noting: 

During those years, there was a heated debate in military circles and lecture 

halls over the role of the various armed services and arms of troops in modern war. 

Some worked for ‘large’ aviation and large forces of surface ships, with others, on 

the contrary, proposing that missiles would not only completely replace aircraft 

and the navy, but also even eliminate artillery. Alekseî Ivanovich Radzievskii [then 

1st Deputy Chief of the Academy and later Chief of the Frunze Military Academy] 

participated in discussions of this question also. In relying on his rich military 

experience, he helped us correctly assess not only all the advantages of the new 

and the old so-called classic types of weapons, but also their specific role in the 

operations of the armed services and arms of troops. [He helped us correctly] work 

out a well-reasoned attitude toward new tendencies in the development of means of 

armament and the theory of military art.

97. M. Novikov, “Combat Logistics Today,” Soviet Military Review (May 1966): 41.

98. These enduring areas of concern to Soviet logistic planners have been addressed in 

many Soviet military publications and continue to shape Soviet rear service force structure and concepts.

99. N. V. Ogarkov, “Za nashu sovetskuyu rodinu: Na strarazhe mirnogo truda” [For our 

soviet motherland: on guard for peaceful labor], Kommunist no. 10 (1981): 86.

100. Ibid. Published that same year was the two-part article by Colonel-General Golushko, chief of staff of the Rear Services of the Soviet Armed Forces, who took a clear 

operational-strategic focus in discussing the development of Soviet logistics in World 

War II and in drawing retrospective lessons from this experience. See Golushko, “Razviti sistemy.” This two-part feature highlighted a number of issues key to supporting 

theater strategic operations that Golushko and other military authors have subsequently 

addressed.

101. See, for example, the Voroshilov lecture entitled “Strategic Operations in a Continental Theater of Strategic Military Action.”

102. As discussed in the Voroshilov general staff lecture materials and other sources, a 

theater strategic operation may typically include: (1) nonnuclear air operations of combined-arms composition to destroy enemy aviation groupings, nuclear rocket and artillery 

strike resources, and other key targets in depth; (2) anti-air operations to protect friendly 

force groupings and contribute to the achievement of air superiority; (3) front operations 

aimed at defeating enemy ground force groupings within the theater; (4) naval operations in maritime regions of the TSMA to destroy enemy naval groupings, interdict sea 

lines of communication, and conduct other actions to include the conduct of amphibious landings; (5) airborne operations on an operational-strategic scale to accomplish or 

support missions ranging from the elimination of smaller, weaker states from an enemy 

coalition to opening major new areas of combat action deep in the enemy rear; and (6) 

in a nuclear war, the infliction of theaterwide nuclear strikes by the Strategic Rocket 

Forces in conjunction with other land-, air-, and sea-based nuclear strike systems. By the 

mid-1980s Soviet planners had established high commands of forces in four of the five 

TSMAs around the Soviet periphery. Within these headquarters they established deputy 
324 historical perspectives of the operational art 

96. See Golushko, Soldaty tyla, p. 182. Colonel-General Golushko attended the Voroshilov General Staff Academy from 1960 to 1962, during the height of the internal 

debates that surfaced these views, and his somewhat understated observations from this 

period are worth noting: 

During those years, there was a heated debate in military circles and lecture 

halls over the role of the various armed services and arms of troops in modern war. 

Some worked for ‘large’ aviation and large forces of surface ships, with others, on 

the contrary, proposing that missiles would not only completely replace aircraft 

and the navy, but also even eliminate artillery. Alekseî Ivanovich Radzievskii [then 

1st Deputy Chief of the Academy and later Chief of the Frunze Military Academy] 

participated in discussions of this question also. In relying on his rich military 

experience, he helped us correctly assess not only all the advantages of the new 

and the old so-called classic types of weapons, but also their specific role in the 

operations of the armed services and arms of troops. [He helped us correctly] work 

out a well-reasoned attitude toward new tendencies in the development of means of 

armament and the theory of military art.

97. M. Novikov, “Combat Logistics Today,” Soviet Military Review (May 1966): 41.

98. These enduring areas of concern to Soviet logistic planners have been addressed in 

many Soviet military publications and continue to shape Soviet rear service force structure and concepts.

99. N. V. Ogarkov, “Za nashu sovetskuyu rodinu: Na strarazhe mirnogo truda” [For our 

soviet motherland: on guard for peaceful labor], Kommunist no. 10 (1981): 86.

100. Ibid. Published that same year was the two-part article by Colonel-General Golushko, chief of staff of the Rear Services of the Soviet Armed Forces, who took a clear 

operational-strategic focus in discussing the development of Soviet logistics in World 

War II and in drawing retrospective lessons from this experience. See Golushko, “Razviti sistemy.” This two-part feature highlighted a number of issues key to supporting 

theater strategic operations that Golushko and other military authors have subsequently 

addressed.

101. See, for example, the Voroshilov lecture entitled “Strategic Operations in a Continental Theater of Strategic Military Action.”

102. As discussed in the Voroshilov general staff lecture materials and other sources, a 

theater strategic operation may typically include: (1) nonnuclear air operations of combined-arms composition to destroy enemy aviation groupings, nuclear rocket and artillery 

strike resources, and other key targets in depth; (2) anti-air operations to protect friendly 

force groupings and contribute to the achievement of air superiority; (3) front operations 

aimed at defeating enemy ground force groupings within the theater; (4) naval operations in maritime regions of the TSMA to destroy enemy naval groupings, interdict sea 

lines of communication, and conduct other actions to include the conduct of amphibious landings; (5) airborne operations on an operational-strategic scale to accomplish or 

support missions ranging from the elimination of smaller, weaker states from an enemy 

coalition to opening major new areas of combat action deep in the enemy rear; and (6) 

in a nuclear war, the infliction of theaterwide nuclear strikes by the Strategic Rocket 

Forces in conjunction with other land-, air-, and sea-based nuclear strike systems. By the 

mid-1980s Soviet planners had established high commands of forces in four of the five 

TSMAs around the Soviet periphery. Within these headquarters they established deputy 
326 historical perspectives of the operational art

of Defense itself. Technical support, however, is the direct responsibility of deputy commanders for armament (deputy commanders for technical matters), whose activities are 

coordinated with rear service deputy commanders at each level and shaped by the rear 

service deputy’s responsibility for developing and overseeing overall rear service plans 

and his direct control of transportation.

112. I. M. Golushko, “The Rear Services: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow,” Tyl vooruzhennykh sil (February 1988): 5–10.

113. Ibid., p. 9. The use of the formulation defensive strategy [strategiya] instead of defensive doctrine [doktrina] was interesting but not expanded upon further.

114. Golushko, “Rear Services,” p. 10. In addition, M. M. Kir’ian, Voenno-tekhnicheskiî 

progress i vooruzhennye sily SSSR [Military-technical progress and the armed forces of 

the USSR] (Moscow: n.p., 1982), surveys a number of these developments in the context 

of overall military organizational development and technological change, with the newest 

developments often ascribed to U.S. or other “foreign” research and development.

115. Kir’ian, Voenno-tekhnicheskiî progress, p. 271. Kir’ian (p. 260) also noted, in regard 

to foreign work on laser weapons, that such a weapon could “be used repeatedly” and 

would “not be constrained by the requirement to transport ammunition.”

116. Ibid., p. 292, pointed out the high speed and low energy consumption associated 

with wing-in-ground craft, as well as their effective performance over land as well as 

water. The first public official U.S. acknowledgment of Soviet work on WIG craft took 

place in U.S. Department of Defense, Soviet Military Power, 5th ed. (Washington, D.C.: 

Department of Defense, 1986), p. 93. As Soviet Military Power indicated, WIG technology “takes advantage of the increased aerodynamic lift that occurs when a wing operating 

near the surface experiences a reduction of induced drag.” Golushko, “Rear Services,” p. 

10, indicated that in addition to improvements in existing transportation means, “applications will also be found for entirely new transport means which, in the general opinion, 

will fundamentally change the structure of the rear support system.” He may have had 

WIG developments in mind, among other innovations.

117. See Military Review 59, no. 11 (December 1989), for discussions by analysts of the 

U.S. Army’s Soviet Army Studies Office of emerging Soviet military, political, strategic, 

operational, and tactical developments. The military situation today is in some respects 

analogous to the 1945–1948 period, when Soviet forces were simultaneously reorganized, 

reduced, and redeployed at the conclusion of World War II.
326 historical perspectives of the operational art

of Defense itself. Technical support, however, is the direct responsibility of deputy commanders for armament (deputy commanders for technical matters), whose activities are 

coordinated with rear service deputy commanders at each level and shaped by the rear 

service deputy’s responsibility for developing and overseeing overall rear service plans 

and his direct control of transportation.

112. I. M. Golushko, “The Rear Services: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow,” Tyl vooruzhennykh sil (February 1988): 5–10.

113. Ibid., p. 9. The use of the formulation defensive strategy [strategiya] instead of defensive doctrine [doktrina] was interesting but not expanded upon further.

114. Golushko, “Rear Services,” p. 10. In addition, M. M. Kir’ian, Voenno-tekhnicheskiî 

progress i vooruzhennye sily SSSR [Military-technical progress and the armed forces of 

the USSR] (Moscow: n.p., 1982), surveys a number of these developments in the context 

of overall military organizational development and technological change, with the newest 

developments often ascribed to U.S. or other “foreign” research and development.

115. Kir’ian, Voenno-tekhnicheskiî progress, p. 271. Kir’ian (p. 260) also noted, in regard 

to foreign work on laser weapons, that such a weapon could “be used repeatedly” and 

would “not be constrained by the requirement to transport ammunition.”

116. Ibid., p. 292, pointed out the high speed and low energy consumption associated 

with wing-in-ground craft, as well as their effective performance over land as well as 

water. The first public official U.S. acknowledgment of Soviet work on WIG craft took 

place in U.S. Department of Defense, Soviet Military Power, 5th ed. (Washington, D.C.: 

Department of Defense, 1986), p. 93. As Soviet Military Power indicated, WIG technology “takes advantage of the increased aerodynamic lift that occurs when a wing operating 

near the surface experiences a reduction of induced drag.” Golushko, “Rear Services,” p. 

10, indicated that in addition to improvements in existing transportation means, “applications will also be found for entirely new transport means which, in the general opinion, 

will fundamentally change the structure of the rear support system.” He may have had 

WIG developments in mind, among other innovations.

117. See Military Review 59, no. 11 (December 1989), for discussions by analysts of the 

U.S. Army’s Soviet Army Studies Office of emerging Soviet military, political, strategic, 

operational, and tactical developments. The military situation today is in some respects 

analogous to the 1945–1948 period, when Soviet forces were simultaneously reorganized, 

reduced, and redeployed at the conclusion of World War II.


330 historical perspectives of the operational art 

affected the conduct of the campaign and the battle of Gettysburg itself. 

Lee simply failed to appreciate time and space in relation to the growing 

Union combat power. In contrast, Meade’s orchestrated use of mutually 

supporting corps during the urgent approach marches and his subsequent 

deployments during the battle itself demonstrated the importance of operational maneuver while in a defensive posture.

Russell F. Weigley redefines the importance of operational-level planning and its absence in the Normandy invasion during World War II and 

the attempted encirclement of German forces around Argentan-Falaise in 

June–July 1944. Weigley credits detailed tactical planning with the success of the Normandy campaign but points out several Allied operational 

successes as well. These included overall intelligence and the knowledge 

of the main German dispositions; deception measures that tied down significant German forces in the Pas de Calais area; over-the-beach logistical 

support for a one-million-man force; and operational fires applied by the 

numbered air forces to bomb paths for a breakout from the beaches. On the 

other hand, Weigley postulates that lack of operational planning and vision 

placed the more mobile American forces on the wrong terrain. Moreover, 

the exploitation of the breakout at St. Lô sent American forces westward 

for ports in Brittany for their perceived logistical value, when the main 

Allied objectives were to the east. The effort diverted precious resources 

and prevented a full exploitation of the Allied success. Lastly, Weigley 

points to personalities in command and their difficult relationships. The 

inability to encircle German forces at Argentan-Falaise was caused by a 

failure to redraw army group boundaries. The blame lay on the operational 

commanders: Eisenhower, Montgomery, and Bradley. Weigley concludes 

that the Allies lacked operational objectives during the breakout and never 

developed an operational focus in the ensuing pursuit.

In the essay that follows, Stanlis D. Milkowski concludes that the 

small, ill-prepared American Army engaged in Korea achieved a brilliant 

operational success at Inch’on, which reversed the tide of defeat. His 

focus, however, is on the post-Inch’on campaign. The sense of victory 

gained there redefined MacArthur’s campaign objectives from the defense of South Korea to the destruction of the North Korean military forces. Here Milkowski analyzes the command relationships in the theater. 

MacArthur’s operational reserve—the U.S. X Corps, used so brilliantly 

at Inch’on—was subsequently kept under his control. The stroke at Wonsan on North Korea’s eastern coast, conceived as a second Inch’on, fell 

on thin air. In turn, the Eighth Army’s lack of logistical support, caused 

in part by the X Corps’ independent movement, slowed its northward 

pursuit. But X Corps continued to report directly to MacArthur, while 

the rapid drive into North Korean forces stretched both X Corps and the 

Eighth Army extremely thin. When the two battlefield commands began 

to encounter Red Chinese forces, MacArthur chose to ignore his opera330 historical perspectives of the operational art 

affected the conduct of the campaign and the battle of Gettysburg itself. 

Lee simply failed to appreciate time and space in relation to the growing 

Union combat power. In contrast, Meade’s orchestrated use of mutually 

supporting corps during the urgent approach marches and his subsequent 

deployments during the battle itself demonstrated the importance of operational maneuver while in a defensive posture.

Russell F. Weigley redefines the importance of operational-level planning and its absence in the Normandy invasion during World War II and 

the attempted encirclement of German forces around Argentan-Falaise in 

June–July 1944. Weigley credits detailed tactical planning with the success of the Normandy campaign but points out several Allied operational 

successes as well. These included overall intelligence and the knowledge 

of the main German dispositions; deception measures that tied down significant German forces in the Pas de Calais area; over-the-beach logistical 

support for a one-million-man force; and operational fires applied by the 

numbered air forces to bomb paths for a breakout from the beaches. On the 

other hand, Weigley postulates that lack of operational planning and vision 

placed the more mobile American forces on the wrong terrain. Moreover, 

the exploitation of the breakout at St. Lô sent American forces westward 

for ports in Brittany for their perceived logistical value, when the main 

Allied objectives were to the east. The effort diverted precious resources 

and prevented a full exploitation of the Allied success. Lastly, Weigley 

points to personalities in command and their difficult relationships. The 

inability to encircle German forces at Argentan-Falaise was caused by a 

failure to redraw army group boundaries. The blame lay on the operational 

commanders: Eisenhower, Montgomery, and Bradley. Weigley concludes 

that the Allies lacked operational objectives during the breakout and never 

developed an operational focus in the ensuing pursuit.

In the essay that follows, Stanlis D. Milkowski concludes that the 

small, ill-prepared American Army engaged in Korea achieved a brilliant 

operational success at Inch’on, which reversed the tide of defeat. His 

focus, however, is on the post-Inch’on campaign. The sense of victory 

gained there redefined MacArthur’s campaign objectives from the defense of South Korea to the destruction of the North Korean military forces. Here Milkowski analyzes the command relationships in the theater. 

MacArthur’s operational reserve—the U.S. X Corps, used so brilliantly 

at Inch’on—was subsequently kept under his control. The stroke at Wonsan on North Korea’s eastern coast, conceived as a second Inch’on, fell 

on thin air. In turn, the Eighth Army’s lack of logistical support, caused 

in part by the X Corps’ independent movement, slowed its northward 

pursuit. But X Corps continued to report directly to MacArthur, while 

the rapid drive into North Korean forces stretched both X Corps and the 

Eighth Army extremely thin. When the two battlefield commands began 

to encounter Red Chinese forces, MacArthur chose to ignore his opera
334 historical perspectives of the operational art 

When Col. Henry L. Scott published his Military Dictionary during our Civil War, he provided an uninspired, circular definition: “Operations. Field operations; offensive and defensive operations; underground 

operations; siege operations, etc.”3

 This definition reveals the truly generic meaning of the term in its old sense: “operations” didn’t actually 

mean anything until an adjective was added, and then the noun tended 

to fade into the background, giving a certain ponderous elegance to the 

resulting phrase but adding little to its meaning. The insidious lexicological implications of this state of affairs is illustrated in Scott’s definition 

of strategy:

Strategy is the art of concerting a plan of campaign, combining a system of 

military operations determined by the end to be attained, the character of the enemy, 

the nature of the resources of the country, and the means of attack and defense. The 

theater of operations selected embraces the territory we seek to invade or that to 

be defended. It comprehends a base of operations; the objective point of the campaign; the front of operations, that is, the extent of the line occupied by the army in 

advance of its base; lines of operations, the routes followed to reach the objective 

point or ends proposed; the lines of communication which unite the different lines 

of operations together; obstacles, natural or artificial, and places of refuge.4

None of this gives us a clear notion of the scope of the theater or the 

operations to be conducted. It is vague as to space, time, and mass. While 

this definition reflects the Jominian influence so common in American 

theory of the day, clarity in the use of the term operations would not have 

been better served had Clausewitz held sway. When he moved up from 

tactics to strategy, he wrote: “At the strategic level the campaign replaces 

the engagement and the theater of operations takes the place of the position. At the next stage, the war as a whole replaces the campaign, and the 

whole country the theater of operations.”5

 Clausewitz shared the common 

nineteenth-century tendency to define strategy in terms of operations and 

to think of campaigns as being strategic. Further search in On War only 

clouds the definitional issue: “No one starts a war—or rather, no one in 

his senses ought to do so—without being first clear in his mind what he 

intends to achieve by that war and how he intends to conduct it. The former is its political purpose: the latter is its operational objective.”6

Why not use the word strategic, given Clausewitz’s definitional 

framework? The military dictionaries and encyclopedias published near 

the end of the nineteenth century reflect the continued broad meaning 

for operations. Thomas Wilhelm’s 1881 dictionary cribbed Stocqueler 

(quoted above) verbatim.7

 Voyle introduced in English usage the broad 

formulation linked to strategy and tactics that endured for generals: “Operations, Military—General movements of troops or armies in the field 

during mimic or real warfare. They are of two kinds, strategic or tactical. The former are undertaken before being within reach of the enemy, 
334 historical perspectives of the operational art 

When Col. Henry L. Scott published his Military Dictionary during our Civil War, he provided an uninspired, circular definition: “Operations. Field operations; offensive and defensive operations; underground 

operations; siege operations, etc.”3

 This definition reveals the truly generic meaning of the term in its old sense: “operations” didn’t actually 

mean anything until an adjective was added, and then the noun tended 

to fade into the background, giving a certain ponderous elegance to the 

resulting phrase but adding little to its meaning. The insidious lexicological implications of this state of affairs is illustrated in Scott’s definition 

of strategy:

Strategy is the art of concerting a plan of campaign, combining a system of 

military operations determined by the end to be attained, the character of the enemy, 

the nature of the resources of the country, and the means of attack and defense. The 

theater of operations selected embraces the territory we seek to invade or that to 

be defended. It comprehends a base of operations; the objective point of the campaign; the front of operations, that is, the extent of the line occupied by the army in 

advance of its base; lines of operations, the routes followed to reach the objective 

point or ends proposed; the lines of communication which unite the different lines 

of operations together; obstacles, natural or artificial, and places of refuge.4

None of this gives us a clear notion of the scope of the theater or the 

operations to be conducted. It is vague as to space, time, and mass. While 

this definition reflects the Jominian influence so common in American 

theory of the day, clarity in the use of the term operations would not have 

been better served had Clausewitz held sway. When he moved up from 

tactics to strategy, he wrote: “At the strategic level the campaign replaces 

the engagement and the theater of operations takes the place of the position. At the next stage, the war as a whole replaces the campaign, and the 

whole country the theater of operations.”5

 Clausewitz shared the common 

nineteenth-century tendency to define strategy in terms of operations and 

to think of campaigns as being strategic. Further search in On War only 

clouds the definitional issue: “No one starts a war—or rather, no one in 

his senses ought to do so—without being first clear in his mind what he 

intends to achieve by that war and how he intends to conduct it. The former is its political purpose: the latter is its operational objective.”6

Why not use the word strategic, given Clausewitz’s definitional 

framework? The military dictionaries and encyclopedias published near 

the end of the nineteenth century reflect the continued broad meaning 

for operations. Thomas Wilhelm’s 1881 dictionary cribbed Stocqueler 

(quoted above) verbatim.7

 Voyle introduced in English usage the broad 

formulation linked to strategy and tactics that endured for generals: “Operations, Military—General movements of troops or armies in the field 

during mimic or real warfare. They are of two kinds, strategic or tactical. The former are undertaken before being within reach of the enemy, 
336 historical perspectives of the operational art 

had expanded in space and time because of the evolution of mass armies 

and railroads. The evidence of the Civil War and the wars in Europe all 

seemed to point toward operations culminating in a single large battle. 

For example, Gettysburg, Sadowa, and Sedan suggested the principal 

feature of the military art. Siege operations (e.g., Vicksburg, Paris, and 

Plevna) also reflected changes flowing from the modifications of objective circumstances that had changed field operations, but these changes 

in scale and lethality seemed to bring nothing fundamentally new to the 

art of war. However, with the U.S. Army’s 1905 Field Service Regulations, we begin to see the changes in the attitude toward the decisive 

battle that would ultimately result in recognition of an operational level: 

“Engagements are usually preceded by operations the object of which is 

to locate the enemy without committing the main body to action. These 

preliminaries begin with the action of independent cavalry and culminate 

in the contact of the advance guard.”12 The image here is one of building toward a crescendo—the decisive battle—but the preliminaries have 

begun to expand in space and time and in importance because of the 

nature of modern weapons.

The 1910 Field Service Regulations contain virtually the same characterization of preliminaries and the decisive battle,13 but this later version discusses the implications of modern weapons in far more detail:

Increased rapidity, accuracy, and range of small arms have increased the difficulties of a frontal attack. Without superiority of fire we may assume the frontal 

attack as impracticable. If we consider two lines as consisting of infantry only, this 

superiority cannot be secured unless the number of rifles put into action by the 

assailants is either greater than the number opposing them, or the assailants are 

decidedly better shots or more skillful in the use of cover than the defenders, or the 

latter are surprised or have been demoralized by previous defeats and the assailants 

have an unquestioned moral ascendancy over them. Frontal attacks are not impossible, but in order to be successful the assailants must gain a superiority of fire and 

be willing to pay the price of victory.

Nearly all the factors that make frontal attack difficult inure to the advantage 

of the offensive in enveloping and flanking attacks. For example, the longer the 

range of the weapons, the greater is the capacity for converging fire on salients of 

the enemy’s line; and the neutral color of uniform which hides the defenders, also 

favors the assailants by concealing their turning movements.

While the improvement of small arms has benefited the defensive, improvement in field artillery has increased the advantages of the offensive, whether in 

frontal or flank attacks. The great range and rapidity of fire of field artillery, and 

its ability to fire while concealed, enable the assailants to accumulate a crushing 

superiority at the desired point without discovery by the defenders, to open an accurate and overwhelming fire as a surprise, and thus to acquire an ascendancy that 

becomes more pronounced as the power of that arm increases.

It is impossible to shoot an enemy out of position. To avoid serious losses, 

the defender has only to lie down behind cover; but a resolute and simultaneous 
336 historical perspectives of the operational art 

had expanded in space and time because of the evolution of mass armies 

and railroads. The evidence of the Civil War and the wars in Europe all 

seemed to point toward operations culminating in a single large battle. 

For example, Gettysburg, Sadowa, and Sedan suggested the principal 

feature of the military art. Siege operations (e.g., Vicksburg, Paris, and 

Plevna) also reflected changes flowing from the modifications of objective circumstances that had changed field operations, but these changes 

in scale and lethality seemed to bring nothing fundamentally new to the 

art of war. However, with the U.S. Army’s 1905 Field Service Regulations, we begin to see the changes in the attitude toward the decisive 

battle that would ultimately result in recognition of an operational level: 

“Engagements are usually preceded by operations the object of which is 

to locate the enemy without committing the main body to action. These 

preliminaries begin with the action of independent cavalry and culminate 

in the contact of the advance guard.”12 The image here is one of building toward a crescendo—the decisive battle—but the preliminaries have 

begun to expand in space and time and in importance because of the 

nature of modern weapons.

The 1910 Field Service Regulations contain virtually the same characterization of preliminaries and the decisive battle,13 but this later version discusses the implications of modern weapons in far more detail:

Increased rapidity, accuracy, and range of small arms have increased the difficulties of a frontal attack. Without superiority of fire we may assume the frontal 

attack as impracticable. If we consider two lines as consisting of infantry only, this 

superiority cannot be secured unless the number of rifles put into action by the 

assailants is either greater than the number opposing them, or the assailants are 

decidedly better shots or more skillful in the use of cover than the defenders, or the 

latter are surprised or have been demoralized by previous defeats and the assailants 

have an unquestioned moral ascendancy over them. Frontal attacks are not impossible, but in order to be successful the assailants must gain a superiority of fire and 

be willing to pay the price of victory.

Nearly all the factors that make frontal attack difficult inure to the advantage 

of the offensive in enveloping and flanking attacks. For example, the longer the 

range of the weapons, the greater is the capacity for converging fire on salients of 

the enemy’s line; and the neutral color of uniform which hides the defenders, also 

favors the assailants by concealing their turning movements.

While the improvement of small arms has benefited the defensive, improvement in field artillery has increased the advantages of the offensive, whether in 

frontal or flank attacks. The great range and rapidity of fire of field artillery, and 

its ability to fire while concealed, enable the assailants to accumulate a crushing 

superiority at the desired point without discovery by the defenders, to open an accurate and overwhelming fire as a surprise, and thus to acquire an ascendancy that 

becomes more pronounced as the power of that arm increases.

It is impossible to shoot an enemy out of position. To avoid serious losses, 

the defender has only to lie down behind cover; but a resolute and simultaneous 
338 historical perspectives of the operational art 

its old chance in these days of entrenchments and long range artillery.”17

But he devoted his efforts to teaching officers the relationship between 

tactics and terrain so they would be effective in the new environment. 

Wagner with his theory and Swift with his application were teaching 

officers sound, interactive, situational approaches to the use of military 

force. Their efforts inevitably focused on the tactical level: Their students had little professional education, the U.S. Army was small, and 

the sources they modified to American needs were cast in the “decisive 

battle” mold.

As we have been reminded so often, the material realities that made 

decisive battle so difficult to achieve on the major fronts in World War I 

surprised the military professionals of all combatant nations. Once there 

were no flanks to envelop the lethality of modern weapons combined 

with massive industrial production and manpower resources to produce 

formidable defenses in depth that could be penetrated but proved highly 

resistant to breakthroughs. After the war, American officers adjusted their 

thinking to reflect the larger organizations necessary to fight in this type 

of warfare, but they were slow to develop new concepts to deal with the 

larger battlefields:

During the World War, not only was old material improved and new material 

of all kinds created, but the personnel engaged was so large as to involve practically a national effort. This large personnel with arms of all kinds necessitated the 

most careful organization, control and coordination, extending especially to the 

Large Units. A broad knowledge of the constitution, capabilities and functioning 

of these units was indispensable.18

Before the war ended, the U.S. Army translated the French Army’s 

Instruction on the Offensive Action of Large Units in Battle.

19 This volume provided detailed discussion on force requirements and planning 

imperatives associated with the complex combined-arms action required 

to launch a penetration of sufficient size to carry through deep defensive 

belts with adequate residual power to roll up the flanks and exploit in the 

rear. The need for higher-echelon commands and staffs—armies and 

army groups—to deal with the masses of men, materiel, and planning 

details was explicit, but the battlefield function performed by these large 

units was perceived as tactical. Thinking in terms of decisive battle, 

these practitioners of the military art merely perceived higher stakes, 

not a new game.

After the war, the U.S. Army’s doctrine and higher-level professional 

instruction tried to place the apparent lessons of the war on the Western 

Front into a larger context. The 1923 Field Service Regulations stressed 

concentrating superior force at the decisive place and time so that successful offensive operations—even when outnumbered—could destroy 

the enemy’s armed forces. In the decisive attack, an infantry division 
338 historical perspectives of the operational art 

its old chance in these days of entrenchments and long range artillery.”17

But he devoted his efforts to teaching officers the relationship between 

tactics and terrain so they would be effective in the new environment. 

Wagner with his theory and Swift with his application were teaching 

officers sound, interactive, situational approaches to the use of military 

force. Their efforts inevitably focused on the tactical level: Their students had little professional education, the U.S. Army was small, and 

the sources they modified to American needs were cast in the “decisive 

battle” mold.

As we have been reminded so often, the material realities that made 

decisive battle so difficult to achieve on the major fronts in World War I 

surprised the military professionals of all combatant nations. Once there 

were no flanks to envelop the lethality of modern weapons combined 

with massive industrial production and manpower resources to produce 

formidable defenses in depth that could be penetrated but proved highly 

resistant to breakthroughs. After the war, American officers adjusted their 

thinking to reflect the larger organizations necessary to fight in this type 

of warfare, but they were slow to develop new concepts to deal with the 

larger battlefields:

During the World War, not only was old material improved and new material 

of all kinds created, but the personnel engaged was so large as to involve practically a national effort. This large personnel with arms of all kinds necessitated the 

most careful organization, control and coordination, extending especially to the 

Large Units. A broad knowledge of the constitution, capabilities and functioning 

of these units was indispensable.18

Before the war ended, the U.S. Army translated the French Army’s 

Instruction on the Offensive Action of Large Units in Battle.

19 This volume provided detailed discussion on force requirements and planning 

imperatives associated with the complex combined-arms action required 

to launch a penetration of sufficient size to carry through deep defensive 

belts with adequate residual power to roll up the flanks and exploit in the 

rear. The need for higher-echelon commands and staffs—armies and 

army groups—to deal with the masses of men, materiel, and planning 

details was explicit, but the battlefield function performed by these large 

units was perceived as tactical. Thinking in terms of decisive battle, 

these practitioners of the military art merely perceived higher stakes, 

not a new game.

After the war, the U.S. Army’s doctrine and higher-level professional 

instruction tried to place the apparent lessons of the war on the Western 

Front into a larger context. The 1923 Field Service Regulations stressed 

concentrating superior force at the decisive place and time so that successful offensive operations—even when outnumbered—could destroy 

the enemy’s armed forces. In the decisive attack, an infantry division 
340 historical perspectives of the operational art 

along a single extensive front, or to provide centralized direction on a 

single line of operations within a large complex theater.24 Since most of 

these situations could not have been derived directly from the historical 

record of World War I, the theoreticians were clearly using their classroom exercise with large units to derive insights into the organizational 

implications of the extended operations possible in industrialized warfare. 

By 1926 Leavenworth’s treatment of the functions of larger units—army, 

corps, and division—had surfaced the difficulties associated with thinking at that level:

There is, in reality, no marked dividing line between [strategy and tactics]. 

Commanders of small units are concerned almost entirely with tactics, whereas 

the commander of an army may be concerned largely with strategic questions as 

well as tactical ones. Where tactical and strategic considerations conflict, tactical considerations must govern. The gaining of decision in combat is of primary 

importance.25

Could that last assertion be correct? If so, what were the implications 

for commanders of larger units? They were encouraged to impede the 

tendency for the tactical tail to wag the strategic dog:

A plan of operations always should be formulated. This includes primarily a 

study of the theater of operations (terrain, road/railroad, possibility of supply).... 

The mission and objective will determine the depth of advance. Generally speaking, a plan of operations will include five main phases, viz., mobilization, concentration, advance, occupation of positions, and combat.26

When we consider the phases of this plan of operations, we can clearly see that it has little to do with what we now call the operational level of 

war. Mobilization and concentration of forces are clearly strategic actions 

reflecting plans, decisions, and priorities at the highest levels—today we 

would associate these activities with the National Command Authority. 

The advance of the armies and occupation of initial positions probably 

match our concepts of the operational level, but combat—unless aggregated into theater-level results—is the tactical concern of divisions and 

corps. Confusion caused by lack of clarity in terminology is seen most 

clearly in the Manual for Commanders of Large Units (Provisional) published in 1930. This manual envisioned the commander in chief in his 

general headquarters commanding a theater of war with army groups and 

armies as his subordinate headquarters:

[The commander in chief] draws up and issues strategic plans in accordance 

with the general policies prescribed by the President. He specifies the personnel 

and supplies of all kinds required for his field forces, requests their allocation, and 

establishes policies and priorities for their distribution.27

The group of armies is a tactical unit. In accordance with missions assigned 

to him by GHQ, the group commander draws up tactical plans, issues orders to 
340 historical perspectives of the operational art 

along a single extensive front, or to provide centralized direction on a 

single line of operations within a large complex theater.24 Since most of 

these situations could not have been derived directly from the historical 

record of World War I, the theoreticians were clearly using their classroom exercise with large units to derive insights into the organizational 

implications of the extended operations possible in industrialized warfare. 

By 1926 Leavenworth’s treatment of the functions of larger units—army, 

corps, and division—had surfaced the difficulties associated with thinking at that level:

There is, in reality, no marked dividing line between [strategy and tactics]. 

Commanders of small units are concerned almost entirely with tactics, whereas 

the commander of an army may be concerned largely with strategic questions as 

well as tactical ones. Where tactical and strategic considerations conflict, tactical considerations must govern. The gaining of decision in combat is of primary 

importance.25

Could that last assertion be correct? If so, what were the implications 

for commanders of larger units? They were encouraged to impede the 

tendency for the tactical tail to wag the strategic dog:

A plan of operations always should be formulated. This includes primarily a 

study of the theater of operations (terrain, road/railroad, possibility of supply).... 

The mission and objective will determine the depth of advance. Generally speaking, a plan of operations will include five main phases, viz., mobilization, concentration, advance, occupation of positions, and combat.26

When we consider the phases of this plan of operations, we can clearly see that it has little to do with what we now call the operational level of 

war. Mobilization and concentration of forces are clearly strategic actions 

reflecting plans, decisions, and priorities at the highest levels—today we 

would associate these activities with the National Command Authority. 

The advance of the armies and occupation of initial positions probably 

match our concepts of the operational level, but combat—unless aggregated into theater-level results—is the tactical concern of divisions and 

corps. Confusion caused by lack of clarity in terminology is seen most 

clearly in the Manual for Commanders of Large Units (Provisional) published in 1930. This manual envisioned the commander in chief in his 

general headquarters commanding a theater of war with army groups and 

armies as his subordinate headquarters:

[The commander in chief] draws up and issues strategic plans in accordance 

with the general policies prescribed by the President. He specifies the personnel 

and supplies of all kinds required for his field forces, requests their allocation, and 

establishes policies and priorities for their distribution.27

The group of armies is a tactical unit. In accordance with missions assigned 

to him by GHQ, the group commander draws up tactical plans, issues orders to 
342 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tional level of war, even though contemporary doctrine may have been 

confused. By looking at trends rather than merely reviewing the events 

on the Western Front, they continued to consider maneuver as well as 

administration and firepower and developed great mental flexibility. By 

contemplating the enormous mobilization base and force structure necessary to project power to the Philippines, they kept the mobilization and 

logistics requirements of global warfare firmly fixed in their minds, even 

though they came to the War College from a small army weakened by Depression-era budgets. We can attribute the graduates’ successes in every 

theater of World War II at least partially to this educational experience.

Military victory in 1945 seems to have provided little impetus for 

revising U.S. doctrinal views to make room for an operational level of 

military thinking. The Army struggled for survival in a period of rapid 

demobilization in which many theoreticians saw the long-range bomber 

and the atomic bomb as instruments that would make large-scale ground 

operations obsolete. The situation was different in the Soviet Union, so 

it was natural for Soviet military thinkers to develop their thoughts on 

the operational art, their term for what we have now come to call the operational level of war. In their discussions, Soviet authors analyzed the 

military lessons of twentieth-century war and in a smug, heavy-handed, 

Stalinist way, congratulated themselves on having a military theory with 

room for the operational art. In doing so, they defined and outlined the 

utility of this new theoretical tool with some care. Their early postwar 

articles, as translated by the U.S. Army at the time, still make interesting reading. A few highlights from these articles should clarify some 

familiar points:

War in the capitalistic era, with its mass armies and its great quantities of 

material of the most varied types, became more complicated than it had been in 

former years. In order to achieve the objectives of war under such conditions, as 

the experience of recent wars has shown, a number of relatively lengthy campaigns 

must be fought. Each of these in turn consists of a number of simultaneous and 

successive operations carried out on various sectors of the front. An operation, 

involving mass armies with millions of men, during the machine period of war has 

become a characteristic and well-defined phenomenon.34

In the second half of the nineteenth century conditions that determine the development of the military art changed radically from what they had been in the time 

of Napoleon. A whole series of new factors arose, growing out of the development 

of industrial capitalism and the consequent rapid growth of productive capacity 

and equipment. The introduction of universal military service led to the establishment of mass armies. The appearance of railroads made it possible to concentrate 

forces far more rapidly, and they could be deployed over very broad fronts. The 

scale of combat became decidedly grander. In place of the single “general” battle 

which formerly had often decided the outcome of the war, now there usually was a 

number of major and smaller battles and engagements. Under these conditions, the 

commander had to be able skillfully to unite the efforts of his forces, deployed over 
342 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tional level of war, even though contemporary doctrine may have been 

confused. By looking at trends rather than merely reviewing the events 

on the Western Front, they continued to consider maneuver as well as 

administration and firepower and developed great mental flexibility. By 

contemplating the enormous mobilization base and force structure necessary to project power to the Philippines, they kept the mobilization and 

logistics requirements of global warfare firmly fixed in their minds, even 

though they came to the War College from a small army weakened by Depression-era budgets. We can attribute the graduates’ successes in every 

theater of World War II at least partially to this educational experience.

Military victory in 1945 seems to have provided little impetus for 

revising U.S. doctrinal views to make room for an operational level of 

military thinking. The Army struggled for survival in a period of rapid 

demobilization in which many theoreticians saw the long-range bomber 

and the atomic bomb as instruments that would make large-scale ground 

operations obsolete. The situation was different in the Soviet Union, so 

it was natural for Soviet military thinkers to develop their thoughts on 

the operational art, their term for what we have now come to call the operational level of war. In their discussions, Soviet authors analyzed the 

military lessons of twentieth-century war and in a smug, heavy-handed, 

Stalinist way, congratulated themselves on having a military theory with 

room for the operational art. In doing so, they defined and outlined the 

utility of this new theoretical tool with some care. Their early postwar 

articles, as translated by the U.S. Army at the time, still make interesting reading. A few highlights from these articles should clarify some 

familiar points:

War in the capitalistic era, with its mass armies and its great quantities of 

material of the most varied types, became more complicated than it had been in 

former years. In order to achieve the objectives of war under such conditions, as 

the experience of recent wars has shown, a number of relatively lengthy campaigns 

must be fought. Each of these in turn consists of a number of simultaneous and 

successive operations carried out on various sectors of the front. An operation, 

involving mass armies with millions of men, during the machine period of war has 

become a characteristic and well-defined phenomenon.34

In the second half of the nineteenth century conditions that determine the development of the military art changed radically from what they had been in the time 

of Napoleon. A whole series of new factors arose, growing out of the development 

of industrial capitalism and the consequent rapid growth of productive capacity 

and equipment. The introduction of universal military service led to the establishment of mass armies. The appearance of railroads made it possible to concentrate 

forces far more rapidly, and they could be deployed over very broad fronts. The 

scale of combat became decidedly grander. In place of the single “general” battle 

which formerly had often decided the outcome of the war, now there usually was a 

number of major and smaller battles and engagements. Under these conditions, the 

commander had to be able skillfully to unite the efforts of his forces, deployed over 
344 historical perspectives of the operational art 

presented as the ultimate in military affairs, with all other elements of war being 

crowded off the stage by atomic energy.39

Based on the experience of the most recent wars, Soviet military art holds that 

operations as a new phenomenon in the conduct of military actions has made for 

itself a definite and clear-cut place in the conduct of war. The modern definition 

of operations holds that this is the organized joint action of large military bodies 

(armies, army groups, and organizations of like size) carried out on a common 

sector or in a single direction and all arising out of a single plan of action and all 

aimed at the attainment of a single overall objective.40

The most important tasks of the operational art, in accomplishing the missions assigned to forces of operational dimensions by the overall strategy of the 

country’s leadership, consist of: working out an operational plan; determining the 

forces, methods of employment and leadership of operational formations in the 

operation at hand; determining the means and methods by which coordination of 

the various arms and service will be accomplished; determining the character and 

order of cooperation among the various large operational formations taking part in 

the operation; carrying out all the preparatory measures necessary for the organization and subsequent conduct of the operation; and the carrying out of the operation and the direction of the troops during the course of the operation.41

The highly significant problems relating to the modern operational art [are] 

the organization and conduct of a defense capable of standing up to mass attacks 

by tanks and powerful aviation and at the same time creating favorable conditions 

for the launching of a decisive counteroffensive; the working out and application of new forms and methods of the conduct of the offensive designed to solve 

two important requirements of offensive operations, namely, the breakthrough of 

dense and solidly developed defenses in great depth and the exploitation of such 

breakthroughs in such manner as to paralyze enemy resistance in the total operational depth of his position: the organization of the direction and leadership 

of great masses of troops heavily equipped with various kinds of mechanized 

equipment and the employment of such forces for rapid maneuver and massing 

in the direction of the main effort; the organization of operational cooperation 

among the various arms and services which are brought together for participation 

in large-scale operations.42

When we recall that these Soviet thoughts have been around for nearly forty years and have been updated and perfected in a large, dedicated 

body of military leaders throughout that period, we have a tendency to 

become a bit alarmed. Before throwing up our hands in despair or surrender, two thoughts merit consideration. With the exception of the central 

region in Europe, the massive prolonged combat stretched over immense 

space and time that gave birth to the operational level cannot really flourish. As an Army with global commitments, we are wise to view operational-level thinking in a broader context than did our Soviet brethren. 

How much good did their forty years of thinking about the operational art 

really do them in five to ten years in Afghanistan? Did the absence of an 

operational level in our military theory really make that much difference 

in Vietnam? In Korea?
344 historical perspectives of the operational art 

presented as the ultimate in military affairs, with all other elements of war being 

crowded off the stage by atomic energy.39

Based on the experience of the most recent wars, Soviet military art holds that 

operations as a new phenomenon in the conduct of military actions has made for 

itself a definite and clear-cut place in the conduct of war. The modern definition 

of operations holds that this is the organized joint action of large military bodies 

(armies, army groups, and organizations of like size) carried out on a common 

sector or in a single direction and all arising out of a single plan of action and all 

aimed at the attainment of a single overall objective.40

The most important tasks of the operational art, in accomplishing the missions assigned to forces of operational dimensions by the overall strategy of the 

country’s leadership, consist of: working out an operational plan; determining the 

forces, methods of employment and leadership of operational formations in the 

operation at hand; determining the means and methods by which coordination of 

the various arms and service will be accomplished; determining the character and 

order of cooperation among the various large operational formations taking part in 

the operation; carrying out all the preparatory measures necessary for the organization and subsequent conduct of the operation; and the carrying out of the operation and the direction of the troops during the course of the operation.41

The highly significant problems relating to the modern operational art [are] 

the organization and conduct of a defense capable of standing up to mass attacks 

by tanks and powerful aviation and at the same time creating favorable conditions 

for the launching of a decisive counteroffensive; the working out and application of new forms and methods of the conduct of the offensive designed to solve 

two important requirements of offensive operations, namely, the breakthrough of 

dense and solidly developed defenses in great depth and the exploitation of such 

breakthroughs in such manner as to paralyze enemy resistance in the total operational depth of his position: the organization of the direction and leadership 

of great masses of troops heavily equipped with various kinds of mechanized 

equipment and the employment of such forces for rapid maneuver and massing 

in the direction of the main effort; the organization of operational cooperation 

among the various arms and services which are brought together for participation 

in large-scale operations.42

When we recall that these Soviet thoughts have been around for nearly forty years and have been updated and perfected in a large, dedicated 

body of military leaders throughout that period, we have a tendency to 

become a bit alarmed. Before throwing up our hands in despair or surrender, two thoughts merit consideration. With the exception of the central 

region in Europe, the massive prolonged combat stretched over immense 

space and time that gave birth to the operational level cannot really flourish. As an Army with global commitments, we are wise to view operational-level thinking in a broader context than did our Soviet brethren. 

How much good did their forty years of thinking about the operational art 

really do them in five to ten years in Afghanistan? Did the absence of an 

operational level in our military theory really make that much difference 

in Vietnam? In Korea?
346 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. Department of the Army (DA), Field Manual (FM) 100–5, Operations (Washington, 

D.C.: Department of the Army, 1982).

2. Joachim H. Stocqueler, The Military Encyclopedia (London: William H. Allen, 

1853), p. 203.

3. Henry L. Scott, Military Dictionary (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1864), p. 433.

4. Ibid., p. 574.

5. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), p. 358.

6. Ibid., p. 579.

7. Thomas Wilhelm, A Military Dictionary and Gazetteer (Philadelphia, Pa.: L. R. 

Hamersly & Co., 1881), p. 368.

8. Maj. Gen. George E. Voyle, A Military Dictionary (London: William Clowes and 

Sons, 1876), p. 276.

9. Junius B. Wheeler, A Course of Instruction in the Elements of the Art and Science of 

War (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1879), pp. v–vi.

10. William A. Kobbe, Notes on Strategy and Logistics (Fort Monroe, Va.: Artillery 

School Press, 1896), p. 17.

11. Ibid., p. 16.

12. U.S. Army, Field Service Regulations (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1905), p. 101.

13. U.S. Army, Field Service Regulations (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1910), p. 159.

14. Ibid., pp. 157–58.

15. Rudolph von Caemmerer, The Development of Strategical Science during the 19th 

Century, trans. Karl von Donat (London: Hugh Rees, Ltd., 1905), p. 263.

16. Arthur L. Wagner, Organization and Tactics (New York: B. Westermann and Co., 

1895), pp. 1–2.

17. Eben Swift, “Remarks, Introductory to the Course in Military Art” (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Command and General Staff College, 1904), p. 8.

18. U.S. Army War College (AWC), Provisional Manual of Tactics for Large Units

(Washington, D.C.: Army War College, 1923), p. 1.

19. Headquarters, American Expeditionary Forces (AEF), Instructions on the Offensive 

Action of Large Units in Battle (from the French edition of 31 October 1917) (Chaumont, 

France: Headquarters, Army Expeditionary Forces, 1918), pp. 69–80.

20. U.S. Army, Field Service Regulations (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1923), pp. 77–100.

21. AWC, Provisional Manual, p. 64.

22. General Service Schools, Tactical and Strategical Studies, Corps and Army (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: General Service Schools, 1922).

23. Col. Conrad H. Lanza, “Illustrative Problem: Strategy of the North Atlantic” (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: General Service Schools, 1922).
346 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. Department of the Army (DA), Field Manual (FM) 100–5, Operations (Washington, 

D.C.: Department of the Army, 1982).

2. Joachim H. Stocqueler, The Military Encyclopedia (London: William H. Allen, 

1853), p. 203.

3. Henry L. Scott, Military Dictionary (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1864), p. 433.

4. Ibid., p. 574.

5. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1976), p. 358.

6. Ibid., p. 579.

7. Thomas Wilhelm, A Military Dictionary and Gazetteer (Philadelphia, Pa.: L. R. 

Hamersly & Co., 1881), p. 368.

8. Maj. Gen. George E. Voyle, A Military Dictionary (London: William Clowes and 

Sons, 1876), p. 276.

9. Junius B. Wheeler, A Course of Instruction in the Elements of the Art and Science of 

War (New York: D. Van Nostrand, 1879), pp. v–vi.

10. William A. Kobbe, Notes on Strategy and Logistics (Fort Monroe, Va.: Artillery 

School Press, 1896), p. 17.

11. Ibid., p. 16.

12. U.S. Army, Field Service Regulations (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1905), p. 101.

13. U.S. Army, Field Service Regulations (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1910), p. 159.

14. Ibid., pp. 157–58.

15. Rudolph von Caemmerer, The Development of Strategical Science during the 19th 

Century, trans. Karl von Donat (London: Hugh Rees, Ltd., 1905), p. 263.

16. Arthur L. Wagner, Organization and Tactics (New York: B. Westermann and Co., 

1895), pp. 1–2.

17. Eben Swift, “Remarks, Introductory to the Course in Military Art” (Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Command and General Staff College, 1904), p. 8.

18. U.S. Army War College (AWC), Provisional Manual of Tactics for Large Units

(Washington, D.C.: Army War College, 1923), p. 1.

19. Headquarters, American Expeditionary Forces (AEF), Instructions on the Offensive 

Action of Large Units in Battle (from the French edition of 31 October 1917) (Chaumont, 

France: Headquarters, Army Expeditionary Forces, 1918), pp. 69–80.

20. U.S. Army, Field Service Regulations (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1923), pp. 77–100.

21. AWC, Provisional Manual, p. 64.

22. General Service Schools, Tactical and Strategical Studies, Corps and Army (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: General Service Schools, 1922).

23. Col. Conrad H. Lanza, “Illustrative Problem: Strategy of the North Atlantic” (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: General Service Schools, 1922).


350 historical perspectives of the operational art 

1863 his army stood at the gates of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Everyone 

understood the political importance of Vicksburg. To the United States, 

Vicksburg represented the only remaining impediment to reopening the 

river-borne trade from the northwest. Its seizure would open the Mississippi River, cut the Confederacy in two, and provide important political 

capital for continuing the war. To the Confederate states, Vicksburg was 

a link to the west and the scene of four previous Northern failures. As 

Grant’s ring of troops tightened their hold around it, Southern leaders 

argued over its importance and Confederate strategy. Many of the strategic discussions hinged on the issue of the political outcome that could be 

expected. Politics and war were closely intertwined.

Strategic Setting

The Confederacy was in a difficult strategic position. The South’s 

resources were strained severely by the three major fronts along which 

the Northern armies operated. Grant was hammering at Vicksburg. In 

central Tennessee, Maj. Gen. William S. Rosecrans aimed the Army of 

the Cumberland at the heart of the Deep South. Only in northern Virginia 

was there hope. Robert E. Lee had checked, had outmaneuvered, and 

finally had driven a much larger Army of the Potomac back across the 

Rappahannock River near Chancellorsville in early May 1863. Lee’s brilliant victory seemed to offer opportunities. But the strategic meaning of 

those opportunities was not clear.

In mid-May Lee discussed alternatives with President Jefferson 

Davis, Secretary of War James Seddon, and other members of the Confederate cabinet. As in many important strategic discussions, much of the 

talk focused on priorities.3

There was a strong move afoot to shift some troops from Lee’s army 

to the Confederate forces in front of Vicksburg. Lee’s resounding victory 

at Chancellorsville bolstered this argument because most of the corps 

under James Longstreet had been on operations in southeastern Virginia 

during the battle. Even without this sizable force, Lee had been able to 

humiliate his Federal opponent, Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker. It appeared, 

therefore, that Lee could adequately defend northern Virginia without a 

portion of Longstreet’s corps, which then could be sent to the west to help 

the situation there.4

Lee would not hear of it. To him, the choice was clear. Northern 

Virginia was the most important theater of operations. A Federal army 

that outnumbered his by three to one stood ready to seize the Confederate capital at Richmond if the situation presented itself. While Chancellorsville had been a great victory, it had not been an easy one. On 

several occasions an opponent more aggressive than Joe Hooker might 

have defeated his army in detail. Not only should he not send forces from 
350 historical perspectives of the operational art 

1863 his army stood at the gates of Vicksburg, Mississippi. Everyone 

understood the political importance of Vicksburg. To the United States, 

Vicksburg represented the only remaining impediment to reopening the 

river-borne trade from the northwest. Its seizure would open the Mississippi River, cut the Confederacy in two, and provide important political 

capital for continuing the war. To the Confederate states, Vicksburg was 

a link to the west and the scene of four previous Northern failures. As 

Grant’s ring of troops tightened their hold around it, Southern leaders 

argued over its importance and Confederate strategy. Many of the strategic discussions hinged on the issue of the political outcome that could be 

expected. Politics and war were closely intertwined.

Strategic Setting

The Confederacy was in a difficult strategic position. The South’s 

resources were strained severely by the three major fronts along which 

the Northern armies operated. Grant was hammering at Vicksburg. In 

central Tennessee, Maj. Gen. William S. Rosecrans aimed the Army of 

the Cumberland at the heart of the Deep South. Only in northern Virginia 

was there hope. Robert E. Lee had checked, had outmaneuvered, and 

finally had driven a much larger Army of the Potomac back across the 

Rappahannock River near Chancellorsville in early May 1863. Lee’s brilliant victory seemed to offer opportunities. But the strategic meaning of 

those opportunities was not clear.

In mid-May Lee discussed alternatives with President Jefferson 

Davis, Secretary of War James Seddon, and other members of the Confederate cabinet. As in many important strategic discussions, much of the 

talk focused on priorities.3

There was a strong move afoot to shift some troops from Lee’s army 

to the Confederate forces in front of Vicksburg. Lee’s resounding victory 

at Chancellorsville bolstered this argument because most of the corps 

under James Longstreet had been on operations in southeastern Virginia 

during the battle. Even without this sizable force, Lee had been able to 

humiliate his Federal opponent, Maj. Gen. Joseph Hooker. It appeared, 

therefore, that Lee could adequately defend northern Virginia without a 

portion of Longstreet’s corps, which then could be sent to the west to help 

the situation there.4

Lee would not hear of it. To him, the choice was clear. Northern 

Virginia was the most important theater of operations. A Federal army 

that outnumbered his by three to one stood ready to seize the Confederate capital at Richmond if the situation presented itself. While Chancellorsville had been a great victory, it had not been an easy one. On 

several occasions an opponent more aggressive than Joe Hooker might 

have defeated his army in detail. Not only should he not send forces from 
352 historical perspectives of the operational art 

war to eliminate the deprivations they were suffering. Northern peace 

parties might also be persuaded that ultimately the South only wished to 

be left alone in peace. A politically divided and weakened enemy was a 

worthy objective.8

Less clear was the issue of when and where to fight the Army of the 

Potomac. Lee had no intention of fighting it along the Rappahannock 

River. It was also clear to him that the Federals would pursue him if he 

successfully crossed the Potomac River and marched north into Pennsylvania. A battle would be virtually inevitable. But one witness to the 

cabinet discussions wrote that Lee’s mission was to “threaten” Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. Lee said after the campaign that he had 

hoped to occupy Philadelphia. A senior member of his staff later said that 

Philadelphia was not a campaign objective. Instead, he said, Lee intended 

to fight a major battle west of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. A 

victory there would give him virtual control of Maryland, western Pennsylvania, and western Virginia.

Even a cursory examination shows that these objectives create decidedly different military missions. Threatening, occupying, or bringing 

the enemy to battle in a specified region are not objectives that necessarily support one another. Each mission could create very different requirements for the disposition of the Army of Northern Virginia. 

Perhaps Lee’s confidence in the abilities of his army overshadowed his 

considerations about the precise circumstances under which he would 

accept battle.9

Lee was certain of his army’s great abilities. In its two most recent 

major battles—Fredericksburg in December 1862 and Chancellorsville 

in May 1863—the Army of Northern Virginia had performed exceptionally well. Stating that “There never were such men in an army before,” 

Lee knew they were invincible if they were properly led and organized. 

Believing this, then, Lee might not be too concerned about the enemy’s 

army. Whenever and wherever the Army of the Potomac chose to fight, 

the men of the Army of Northern Virginia would be ready to beat them 

once again.10

Proper organization of his army had been an issue bothering Lee for 

some time. Each of the two Confederate corps comprising the Army of 

Northern Virginia had grown too large for a single commander to lead effectively. Always sensitive to his subordinate’s sense of honor and dignity, 

Lee had been reluctant to appear dissatisfied with their performances by 

dividing their two corps into three. During the Battle of Chancellorsville, 

however, one of his corps commanders, Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson, 

was killed. A shocking loss on the one hand, it also gave Lee the opportunity to reorganize his major units on the other.11

Lee’s reorganization did not affect only the command of his corps. 

As officers were moved upward into their new positions as corps com352 historical perspectives of the operational art 

war to eliminate the deprivations they were suffering. Northern peace 

parties might also be persuaded that ultimately the South only wished to 

be left alone in peace. A politically divided and weakened enemy was a 

worthy objective.8

Less clear was the issue of when and where to fight the Army of the 

Potomac. Lee had no intention of fighting it along the Rappahannock 

River. It was also clear to him that the Federals would pursue him if he 

successfully crossed the Potomac River and marched north into Pennsylvania. A battle would be virtually inevitable. But one witness to the 

cabinet discussions wrote that Lee’s mission was to “threaten” Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. Lee said after the campaign that he had 

hoped to occupy Philadelphia. A senior member of his staff later said that 

Philadelphia was not a campaign objective. Instead, he said, Lee intended 

to fight a major battle west of the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania. A 

victory there would give him virtual control of Maryland, western Pennsylvania, and western Virginia.

Even a cursory examination shows that these objectives create decidedly different military missions. Threatening, occupying, or bringing 

the enemy to battle in a specified region are not objectives that necessarily support one another. Each mission could create very different requirements for the disposition of the Army of Northern Virginia. 

Perhaps Lee’s confidence in the abilities of his army overshadowed his 

considerations about the precise circumstances under which he would 

accept battle.9

Lee was certain of his army’s great abilities. In its two most recent 

major battles—Fredericksburg in December 1862 and Chancellorsville 

in May 1863—the Army of Northern Virginia had performed exceptionally well. Stating that “There never were such men in an army before,” 

Lee knew they were invincible if they were properly led and organized. 

Believing this, then, Lee might not be too concerned about the enemy’s 

army. Whenever and wherever the Army of the Potomac chose to fight, 

the men of the Army of Northern Virginia would be ready to beat them 

once again.10

Proper organization of his army had been an issue bothering Lee for 

some time. Each of the two Confederate corps comprising the Army of 

Northern Virginia had grown too large for a single commander to lead effectively. Always sensitive to his subordinate’s sense of honor and dignity, 

Lee had been reluctant to appear dissatisfied with their performances by 

dividing their two corps into three. During the Battle of Chancellorsville, 

however, one of his corps commanders, Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson, 

was killed. A shocking loss on the one hand, it also gave Lee the opportunity to reorganize his major units on the other.11

Lee’s reorganization did not affect only the command of his corps. 

As officers were moved upward into their new positions as corps com354 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Invasion!

Lt. Gen. James Longstreet’s Confederate corps left its positions near 

Fredericksburg on 3 June. Two days later, Lt. Gen. Richard Ewell’s corps 

also marched west for the Shenandoah Valley. Lee kept Lt. Gen. A. P. 

Hill’s corps deployed near Fredericksburg. Keeping Hill in position as 

a rear guard, Lee also hoped that Hill’s presence would deceive Hooker 

into believing that the Army of Northern Virginia’s dispositions were 

unchanged.

Hill’s position helped Lee address a bothersome course of action open 

to Hooker. One of Lee’s intentions was to draw the Army of the Potomac 

northward. Hooker, however, could choose to advance south and attempt 

to seize Richmond. If that threat developed in his rear, Lee could not afford 

politically to continue an advance into Pennsylvania and leave the Confederate capital open to capture. He would have to follow Hooker south, and 

Hooker would then have seized the initiative. Hill’s presence at Fredericksburg helped to prevent Hooker from choosing that alternative.16

Lee’s concern for Richmond extended beyond Hooker’s potential 

moves at Fredericksburg. Southeast of Richmond, more than two Federal corps were operating in the vicinity of the York and James Rivers. 

Probably too small to capture the capital, the Union force nevertheless 

represented a potential threat that could also upset Lee’s plans. It could 

become a covering force for a major enemy operation along the James 

River. While Lee’s army was in the Shenandoah Valley moving north, 

Hooker might shift his army rapidly by water to the James and fall in 

behind the two corps. McClellan had made a similar move in 1862 during 

the Peninsula campaign. Fortunately for Lee, this threat never materialized. The Federal troops under Maj. Gen. John A. Dix never became a 

more serious threat than a force to be watched carefully.17

Lee’s moves puzzled Hooker. By 5 June Hooker had decided that the 

Army of Northern Virginia was up to something. Some of the Confederate camps had been abandoned, and Hooker surmised that Lee might be 

embarking on another invasion of the North. In order to test the strength 

of Lee’s remaining force, he ordered the VI Corps commander to conduct a reconnaissance in force in front of some pontoon bridges south of 

Fredericksburg.

Maj. Gen. John Sedgwick, the VI Corps commander, already knew 

the answer. He quickly responded to Hooker’s order and reported that 

the Confederates had strengthened their picket line and moved some additional artillery into forward positions. If the Federals attempted to advance more than two hundred yards, they would be decisively engaged. 

Apparently, Lee’s directive to A. P. Hill was being carried out effectively; 

to the VI Corps commander, the Army of Northern Virginia’s positions 

looked as strong as ever.18
354 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Invasion!

Lt. Gen. James Longstreet’s Confederate corps left its positions near 

Fredericksburg on 3 June. Two days later, Lt. Gen. Richard Ewell’s corps 

also marched west for the Shenandoah Valley. Lee kept Lt. Gen. A. P. 

Hill’s corps deployed near Fredericksburg. Keeping Hill in position as 

a rear guard, Lee also hoped that Hill’s presence would deceive Hooker 

into believing that the Army of Northern Virginia’s dispositions were 

unchanged.

Hill’s position helped Lee address a bothersome course of action open 

to Hooker. One of Lee’s intentions was to draw the Army of the Potomac 

northward. Hooker, however, could choose to advance south and attempt 

to seize Richmond. If that threat developed in his rear, Lee could not afford 

politically to continue an advance into Pennsylvania and leave the Confederate capital open to capture. He would have to follow Hooker south, and 

Hooker would then have seized the initiative. Hill’s presence at Fredericksburg helped to prevent Hooker from choosing that alternative.16

Lee’s concern for Richmond extended beyond Hooker’s potential 

moves at Fredericksburg. Southeast of Richmond, more than two Federal corps were operating in the vicinity of the York and James Rivers. 

Probably too small to capture the capital, the Union force nevertheless 

represented a potential threat that could also upset Lee’s plans. It could 

become a covering force for a major enemy operation along the James 

River. While Lee’s army was in the Shenandoah Valley moving north, 

Hooker might shift his army rapidly by water to the James and fall in 

behind the two corps. McClellan had made a similar move in 1862 during 

the Peninsula campaign. Fortunately for Lee, this threat never materialized. The Federal troops under Maj. Gen. John A. Dix never became a 

more serious threat than a force to be watched carefully.17

Lee’s moves puzzled Hooker. By 5 June Hooker had decided that the 

Army of Northern Virginia was up to something. Some of the Confederate camps had been abandoned, and Hooker surmised that Lee might be 

embarking on another invasion of the North. In order to test the strength 

of Lee’s remaining force, he ordered the VI Corps commander to conduct a reconnaissance in force in front of some pontoon bridges south of 

Fredericksburg.

Maj. Gen. John Sedgwick, the VI Corps commander, already knew 

the answer. He quickly responded to Hooker’s order and reported that 

the Confederates had strengthened their picket line and moved some additional artillery into forward positions. If the Federals attempted to advance more than two hundred yards, they would be decisively engaged. 

Apparently, Lee’s directive to A. P. Hill was being carried out effectively; 

to the VI Corps commander, the Army of Northern Virginia’s positions 

looked as strong as ever.18
356 historical perspectives of the operational art 

sion to seize Richmond if it was determined that a sizable infantry force 

was accompanying Stuart on his raid. Lincoln’s response was immediate 

and direct: “I think Lee’s army, and not Richmond, is your sure objective 

point. If he comes toward the Upper Potomac, follow on his flank and 

on his inside track, shortening your lines of communications while he 

lengthens his. Fight him, too, when opportunity offers. If he stays where 

he is, fret him and fret him.”22

While Hooker fretted over his next move, Lee’s campaign continued to unfold smoothly. Ewell’s corps captured almost half of the sizable 

Federal force located and isolated at Winchester on 14 June. Over 4,400 

officers and men; 200,000 rounds of small-arms ammunition; and 23 artillery pieces fell into Confederate hands. Hooker was unaware of the 

magnitude of the disaster until Maj. Gen. Robert H. Milroy and 1,200 of 

the remainder of his force straggled into Harpers Ferry on the fifteenth 

and reported the extent of the debacle. To further confuse Hooker, Lee 

ordered Longstreet’s corps to move north and remain east of the Blue 

Ridge Mountains. This might give the impression to the Federal commander that Lee was threatening the Orange and Alexandria Railroad in 

an attempt to turn Hooker out of his positions along the Rappahannock 

River. Three cavalry brigades covered Longstreet’s front and flank. Lee 

attempted to deepen the deception by having Ewell advance his corps toward the Potomac. This could cause Hooker to vacate his positions along 

the Rappahannock to contest Ewell’s crossing of the Potomac. If Hooker 

took the bait, A. P. Hill’s corps would then be able to leave its positions at 

Fredericksburg unopposed and rejoin the main Confederate Army. Stuart 

assigned one brigade of cavalry to cover Ewell, and two brigades formed 

a link between Hill’s corps and the main army.23

After arranging his corps dispositions to confuse Hooker as to his 

true intent, Lee then developed a plan to place his opponent on the horns 

of a dilemma. The Confederate commander asked President Davis on 

23 June for assistance in executing the plan. Lee proposed that Davis 

assemble units from the Confederate forces in North and South Carolina and Georgia and reinforce General P. G. T. Beauregard’s command 

at Richmond. Beauregard should then take this new army and march to 

Culpeper Court House. From that location, Beauregard’s force would be 

in a position to threaten Washington. Davis denied Lee’s request, because 

there was not enough time to organize the force. Moreover, Beauregard’s 

own units could not afford to leave the vicinity of Richmond because of 

Dix’s Federal forces’ operating between the York and James Rivers near 

Yorktown.24

If implemented, Lee’s proposed moves would have made a tremendous psychological impact on Hooker. Eventually, Hooker would have 

sifted through all of the conflicting evidence and determined the true nature of Lee’s invasion. By that time, however, Beauregard would have been 
356 historical perspectives of the operational art 

sion to seize Richmond if it was determined that a sizable infantry force 

was accompanying Stuart on his raid. Lincoln’s response was immediate 

and direct: “I think Lee’s army, and not Richmond, is your sure objective 

point. If he comes toward the Upper Potomac, follow on his flank and 

on his inside track, shortening your lines of communications while he 

lengthens his. Fight him, too, when opportunity offers. If he stays where 

he is, fret him and fret him.”22

While Hooker fretted over his next move, Lee’s campaign continued to unfold smoothly. Ewell’s corps captured almost half of the sizable 

Federal force located and isolated at Winchester on 14 June. Over 4,400 

officers and men; 200,000 rounds of small-arms ammunition; and 23 artillery pieces fell into Confederate hands. Hooker was unaware of the 

magnitude of the disaster until Maj. Gen. Robert H. Milroy and 1,200 of 

the remainder of his force straggled into Harpers Ferry on the fifteenth 

and reported the extent of the debacle. To further confuse Hooker, Lee 

ordered Longstreet’s corps to move north and remain east of the Blue 

Ridge Mountains. This might give the impression to the Federal commander that Lee was threatening the Orange and Alexandria Railroad in 

an attempt to turn Hooker out of his positions along the Rappahannock 

River. Three cavalry brigades covered Longstreet’s front and flank. Lee 

attempted to deepen the deception by having Ewell advance his corps toward the Potomac. This could cause Hooker to vacate his positions along 

the Rappahannock to contest Ewell’s crossing of the Potomac. If Hooker 

took the bait, A. P. Hill’s corps would then be able to leave its positions at 

Fredericksburg unopposed and rejoin the main Confederate Army. Stuart 

assigned one brigade of cavalry to cover Ewell, and two brigades formed 

a link between Hill’s corps and the main army.23

After arranging his corps dispositions to confuse Hooker as to his 

true intent, Lee then developed a plan to place his opponent on the horns 

of a dilemma. The Confederate commander asked President Davis on 

23 June for assistance in executing the plan. Lee proposed that Davis 

assemble units from the Confederate forces in North and South Carolina and Georgia and reinforce General P. G. T. Beauregard’s command 

at Richmond. Beauregard should then take this new army and march to 

Culpeper Court House. From that location, Beauregard’s force would be 

in a position to threaten Washington. Davis denied Lee’s request, because 

there was not enough time to organize the force. Moreover, Beauregard’s 

own units could not afford to leave the vicinity of Richmond because of 

Dix’s Federal forces’ operating between the York and James Rivers near 

Yorktown.24

If implemented, Lee’s proposed moves would have made a tremendous psychological impact on Hooker. Eventually, Hooker would have 

sifted through all of the conflicting evidence and determined the true nature of Lee’s invasion. By that time, however, Beauregard would have been 
358 historical perspectives of the operational art 

pointed the head of the newly created Department of the Susquehanna. 

Headquartered in Harrisburg, he controlled only militia forces. Nevertheless, he became the focal point for much of the information that was 

being collected by agencies outside of the Army of the Potomac as Lee 

advanced through Maryland into Pennsylvania.

The Pennsylvania Central Railroad played an important part in this 

network. Probably acting as much out of self-interest as out of a sense of 

patriotism, the railroad organized scouting parties that worked initially 

out of Williamsport, Maryland, and conducted activities from Chambersburg and from the region west of the Cumberland Valley in Pennsylvania. 

Couch assembled information from sources such as these and forwarded 

them to Hooker and to the War Department.28

Hooker was not inspiring confidence. Beginning to shift his forces in 

the direction of Lee’s apparent line of communications, he reported his 

moves to Washington on 24 June and added, “I don’t know whether I am 

standing on my head or feet.” He seemed unaware that his own fortunes 

were declining, because he then became involved in fatal arguments with 

Lincoln and Halleck.29

Harpers Ferry was the issue. Almost since the beginning of Lee’s 

campaign, Hooker had been concerned over the fate of that important 

location. Not only was it located at the confluence of the Potomac and 

Shenandoah Rivers, astride the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal and along 

the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, the town lay directly along the invasion 

route of any Confederate force marching down the Shenandoah Valley 

toward Maryland. Early in the campaign Hooker wanted to be in charge 

of the garrison there so he could withdraw the forces to his own army at 

the opportune time. Lincoln and Halleck retained control of the garrison 

and told Hooker that Harpers Ferry must be held. In a personal meeting 

in Washington on 23 June, Lincoln and Halleck again told the general to 

hold the town. Upon his return to the army, Hooker sent a corps in the 

direction of Harpers Ferry, but it was not the end of the issue.30

Hooker was also having a feud with Halleck over reinforcements. 

Convinced that Lee’s army outnumbered his, he peppered the War Department with requests for additional troops. After his meeting with the 

president on the twenty-third, he sent his chief of staff, Maj. Gen. Daniel Butterfield, to Washington to seek additional reinforcements from the 

troops manning the capital’s defenses. Over 25,000 soldiers already had 

been sent either to Hooker or to Dix’s forces near Yorktown, so Halleck 

told Butterfield that no more troops were available. But Hooker still saw 

Harpers Ferry’s 10,000 men as a ready source.31

Hooker did not abandon the Harpers Ferry issue. On 26 June he 

wired Halleck: “Is there any reason why Maryland Heights at Harpers 

Ferry should not be abandoned after the public stores and property are 

removed?... It must be borne in mind that I am here with a force inferior 
358 historical perspectives of the operational art 

pointed the head of the newly created Department of the Susquehanna. 

Headquartered in Harrisburg, he controlled only militia forces. Nevertheless, he became the focal point for much of the information that was 

being collected by agencies outside of the Army of the Potomac as Lee 

advanced through Maryland into Pennsylvania.

The Pennsylvania Central Railroad played an important part in this 

network. Probably acting as much out of self-interest as out of a sense of 

patriotism, the railroad organized scouting parties that worked initially 

out of Williamsport, Maryland, and conducted activities from Chambersburg and from the region west of the Cumberland Valley in Pennsylvania. 

Couch assembled information from sources such as these and forwarded 

them to Hooker and to the War Department.28

Hooker was not inspiring confidence. Beginning to shift his forces in 

the direction of Lee’s apparent line of communications, he reported his 

moves to Washington on 24 June and added, “I don’t know whether I am 

standing on my head or feet.” He seemed unaware that his own fortunes 

were declining, because he then became involved in fatal arguments with 

Lincoln and Halleck.29

Harpers Ferry was the issue. Almost since the beginning of Lee’s 

campaign, Hooker had been concerned over the fate of that important 

location. Not only was it located at the confluence of the Potomac and 

Shenandoah Rivers, astride the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal and along 

the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, the town lay directly along the invasion 

route of any Confederate force marching down the Shenandoah Valley 

toward Maryland. Early in the campaign Hooker wanted to be in charge 

of the garrison there so he could withdraw the forces to his own army at 

the opportune time. Lincoln and Halleck retained control of the garrison 

and told Hooker that Harpers Ferry must be held. In a personal meeting 

in Washington on 23 June, Lincoln and Halleck again told the general to 

hold the town. Upon his return to the army, Hooker sent a corps in the 

direction of Harpers Ferry, but it was not the end of the issue.30

Hooker was also having a feud with Halleck over reinforcements. 

Convinced that Lee’s army outnumbered his, he peppered the War Department with requests for additional troops. After his meeting with the 

president on the twenty-third, he sent his chief of staff, Maj. Gen. Daniel Butterfield, to Washington to seek additional reinforcements from the 

troops manning the capital’s defenses. Over 25,000 soldiers already had 

been sent either to Hooker or to Dix’s forces near Yorktown, so Halleck 

told Butterfield that no more troops were available. But Hooker still saw 

Harpers Ferry’s 10,000 men as a ready source.31

Hooker did not abandon the Harpers Ferry issue. On 26 June he 

wired Halleck: “Is there any reason why Maryland Heights at Harpers 

Ferry should not be abandoned after the public stores and property are 

removed?... It must be borne in mind that I am here with a force inferior 
360 historical perspectives of the operational art 

On the other hand, Lee showed that he had mastered his opponent. 

Skillfully positioning his corps to provide maximum security for his army 

while it moved north, he continued to try to deceive Hooker. Some of his 

efforts were so complex that it is doubtful if Hooker ever understood the 

false picture, let alone the true one. Regardless of their effect, Lee used 

Stuart’s cavalry so well that even if the Federals could see through the 

deceptions, they still would not know exactly what was happening. All of 

this occurred behind terrain that Lee used effectively to his own advantage. The comparison of the two generals is remarkable in the starkness 

of the contrast.

Colonel Hardie remained with the Army of the Potomac for several 

hours to determine the effect of the change in command. He reported 

that a sense of satisfaction ran through the army. The situation appeared 

to be under control. Halleck’s orders handed to Meade by Hardie helped 

to achieve that control:

Your army is free to act as you may deem proper under the circumstances 

as they arise. You will, however, keep in view the important fact that the Army of 

the Potomac is the covering army of Washington as well as the army of operation 

against the invading forces of the rebels. You will, therefore, maneuver and fight in 

such a manner as to cover the capital and also Baltimore, as far as circumstances 

will admit.38

Meade moved quickly to reassure the War Department that he had a 

firm grasp on the situation. Four hours after being notified that he was in 

command, he wired Halleck:

Totally unexpected as it has been, and in ignorance of the exact condition 

of the troops and position of the enemy, I can only now say that it appears to me 

I must move toward the Susquehanna, keeping Washington and Baltimore well 

covered, and if the enemy is checked in his attempt to cross the Susquehanna, or if 

he turns toward Baltimore, to give him battle.39

To Lincoln and Halleck the contrast of this message to Hooker’s previous 

indecision must have been remarkable. Here was a general who was talking about fighting Lee after being in command for only four hours! Indeed, Meade had formulated an operational plan that would accomplish 

the mission accepted as stated above.

Meade was an excellent choice to command the Army of the Potomac. A Regular Army officer, he had been a commander at every level 

from brigade through corps. He had led the V Corps at both Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and at the latter battle, had urged Hooker to 

remain south of the Rappahannock River and continue the fight. Quick 

to criticize himself if he made mistakes, he was equally hard on those 

who fell short of his high standards. Swiftly, this experienced combat 
360 historical perspectives of the operational art 

On the other hand, Lee showed that he had mastered his opponent. 

Skillfully positioning his corps to provide maximum security for his army 

while it moved north, he continued to try to deceive Hooker. Some of his 

efforts were so complex that it is doubtful if Hooker ever understood the 

false picture, let alone the true one. Regardless of their effect, Lee used 

Stuart’s cavalry so well that even if the Federals could see through the 

deceptions, they still would not know exactly what was happening. All of 

this occurred behind terrain that Lee used effectively to his own advantage. The comparison of the two generals is remarkable in the starkness 

of the contrast.

Colonel Hardie remained with the Army of the Potomac for several 

hours to determine the effect of the change in command. He reported 

that a sense of satisfaction ran through the army. The situation appeared 

to be under control. Halleck’s orders handed to Meade by Hardie helped 

to achieve that control:

Your army is free to act as you may deem proper under the circumstances 

as they arise. You will, however, keep in view the important fact that the Army of 

the Potomac is the covering army of Washington as well as the army of operation 

against the invading forces of the rebels. You will, therefore, maneuver and fight in 

such a manner as to cover the capital and also Baltimore, as far as circumstances 

will admit.38

Meade moved quickly to reassure the War Department that he had a 

firm grasp on the situation. Four hours after being notified that he was in 

command, he wired Halleck:

Totally unexpected as it has been, and in ignorance of the exact condition 

of the troops and position of the enemy, I can only now say that it appears to me 

I must move toward the Susquehanna, keeping Washington and Baltimore well 

covered, and if the enemy is checked in his attempt to cross the Susquehanna, or if 

he turns toward Baltimore, to give him battle.39

To Lincoln and Halleck the contrast of this message to Hooker’s previous 

indecision must have been remarkable. Here was a general who was talking about fighting Lee after being in command for only four hours! Indeed, Meade had formulated an operational plan that would accomplish 

the mission accepted as stated above.

Meade was an excellent choice to command the Army of the Potomac. A Regular Army officer, he had been a commander at every level 

from brigade through corps. He had led the V Corps at both Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and at the latter battle, had urged Hooker to 

remain south of the Rappahannock River and continue the fight. Quick 

to criticize himself if he made mistakes, he was equally hard on those 

who fell short of his high standards. Swiftly, this experienced combat 
Map 10

Patuxent R

Aquia Cr.

Occoquan Cr.

Bull Run

Potomac R

Monacacy R. Pipe Creek

Rock Cr.

Marsh Run

Cacoctin Cr.

Rappahannock R

Massaponox Cr.

Marsh Cr.

Antietam Cr.

Conacocheague Cr.

Shenandoah R

Rapidan

R

Susquehanna R

Potomac R

Stuart clashed

with Hancock’s

corps, 25 June.

Robertson X

X

Jones

XX

Stuart (-)

Imboden X

XXX

I

LONGSTREET

XXXX

LEE

XX Rodes

XX

Johnson

X

Jenkins

EWELL

XXX

II

X X

Early (- 1 brig.)

X

Gordon

XXX

III A.P. HILL

X X

Buford

X X

Kilpatrick

X X

Gregg

REYNOLDS

HOWARD

XX XSLOCUM XII

MEADE

XXX

II HANCOCK

XXX

V

SYKES

XXXSEDGWICK VI

XXX

III

XI SICKLES

XXX

. . .

N Y and Pa

Militia

XXX

I

XXXX

ORANGE and ALEXANDRIA R.R.

MANASSAS GAP R.R.

B & O R.R.

I

.

BALTMORE and OHIO R R

.

NORTHERN CENTRAL R. R.

PENNSYLVANIA

Chester Gap

Manassas Gap

BOLIVAR

HEIGHTS

LOUDON

HEIGHTS

Conrad’s Ferry

Edward’s Ferry

SHENANDOAH

VALLEY

C U M B E R L A N D

V

A L L E Y

SOUTH MOUNTAI N CATOCTIN MOUNTAINS

BLUE

RIDGE MTNS

M A R Y L A N D

VIRGINIA

WEST VIRGINIA (1863)

PENNSYLVANIA

MARYLAND

VIRGIN

IA

Gordonsville

Orange. C.H.

Culpeper

C.H.

Brandy Sta.

Warrenton

Front

Royal

Middleburg

Upperville Aldie

Leesburg

Warrenton Jc.

Winchester Berryville

Shippensburg

Mercersburg

Chambersburg

Greencastle Fairfield

Fayetteville

Cashtown Mummasburg

Heidlersburg

Gettysburg

Hanover

Manchester

Uniontown

Westminister

Emmitsburg

Two Taverns

Littlestown

Union Mills Bridgeport Leitersburg

Hagerstown

Sharpsburg

Shepherdstown

Martinsburg

Charlestown

Harper’s Ferry

Harrisburg

Columbia

Wrightsville

York

Baltimore

Annapolis

Alexandria

Chain Bridge

Offutt’s C.R.

Rockville

Washington

New Market

Hyattstown

Frederick

Buckeystown

Licksville

Poolesville

Seneca

Great Falls

Chantilly

Centreville

Manassas Jc.

Falmouth

Fredericksburg

Bealeton

Falling Waters

125 supply wagons

captured, 28 June.

Carlisle

VIRGINIA AND MARYLAND, 1861

GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN

Situation 28 June and Stuart’s

Movements Since 25 June 1863

ELEVATION IN FEET 0 1000 2000 3000

0 4 8 12 16 20 24 28 32

N

SCALE OF MILES

as of
Map 10

Patuxent R

Aquia Cr.

Occoquan Cr.

Bull Run

Potomac R

Monacacy R. Pipe Creek

Rock Cr.

Marsh Run

Cacoctin Cr.

Rappahannock R

Massaponox Cr.

Marsh Cr.

Antietam Cr.

Conacocheague Cr.

Shenandoah R

Rapidan

R

Susquehanna R

Potomac R

Stuart clashed

with Hancock’s

corps, 25 June.

Robertson X

X

Jones

XX

Stuart (-)

Imboden X

XXX

I

LONGSTREET

XXXX

LEE

XX Rodes

XX

Johnson

X

Jenkins

EWELL

XXX

II

X X

Early (- 1 brig.)

X

Gordon

XXX

III A.P. HILL

X X

Buford

X X

Kilpatrick

X X

Gregg

REYNOLDS

HOWARD

XX XSLOCUM XII

MEADE

XXX

II HANCOCK

XXX

V

SYKES

XXXSEDGWICK VI

XXX

III

XI SICKLES

XXX

. . .

N Y and Pa

Militia

XXX

I

XXXX

ORANGE and ALEXANDRIA R.R.

MANASSAS GAP R.R.

B & O R.R.

I

.

BALTMORE and OHIO R R

.

NORTHERN CENTRAL R. R.

PENNSYLVANIA

Chester Gap

Manassas Gap

BOLIVAR

HEIGHTS

LOUDON

HEIGHTS

Conrad’s Ferry

Edward’s Ferry

SHENANDOAH

VALLEY

C U M B E R L A N D

V

A L L E Y

SOUTH MOUNTAI N CATOCTIN MOUNTAINS

BLUE

RIDGE MTNS

M A R Y L A N D

VIRGINIA

WEST VIRGINIA (1863)

PENNSYLVANIA

MARYLAND

VIRGIN

IA

Gordonsville

Orange. C.H.

Culpeper

C.H.

Brandy Sta.

Warrenton

Front

Royal

Middleburg

Upperville Aldie

Leesburg

Warrenton Jc.

Winchester Berryville

Shippensburg

Mercersburg

Chambersburg

Greencastle Fairfield

Fayetteville

Cashtown Mummasburg

Heidlersburg

Gettysburg

Hanover

Manchester

Uniontown

Westminister

Emmitsburg

Two Taverns

Littlestown

Union Mills Bridgeport Leitersburg

Hagerstown

Sharpsburg

Shepherdstown

Martinsburg

Charlestown

Harper’s Ferry

Harrisburg

Columbia

Wrightsville

York

Baltimore

Annapolis

Alexandria

Chain Bridge

Offutt’s C.R.

Rockville

Washington

New Market

Hyattstown

Frederick

Buckeystown

Licksville

Poolesville

Seneca

Great Falls

Chantilly

Centreville

Manassas Jc.

Falmouth

Fredericksburg

Bealeton

Falling Waters

125 supply wagons

captured, 28 June.

Carlisle

VIRGINIA AND MARYLAND, 1861

GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN

Situation 28 June and Stuart’s

Movements Since 25 June 1863

ELEVATION IN FEET 0 1000 2000 3000

0 4 8 12 16 20 24 28 32

N

SCALE OF MILES

as of
364 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Ewell’s corps was spread between Carlisle and York, with some of his 

forces probing Harrisburg’s defenses along the west bank of the Susquehanna. At first, Lee directed Ewell to assemble his corps and rejoin the 

main army at Chambersburg, but upon realizing that the congestion at 

Chambersburg might be overwhelming, he changed Ewell’s orders and 

told him to march to Heidlersburg. From there, Ewell could advance on 

either Gettysburg or Cashtown, depending on circumstances. Lee had 

decided that since the Federals were approaching from the direction of 

Frederick, Maryland, their route of march would force them through Gettysburg or Cashtown on 30 June or 1 July. With Ewell at Heidlersburg, he 

would be in a position to respond accordingly. Ewell was disappointed at 

not being allowed to continue with his efforts to seize the capital of the 

North’s second most politically powerful state, but he moved rapidly to 

comply with Lee’s orders.49

Most of Lee’s two remaining corps spent two days resting in camps 

along the turnpike between Chambersburg and Gettysburg. On 29 June 

Lee ordered Hill’s corps to advance to Cashtown, and Longstreet was to 

follow close behind on the thirtieth. Although surprised by the Federals’ 

appearance north of the Potomac River, Lee responded quickly. His corps 

were mutually supporting by the evening of 30 June. The Army of the 

Potomac would not find his army vulnerable to defeat in detail.50

Meade’s actions were equally decisive. Halleck initially tended to 

confuse the situation by providing Meade with inaccurate and conflicting 

information. Early in the afternoon on which Meade assumed command, 

Halleck informed the new commander that the Confederates probably 

would mass their forces east of the Susquehanna River. Later that same 

afternoon Halleck added to the confusion by informing Meade that a 

large force of Confederates was still south of the Potomac River. Fortunately for Meade, neither of Halleck’s reports proved correct. He moved 

his corps northward through Maryland into Pennsylvania, keeping Halleck informed of his movements.51

Meade’s messages must have convinced Halleck of the soundness of 

Lincoln’s decision to appoint Meade. Responding to Halleck’s analysis 

of Confederate dispositions and intentions on 28 June, Meade told the 

general in chief that if Lee was en route to Baltimore, he would get his 

army between Lee’s and the city in time to cover it. If Lee tried to cross 

the Susquehanna in Pennsylvania, Meade told Halleck that he was relying on Couch’s forces to delay the Army of Northern Virginia until he 

could catch it and defeat it in detail. For the time being he was prepared 

to ignore Stuart’s irritating but strategically and operationally harmless 

Confederate cavalry raid. He reassured Halleck that he would keep his 

corps mutually supporting and be prepared for any eventuality. It was 

clear that Halleck was dealing with a competent, confident commander. 

Meade reminded his Washington superior of his “main point being to 
364 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Ewell’s corps was spread between Carlisle and York, with some of his 

forces probing Harrisburg’s defenses along the west bank of the Susquehanna. At first, Lee directed Ewell to assemble his corps and rejoin the 

main army at Chambersburg, but upon realizing that the congestion at 

Chambersburg might be overwhelming, he changed Ewell’s orders and 

told him to march to Heidlersburg. From there, Ewell could advance on 

either Gettysburg or Cashtown, depending on circumstances. Lee had 

decided that since the Federals were approaching from the direction of 

Frederick, Maryland, their route of march would force them through Gettysburg or Cashtown on 30 June or 1 July. With Ewell at Heidlersburg, he 

would be in a position to respond accordingly. Ewell was disappointed at 

not being allowed to continue with his efforts to seize the capital of the 

North’s second most politically powerful state, but he moved rapidly to 

comply with Lee’s orders.49

Most of Lee’s two remaining corps spent two days resting in camps 

along the turnpike between Chambersburg and Gettysburg. On 29 June 

Lee ordered Hill’s corps to advance to Cashtown, and Longstreet was to 

follow close behind on the thirtieth. Although surprised by the Federals’ 

appearance north of the Potomac River, Lee responded quickly. His corps 

were mutually supporting by the evening of 30 June. The Army of the 

Potomac would not find his army vulnerable to defeat in detail.50

Meade’s actions were equally decisive. Halleck initially tended to 

confuse the situation by providing Meade with inaccurate and conflicting 

information. Early in the afternoon on which Meade assumed command, 

Halleck informed the new commander that the Confederates probably 

would mass their forces east of the Susquehanna River. Later that same 

afternoon Halleck added to the confusion by informing Meade that a 

large force of Confederates was still south of the Potomac River. Fortunately for Meade, neither of Halleck’s reports proved correct. He moved 

his corps northward through Maryland into Pennsylvania, keeping Halleck informed of his movements.51

Meade’s messages must have convinced Halleck of the soundness of 

Lincoln’s decision to appoint Meade. Responding to Halleck’s analysis 

of Confederate dispositions and intentions on 28 June, Meade told the 

general in chief that if Lee was en route to Baltimore, he would get his 

army between Lee’s and the city in time to cover it. If Lee tried to cross 

the Susquehanna in Pennsylvania, Meade told Halleck that he was relying on Couch’s forces to delay the Army of Northern Virginia until he 

could catch it and defeat it in detail. For the time being he was prepared 

to ignore Stuart’s irritating but strategically and operationally harmless 

Confederate cavalry raid. He reassured Halleck that he would keep his 

corps mutually supporting and be prepared for any eventuality. It was 

clear that Halleck was dealing with a competent, confident commander. 

Meade reminded his Washington superior of his “main point being to 
366 historical perspectives of the operational art 

out looking for shoes, and Ewell’s corps approaching from Heidlersburg. 

Five of Lee’s nine divisions were west of South Mountain and only one 

road through the pass at Cashtown could support a movement to Gettysburg. Although as confident as ever, Lee was poorly positioned to meet 

an opponent conducting a movement to contact and looking for a fight.55

Hill’s decision to send an entire division to Gettysburg for shoes and 

to bag a few Federal prisoners perhaps left exposed by a careless commander was a fateful one. It essentially left Lee out of the picture at a 

time when his presence would have been important; Lee would arrive on 

the battlefield long after his corps commanders had seized what appeared 

to them to be an excellent opportunity and had committed his army to a 

major engagement. The opening phase of the battle is an example of how 

an operational commander can rapidly lose control of a campaign when 

tactical circumstances overtake his plans.

When Heth tried to force his division through the Federal cavalry 

screen under Buford west of Gettysburg on the morning of 1 July, he ran 

into a formidable opponent. Buford skillfully deployed his badly outnumbered cavalrymen and turned to Maj. Gen. John Reynolds for help. Quickly, Reynolds brought the I and XI Corps forward; in the process of leading 

them into battle, he was shot and killed. Federal command passed to the 

next senior corps commander on the battlefield, Maj. Gen. Oliver O. Howard. Repeating Reynolds’ earlier call for assistance, Howard sent messages 

both to his nearby corps commanders and to Meade at Taneytown. Heth, 

his Confederates now fighting infantry as well as cavalry, deployed both to 

the right and to the left to try to find a weak flank in the Union positions.

Ewell’s Confederate corps had left Heidlersburg en route to Cashtown when Ewell received a message from A. P. Hill indicating he was 

advancing to Gettysburg. Ewell redirected his corps to that same location. About four miles from the town, his men heard the sound of battle. 

Ewell responded swiftly and typically by marching to the sound of the 

guns. It was this very strength upon which the reputation of the Army of 

Northern Virginia was built. Commanders were expected to assist one 

another and to seize the initiative whenever the opportunity presented 

itself. Ewell’s corps thus appeared north of Gettysburg and moved into 

battle positions opposite both the Federals deployed west of the town and 

those now beginning to arrive on the low ground on its northern edge. 

Ewell’s initiative further committed Lee to battle.

When Lee heard the sounds of sustained combat coming from the 

direction of Gettysburg, he rode to A. P. Hill’s headquarters on the Chambersburg Pike, east of South Mountain. Hill described Heth’s advance 

on Gettysburg and explained also that he had sent Pender’s division in 

support. Lee rode down the Pike behind Hill’s two divisions. Upon his 

arrival on the battlefield at about 1430, he initially tried to slow down the 

development of the battle. Unsure of the size of the force his army was 
366 historical perspectives of the operational art 

out looking for shoes, and Ewell’s corps approaching from Heidlersburg. 

Five of Lee’s nine divisions were west of South Mountain and only one 

road through the pass at Cashtown could support a movement to Gettysburg. Although as confident as ever, Lee was poorly positioned to meet 

an opponent conducting a movement to contact and looking for a fight.55

Hill’s decision to send an entire division to Gettysburg for shoes and 

to bag a few Federal prisoners perhaps left exposed by a careless commander was a fateful one. It essentially left Lee out of the picture at a 

time when his presence would have been important; Lee would arrive on 

the battlefield long after his corps commanders had seized what appeared 

to them to be an excellent opportunity and had committed his army to a 

major engagement. The opening phase of the battle is an example of how 

an operational commander can rapidly lose control of a campaign when 

tactical circumstances overtake his plans.

When Heth tried to force his division through the Federal cavalry 

screen under Buford west of Gettysburg on the morning of 1 July, he ran 

into a formidable opponent. Buford skillfully deployed his badly outnumbered cavalrymen and turned to Maj. Gen. John Reynolds for help. Quickly, Reynolds brought the I and XI Corps forward; in the process of leading 

them into battle, he was shot and killed. Federal command passed to the 

next senior corps commander on the battlefield, Maj. Gen. Oliver O. Howard. Repeating Reynolds’ earlier call for assistance, Howard sent messages 

both to his nearby corps commanders and to Meade at Taneytown. Heth, 

his Confederates now fighting infantry as well as cavalry, deployed both to 

the right and to the left to try to find a weak flank in the Union positions.

Ewell’s Confederate corps had left Heidlersburg en route to Cashtown when Ewell received a message from A. P. Hill indicating he was 

advancing to Gettysburg. Ewell redirected his corps to that same location. About four miles from the town, his men heard the sound of battle. 

Ewell responded swiftly and typically by marching to the sound of the 

guns. It was this very strength upon which the reputation of the Army of 

Northern Virginia was built. Commanders were expected to assist one 

another and to seize the initiative whenever the opportunity presented 

itself. Ewell’s corps thus appeared north of Gettysburg and moved into 

battle positions opposite both the Federals deployed west of the town and 

those now beginning to arrive on the low ground on its northern edge. 

Ewell’s initiative further committed Lee to battle.

When Lee heard the sounds of sustained combat coming from the 

direction of Gettysburg, he rode to A. P. Hill’s headquarters on the Chambersburg Pike, east of South Mountain. Hill described Heth’s advance 

on Gettysburg and explained also that he had sent Pender’s division in 

support. Lee rode down the Pike behind Hill’s two divisions. Upon his 

arrival on the battlefield at about 1430, he initially tried to slow down the 

development of the battle. Unsure of the size of the force his army was 
Map 11

Willoughby Run

Spangler’s Spring

Rock Creek

White Run

Rock

Creek

Plum

Run

Steven’ s

Run

Pitzer’s

Run

EWELL XXX

X X XX

Early

II

X X

Rodes

XXX

HILL

XXX

III

XXX

XXX

I

X X

X X

X X

X X

Pender

Heth

Rowley

X X

Robinson

Wadsworth

SCHURZ

DOUBLEDAY

Steinwehr

Devin

(Buford)

Gam le

(Buford)

XXX

XI

X

X

X X

b ( XI )

TANEYTOWN ROAD

EMMITSBURG

ROAD

HAGERSTOWN ROAD

CHAMBERSBURG PIKE

MUMMASBURG

ROAD

HEIDLERSBURG ROAD

HANOVER ROAD

BALTIMORE PIKE

CARLISLE ROAD

GETTYSBURG and HANOVER

R.R.

YORK

PIKE

U N F I N I S H E D R . R

GETTYSBURG

SEMINARY RIDGE

CEMETERY

HILL CULP’S

HILL

BENNER

HILL

WOLF HILL

ROUND TOP

LITTLE

ROUND TOP Devil’s

Den

Wheatfield

Peach

Orchard

HOWARD

OAK HILL

BARLOW

KNOLL

McPherson’s

Woods

McPHERSON’S

RIDGE

CEMETERY RIDGE

HERR

RIDGE

GETTYSBURG AND VICINITY, 1863

GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN

Situation at 1430 Hours, 1 July 1863

N

ELEVATIONS IN FEET 0 520 560 600 640 OVER

0 1 1 2

SCALE OF MILES
Map 11

Willoughby Run

Spangler’s Spring

Rock Creek

White Run

Rock

Creek

Plum

Run

Steven’ s

Run

Pitzer’s

Run

EWELL XXX

X X XX

Early

II

X X

Rodes

XXX

HILL

XXX

III

XXX

XXX

I

X X

X X

X X

X X

Pender

Heth

Rowley

X X

Robinson

Wadsworth

SCHURZ

DOUBLEDAY

Steinwehr

Devin

(Buford)

Gam le

(Buford)

XXX

XI

X

X

X X

b ( XI )

TANEYTOWN ROAD

EMMITSBURG

ROAD

HAGERSTOWN ROAD

CHAMBERSBURG PIKE

MUMMASBURG

ROAD

HEIDLERSBURG ROAD

HANOVER ROAD

BALTIMORE PIKE

CARLISLE ROAD

GETTYSBURG and HANOVER

R.R.

YORK

PIKE

U N F I N I S H E D R . R

GETTYSBURG

SEMINARY RIDGE

CEMETERY

HILL CULP’S

HILL

BENNER

HILL

WOLF HILL

ROUND TOP

LITTLE

ROUND TOP Devil’s

Den

Wheatfield

Peach

Orchard

HOWARD

OAK HILL

BARLOW

KNOLL

McPherson’s

Woods

McPHERSON’S

RIDGE

CEMETERY RIDGE

HERR

RIDGE

GETTYSBURG AND VICINITY, 1863

GETTYSBURG CAMPAIGN

Situation at 1430 Hours, 1 July 1863

N

ELEVATIONS IN FEET 0 520 560 600 640 OVER

0 1 1 2

SCALE OF MILES
370 historical perspectives of the operational art 

success of the first day and attack early the next morning to drive the 

Federals off Cemetery Hill. One of Ewell’s division commanders, Jubal 

Early, argued against the idea because the Yankees were continuing to improve their defensive positions. By morning they would be well prepared 

to receive an attack. Early added that in his view the keys to the entire 

battlefield were the Round Tops located to the south. From these hilltops, 

artillery could dominate much of the terrain to the north, to include the 

rear of Cemetery Hill. Based on the arguments presented by the commanders who had seen the ground, Lee changed his mind and directed 

Ewell to shift his corps around, toward the Confederate right. Lee was 

concerned over the length of his lines, and this movement would permit 

him to mass forces at the critical point much more quickly and shift the 

focus of the battle southward.

Ewell again remained silent as Early disagreed once more. If the 

corps shifted south, Early was concerned that morale would suffer because the severely wounded who were quartered in the town and the hotly 

contested ground of the fighting on 1 July would be given to the Yankees 

without a fight. Lee reversed himself once again. He told Ewell and his 

division commanders that Longstreet’s corps would make the main attack 

against the Federal left. Ewell was to remain in position and then make a 

demonstration to support Longstreet. Hearing no argument against this 

plan, Lee rode back to his headquarters located northwest of the town 

along the Chambersburg Pike.62

When Lee reached his headquarters, he changed his mind once again. 

He sent a courier to Ewell ordering him to move his corps around toward 

the Confederate right. Longstreet’s corps still was not on the field, and 

tightening up the lines of Hill’s and Ewell’s corps on the west side of town 

would form a solid base from which to launch an attack. Ewell responded 

to Lee’s instructions by riding to his commander’s headquarters and personally arguing in favor of his corps’ making a demonstration from its 

present location to support Longstreet. It appeared that Culp’s Hill to the 

east of Cemetery Hill might be vulnerable; if the Confederates captured 

it, they would dominate the Union positions on the lower hill to its west. 

Lee approved Ewell’s proposal, ordering him to make a demonstration 

against the Federal right; the demonstration was to be turned into a full 

assault if an opportunity looked promising. Ewell was to open his part 

of the battle when he heard the sounds of Longstreet’s guns commencing 

the attack against the other flank.63

Ewell’s and Early’s concerns about the strength of the Union positions 

on Cemetery and Culp’s Hills were well founded. Casualties had been 

relatively high for both sides. The Confederates had lost about 8,000 and 

the Yankees about 9,000, including 4,500 captured during the hasty retreat to Cemetery Hill. But more Union troops were arriving every minute. About 1700 there were 12,000 Yankees on Cemetery Hill. An hour 
370 historical perspectives of the operational art 

success of the first day and attack early the next morning to drive the 

Federals off Cemetery Hill. One of Ewell’s division commanders, Jubal 

Early, argued against the idea because the Yankees were continuing to improve their defensive positions. By morning they would be well prepared 

to receive an attack. Early added that in his view the keys to the entire 

battlefield were the Round Tops located to the south. From these hilltops, 

artillery could dominate much of the terrain to the north, to include the 

rear of Cemetery Hill. Based on the arguments presented by the commanders who had seen the ground, Lee changed his mind and directed 

Ewell to shift his corps around, toward the Confederate right. Lee was 

concerned over the length of his lines, and this movement would permit 

him to mass forces at the critical point much more quickly and shift the 

focus of the battle southward.

Ewell again remained silent as Early disagreed once more. If the 

corps shifted south, Early was concerned that morale would suffer because the severely wounded who were quartered in the town and the hotly 

contested ground of the fighting on 1 July would be given to the Yankees 

without a fight. Lee reversed himself once again. He told Ewell and his 

division commanders that Longstreet’s corps would make the main attack 

against the Federal left. Ewell was to remain in position and then make a 

demonstration to support Longstreet. Hearing no argument against this 

plan, Lee rode back to his headquarters located northwest of the town 

along the Chambersburg Pike.62

When Lee reached his headquarters, he changed his mind once again. 

He sent a courier to Ewell ordering him to move his corps around toward 

the Confederate right. Longstreet’s corps still was not on the field, and 

tightening up the lines of Hill’s and Ewell’s corps on the west side of town 

would form a solid base from which to launch an attack. Ewell responded 

to Lee’s instructions by riding to his commander’s headquarters and personally arguing in favor of his corps’ making a demonstration from its 

present location to support Longstreet. It appeared that Culp’s Hill to the 

east of Cemetery Hill might be vulnerable; if the Confederates captured 

it, they would dominate the Union positions on the lower hill to its west. 

Lee approved Ewell’s proposal, ordering him to make a demonstration 

against the Federal right; the demonstration was to be turned into a full 

assault if an opportunity looked promising. Ewell was to open his part 

of the battle when he heard the sounds of Longstreet’s guns commencing 

the attack against the other flank.63

Ewell’s and Early’s concerns about the strength of the Union positions 

on Cemetery and Culp’s Hills were well founded. Casualties had been 

relatively high for both sides. The Confederates had lost about 8,000 and 

the Yankees about 9,000, including 4,500 captured during the hasty retreat to Cemetery Hill. But more Union troops were arriving every minute. About 1700 there were 12,000 Yankees on Cemetery Hill. An hour 
372 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Lee indicated that I Corps was to advance up the Emmitsburg Road 

and strike the Federal left flank south of Cemetery Hill. Because of the difficulty of controlling a corps-size maneuver, the road offered an excellent 

terrain feature along which to guide an attack. Longstreet again opened his 

old argument that the Confederates should be adopting a tactical defensive. Instead of attacking the Federal left directly, he argued that the Army 

of Northern Virginia should slip around the enemy’s left and position itself 

so the Yankees would have to attack to dislodge them. Lee reiterated that 

the army would attack at Gettysburg. He turned to McLaws and showed 

him precisely how to position his line of battle perpendicular to the Emmitsburg Road with a direction of attack northeastward up the road. Lee 

added that he wanted McLaws to move by a concealed route, so the enemy 

would learn of the impending attack too late to respond effectively.

McLaws asked permission to conduct a personal reconnaissance. Lee 

mentioned that staff officers were already doing so. Longstreet interceded 

and denied McLaws permission, telling him to remain with his division. 

He then pointed to the map and indicated the position for McLaws’ division to occupy. This was different from Lee’s earlier location; he indicated a line parallel to the Emmitsburg Road and facing eastward in the 

direction that Longstreet felt the attack should proceed to bring it around 

the enemy’s left. Lee immediately retorted, “No, General, I wish it placed 

just the opposite.” Longstreet stood off to one side as Lee continued to 

explain how the attack was to unfold.66

During the discussion, Lee asked Captain Johnston of his staff to 

brief the group on the results of his reconnaissance around the Federal 

left. Johnston explained that he personally had climbed to the crest of Little Round Top and found the southern end of Cemetery Ridge unoccupied 

by the enemy. Satisfied that an attack up the Emmitsburg Road would 

bring the I Corps against the Yankee left flank, Lee concluded the meeting, emphasizing that the attack must start as soon as possible. Longstreet 

and his commanders returned to their staffs to get their units started.67

Johnston’s report is puzzling. As soon as Meade had a clear understanding of the terrain, the Federal commander had directed units to occupy all of Cemetery Ridge, to include anchoring the left flank on the 

Round Tops. From a vantage point on Little Round Top, Johnston had 

viewed the portion of the line assigned to the Union III Corps. Since 

Johnston saw a vacant area, he must have made his hasty reconnaissance 

during the time when Geary’s division of the Federal XII Corps had left 

its positions on Little Round Top and Cemetery Ridge. It had been ordered to return to its parent unit on Culp’s Hill. For a brief period the area 

was unoccupied, because the III Corps had not moved from its bivouac 

in the rear to its assigned front on Cemetery Ridge. Johnston’s report is 

significant because it reinforced Lee’s completely inaccurate knowledge 

of Meade’s intended dispositions.
372 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Lee indicated that I Corps was to advance up the Emmitsburg Road 

and strike the Federal left flank south of Cemetery Hill. Because of the difficulty of controlling a corps-size maneuver, the road offered an excellent 

terrain feature along which to guide an attack. Longstreet again opened his 

old argument that the Confederates should be adopting a tactical defensive. Instead of attacking the Federal left directly, he argued that the Army 

of Northern Virginia should slip around the enemy’s left and position itself 

so the Yankees would have to attack to dislodge them. Lee reiterated that 

the army would attack at Gettysburg. He turned to McLaws and showed 

him precisely how to position his line of battle perpendicular to the Emmitsburg Road with a direction of attack northeastward up the road. Lee 

added that he wanted McLaws to move by a concealed route, so the enemy 

would learn of the impending attack too late to respond effectively.

McLaws asked permission to conduct a personal reconnaissance. Lee 

mentioned that staff officers were already doing so. Longstreet interceded 

and denied McLaws permission, telling him to remain with his division. 

He then pointed to the map and indicated the position for McLaws’ division to occupy. This was different from Lee’s earlier location; he indicated a line parallel to the Emmitsburg Road and facing eastward in the 

direction that Longstreet felt the attack should proceed to bring it around 

the enemy’s left. Lee immediately retorted, “No, General, I wish it placed 

just the opposite.” Longstreet stood off to one side as Lee continued to 

explain how the attack was to unfold.66

During the discussion, Lee asked Captain Johnston of his staff to 

brief the group on the results of his reconnaissance around the Federal 

left. Johnston explained that he personally had climbed to the crest of Little Round Top and found the southern end of Cemetery Ridge unoccupied 

by the enemy. Satisfied that an attack up the Emmitsburg Road would 

bring the I Corps against the Yankee left flank, Lee concluded the meeting, emphasizing that the attack must start as soon as possible. Longstreet 

and his commanders returned to their staffs to get their units started.67

Johnston’s report is puzzling. As soon as Meade had a clear understanding of the terrain, the Federal commander had directed units to occupy all of Cemetery Ridge, to include anchoring the left flank on the 

Round Tops. From a vantage point on Little Round Top, Johnston had 

viewed the portion of the line assigned to the Union III Corps. Since 

Johnston saw a vacant area, he must have made his hasty reconnaissance 

during the time when Geary’s division of the Federal XII Corps had left 

its positions on Little Round Top and Cemetery Ridge. It had been ordered to return to its parent unit on Culp’s Hill. For a brief period the area 

was unoccupied, because the III Corps had not moved from its bivouac 

in the rear to its assigned front on Cemetery Ridge. Johnston’s report is 

significant because it reinforced Lee’s completely inaccurate knowledge 

of Meade’s intended dispositions.
374 historical perspectives of the operational art

decentralized the execution and remained mostly an observer throughout 

the remainder of the day.

Meade, on the other hand, was extremely busy. He had called a council 

of war for about the time that Longstreet’s artillery opened up in support 

of the I Corps assault. He grabbed his chief engineer, Gouverneur Kemble 

Warren, and rode to the Union left to find out the reason for the heavy 

firing. He reached Sickles’ assigned position and discovered that the III 

Corps was well out of line and had advanced into a poorly defended salient at the peach orchard. Warren rode off to find reinforcements for the 

defense of Little Round Top, and Meade rode forward to find Sickles.

By the time he reached Sickles’ headquarters, Meade had decided 

that it was too late to withdraw the III Corps. If they withdrew under 

pressure, the entire Federal left might collapse. Meade told Sickles that 

he would send help from the artillery reserve and the II and V Corps; he 

rode back to Cemetery Ridge to coordinate this effort.71

Fortunately for Meade, Longstreet’s and Ewell’s attacks were uncoordinated. Although Ewell’s artillery started firing at the right time, his infantry did not attack until almost three hours after Longstreet’s infantry. 

But even with the poor coordination, Longstreet’s infantry assaults drove 

the Federals back and pierced their lines in several places. Reinforced by 

units from the Federal II and V Corps, the III Corps fought desperately 

but finally retreated to Cemetery Ridge. Two Confederate brigades from 

Hill’s corps gained a foothold in the II Corps line near a “clump of trees” 

in the center of Cemetery Ridge. Meade started funneling troops from 

the XII Corps on the right to reinforce the deteriorating situation on the 

left. The timely arrival of Sedgwick’s VI Corps on the left also prevented 

a collapse. On the opposite flank, Ewell’s infantry eventually attacked. 

They seized the trenches just vacated by the XII Corps on Culp’s Hill and 

briefly penetrated the XI Corps front on the northeast slope of Cemetery 

Hill. The fighting continued until well after dark.

That evening Lee was convinced that success still could be achieved 

if his army’s efforts were coordinated better. From his perspective, on 

the enemy’s left the Yankees had been driven back a considerable distance from their positions in the orchard to their final lines on Cemetery 

Ridge. The penetration of the enemy’s center near the clump of trees on 

Cemetery Ridge also looked promising. These results, combined with 

Ewell’s penetration on Cemetery Hill and seizure of portions of Culp’s 

Hill, indicated the continued dominance of the Army of Northern Virginia. 

(Map 12) Moreover, Stuart and the Confederate cavalry finally had arrived on the battlefield during the day. Although unhappy that his army 

had not achieved more, Lee believed that a more concerted effort on 3 

July offered excellent opportunities for ultimate success.72

Lee did not meet simultaneously with all of his corps commanders. 

Instead, he dealt with them individually. He directed Ewell to continue the 
374 historical perspectives of the operational art

decentralized the execution and remained mostly an observer throughout 

the remainder of the day.

Meade, on the other hand, was extremely busy. He had called a council 

of war for about the time that Longstreet’s artillery opened up in support 

of the I Corps assault. He grabbed his chief engineer, Gouverneur Kemble 

Warren, and rode to the Union left to find out the reason for the heavy 

firing. He reached Sickles’ assigned position and discovered that the III 

Corps was well out of line and had advanced into a poorly defended salient at the peach orchard. Warren rode off to find reinforcements for the 

defense of Little Round Top, and Meade rode forward to find Sickles.

By the time he reached Sickles’ headquarters, Meade had decided 

that it was too late to withdraw the III Corps. If they withdrew under 

pressure, the entire Federal left might collapse. Meade told Sickles that 

he would send help from the artillery reserve and the II and V Corps; he 

rode back to Cemetery Ridge to coordinate this effort.71

Fortunately for Meade, Longstreet’s and Ewell’s attacks were uncoordinated. Although Ewell’s artillery started firing at the right time, his infantry did not attack until almost three hours after Longstreet’s infantry. 

But even with the poor coordination, Longstreet’s infantry assaults drove 

the Federals back and pierced their lines in several places. Reinforced by 

units from the Federal II and V Corps, the III Corps fought desperately 

but finally retreated to Cemetery Ridge. Two Confederate brigades from 

Hill’s corps gained a foothold in the II Corps line near a “clump of trees” 

in the center of Cemetery Ridge. Meade started funneling troops from 

the XII Corps on the right to reinforce the deteriorating situation on the 

left. The timely arrival of Sedgwick’s VI Corps on the left also prevented 

a collapse. On the opposite flank, Ewell’s infantry eventually attacked. 

They seized the trenches just vacated by the XII Corps on Culp’s Hill and 

briefly penetrated the XI Corps front on the northeast slope of Cemetery 

Hill. The fighting continued until well after dark.

That evening Lee was convinced that success still could be achieved 

if his army’s efforts were coordinated better. From his perspective, on 

the enemy’s left the Yankees had been driven back a considerable distance from their positions in the orchard to their final lines on Cemetery 

Ridge. The penetration of the enemy’s center near the clump of trees on 

Cemetery Ridge also looked promising. These results, combined with 

Ewell’s penetration on Cemetery Hill and seizure of portions of Culp’s 

Hill, indicated the continued dominance of the Army of Northern Virginia. 

(Map 12) Moreover, Stuart and the Confederate cavalry finally had arrived on the battlefield during the day. Although unhappy that his army 

had not achieved more, Lee believed that a more concerted effort on 3 

July offered excellent opportunities for ultimate success.72

Lee did not meet simultaneously with all of his corps commanders. 

Instead, he dealt with them individually. He directed Ewell to continue the 
376 historical perspectives of the operational art

attack against the Yankee right on Culp’s Hill. He ordered Longstreet to 

continue the attack started on 2 July. He assigned Hill a supporting role.

On the morning of 3 July Lee rode to Longstreet’s headquarters to 

determine how his attack was going to be made. Almost before Lee was 

able to begin the conversation, Longstreet told the commanding general 

that I Corps scouts had conducted a reconnaissance around the Union left 

flank. It was still possible to slip around the enemy and position the army 

so the Federals would have to attack the Confederates. He was organizing 

his units to begin the move to the right. Amazed that Longstreet had interpreted his orders to mean that he could make a flanking march before conducting his attack, Lee rejected the idea and told Longstreet that the plan 

was to have the I Corps attack the enemy’s center on Cemetery Ridge.

Longstreet argued that while Pickett’s division was fresh, Hood’s and 

McLaws’ divisions were not. Moreover, if Hood and McLaws attacked 

the center, the Confederate right flank would be exposed to a counterattack. This could endanger the entire Southern position. Lee agreed with 

Longstreet’s analysis and said that Heth’s division and half of Pender’s 

division—both from A. P. Hill’s corps—would support an attack by 

Pickett. Hood and McLaws could remain in position to protect the right. 

The generals then rode to a position where they could see the enemy’s 

center. The discussion became heated as Longstreet argued that a frontal 

attack could not succeed. When asked how many soldiers he intended to 

commit to the attack, Lee replied 15,000. Longstreet answered that there 

were not 15,000 men alive who could successfully attack across the open 

field that had been selected as the avenue of approach. Furthermore, Yankee artillery now positioned on Little Round Top could sweep the entire 

line of attack as it advanced across the open field. One of Lee’s staff officers replied that these Federal guns could be silenced. Lee was adamant, 

and Longstreet acquiesced. The commanding general added that Stuart’s 

cavalry would make a supporting attack by riding around the Federal defenses and attacking the center of the rear of the enemy’s line. (Map 13) 

The instructions for “Pickett’s Charge” were complete.73

In the meantime, Johnson’s division of Ewell’s corps had followed 

Lee’s earlier instructions and at first light had opened the attack up the 

slopes of Culp’s Hill. Instead of finding vacated trenches as they had 

on the previous afternoon, they now discovered that the XII Corps had 

returned in strength. Moreover, the Federal commanders were anxious to 

regain the positions that had been lost so easily the day before. Federal 

artillery, unanswered by Confederate guns, supported furious counterattacks. Not only did Johnson’s attack falter, his soldiers were driven from 

the ground that they had held at first light. It was an inauspicious start 

for Lee’s plan.74

Meade’s commanders were confident that their positions were strong. 

During the previous evening, Meade had called a meeting of his principal 
376 historical perspectives of the operational art

attack against the Yankee right on Culp’s Hill. He ordered Longstreet to 

continue the attack started on 2 July. He assigned Hill a supporting role.

On the morning of 3 July Lee rode to Longstreet’s headquarters to 

determine how his attack was going to be made. Almost before Lee was 

able to begin the conversation, Longstreet told the commanding general 

that I Corps scouts had conducted a reconnaissance around the Union left 

flank. It was still possible to slip around the enemy and position the army 

so the Federals would have to attack the Confederates. He was organizing 

his units to begin the move to the right. Amazed that Longstreet had interpreted his orders to mean that he could make a flanking march before conducting his attack, Lee rejected the idea and told Longstreet that the plan 

was to have the I Corps attack the enemy’s center on Cemetery Ridge.

Longstreet argued that while Pickett’s division was fresh, Hood’s and 

McLaws’ divisions were not. Moreover, if Hood and McLaws attacked 

the center, the Confederate right flank would be exposed to a counterattack. This could endanger the entire Southern position. Lee agreed with 

Longstreet’s analysis and said that Heth’s division and half of Pender’s 

division—both from A. P. Hill’s corps—would support an attack by 

Pickett. Hood and McLaws could remain in position to protect the right. 

The generals then rode to a position where they could see the enemy’s 

center. The discussion became heated as Longstreet argued that a frontal 

attack could not succeed. When asked how many soldiers he intended to 

commit to the attack, Lee replied 15,000. Longstreet answered that there 

were not 15,000 men alive who could successfully attack across the open 

field that had been selected as the avenue of approach. Furthermore, Yankee artillery now positioned on Little Round Top could sweep the entire 

line of attack as it advanced across the open field. One of Lee’s staff officers replied that these Federal guns could be silenced. Lee was adamant, 

and Longstreet acquiesced. The commanding general added that Stuart’s 

cavalry would make a supporting attack by riding around the Federal defenses and attacking the center of the rear of the enemy’s line. (Map 13) 

The instructions for “Pickett’s Charge” were complete.73

In the meantime, Johnson’s division of Ewell’s corps had followed 

Lee’s earlier instructions and at first light had opened the attack up the 

slopes of Culp’s Hill. Instead of finding vacated trenches as they had 

on the previous afternoon, they now discovered that the XII Corps had 

returned in strength. Moreover, the Federal commanders were anxious to 

regain the positions that had been lost so easily the day before. Federal 

artillery, unanswered by Confederate guns, supported furious counterattacks. Not only did Johnson’s attack falter, his soldiers were driven from 

the ground that they had held at first light. It was an inauspicious start 

for Lee’s plan.74

Meade’s commanders were confident that their positions were strong. 

During the previous evening, Meade had called a meeting of his principal 
378 historical perspectives of the operational art 

commanders. He gave each of them an opportunity to express his opinion 

on the next course of action. Only John Newton, the acting I Corps commander, indicated that the current positions were poor. The rest seemed 

determined to stay and fight. The three-hour meeting tended to ramble; 

finally, Meade’s chief of staff, Butterfield, posed three alternatives to the 

group and asked the commanders to vote on each one. Essentially, the 

alternatives were to attack, defend, or withdraw. Meade was surprised by 

his chief’s interjection but allowed the vote to proceed. The result was 

overwhelmingly in favor of defending the current positions and waiting 

for at least a day to see what Lee would do. Meade closed the meeting by 

commenting, “Such, then, is the decision.” As the commanders filed out 

of his headquarters, Meade stopped the acting II Corps commander, Maj. 

Gen. John Gibbon. He told Gibbon that since Lee had attacked both the 

right and left flanks, his next move probably would be against the center, 

the location of Gibbon’s corps. Everyone returned to their headquarters 

to await the next day’s events.75

Lee rode with Longstreet along his attack positions twice during the 

morning of 3 July. He wanted to make sure that the artillery and infantry 

were properly positioned and ready for the decisive blow. Approximately 

172 Confederate guns were on line to deliver a massive cannonade. After 

the guns had demoralized the Federal infantry and suppressed the enemy’s artillery, the 13,500 soldiers from Longstreet’s and Hill’s corps who 

finally had been massed for the attack would charge across a mile-wide 

open field. A little after 1300 the Confederate artillery opened fire.76

Pickett’s Charge is probably the most famous attack of the entire war. 

Its fame was achieved by the heroism displayed by the Confederates, who 

had to withstand the furious Federal artillery and musket fire, and by the 

belief that the few men who finally stumbled over the stone wall along 

the Union front line had reached the “high water mark” of the Confederacy. While all of this is true, it is equally important to remember that 

Meade’s defense, both tactically and operationally, was extremely effective because of strong Union leadership, creative command and control, 

and the fighting spirit of the soldiers. The Army of Northern Virginia did 

everything that Robert E. Lee asked of it. The Army of the Potomac was 

its equal, and the Battle of Gettysburg finally demonstrated this beyond a 

reasonable doubt. While very famous, Pickett’s Charge was futile.

Stuart’s cavalry attack against the Union rear was equally futile. On 

a field about two miles east of Gettysburg, Federal cavalry easily turned 

back Stuart’s troopers in a mounted clash. The Confederate defeat on 3 

July was of immense proportions.77

Back on Seminary Ridge, Generals Lee and Longstreet rallied the 

remnants of Pickett’s assault force as they streamed back across the field 

under artillery fire. Both officers exerted a calming influence on the men, 

and within an hour the Army of Northern Virginia had gotten itself back 
378 historical perspectives of the operational art 

commanders. He gave each of them an opportunity to express his opinion 

on the next course of action. Only John Newton, the acting I Corps commander, indicated that the current positions were poor. The rest seemed 

determined to stay and fight. The three-hour meeting tended to ramble; 

finally, Meade’s chief of staff, Butterfield, posed three alternatives to the 

group and asked the commanders to vote on each one. Essentially, the 

alternatives were to attack, defend, or withdraw. Meade was surprised by 

his chief’s interjection but allowed the vote to proceed. The result was 

overwhelmingly in favor of defending the current positions and waiting 

for at least a day to see what Lee would do. Meade closed the meeting by 

commenting, “Such, then, is the decision.” As the commanders filed out 

of his headquarters, Meade stopped the acting II Corps commander, Maj. 

Gen. John Gibbon. He told Gibbon that since Lee had attacked both the 

right and left flanks, his next move probably would be against the center, 

the location of Gibbon’s corps. Everyone returned to their headquarters 

to await the next day’s events.75

Lee rode with Longstreet along his attack positions twice during the 

morning of 3 July. He wanted to make sure that the artillery and infantry 

were properly positioned and ready for the decisive blow. Approximately 

172 Confederate guns were on line to deliver a massive cannonade. After 

the guns had demoralized the Federal infantry and suppressed the enemy’s artillery, the 13,500 soldiers from Longstreet’s and Hill’s corps who 

finally had been massed for the attack would charge across a mile-wide 

open field. A little after 1300 the Confederate artillery opened fire.76

Pickett’s Charge is probably the most famous attack of the entire war. 

Its fame was achieved by the heroism displayed by the Confederates, who 

had to withstand the furious Federal artillery and musket fire, and by the 

belief that the few men who finally stumbled over the stone wall along 

the Union front line had reached the “high water mark” of the Confederacy. While all of this is true, it is equally important to remember that 

Meade’s defense, both tactically and operationally, was extremely effective because of strong Union leadership, creative command and control, 

and the fighting spirit of the soldiers. The Army of Northern Virginia did 

everything that Robert E. Lee asked of it. The Army of the Potomac was 

its equal, and the Battle of Gettysburg finally demonstrated this beyond a 

reasonable doubt. While very famous, Pickett’s Charge was futile.

Stuart’s cavalry attack against the Union rear was equally futile. On 

a field about two miles east of Gettysburg, Federal cavalry easily turned 

back Stuart’s troopers in a mounted clash. The Confederate defeat on 3 

July was of immense proportions.77

Back on Seminary Ridge, Generals Lee and Longstreet rallied the 

remnants of Pickett’s assault force as they streamed back across the field 

under artillery fire. Both officers exerted a calming influence on the men, 

and within an hour the Army of Northern Virginia had gotten itself back 
380 historical perspectives of the operational art 

a railhead at Frederick. But Sedgwick’s report of the results of his reconnaissance as far as Fairfield seemed to indicate that Lee was still looking 

for a fight in Pennsylvania. Meade halted his army for a day and a half 

until he determined that the Army of Northern Virginia was in fact withdrawing. By the time his army was on the move again, the Confederates 

were safely approaching their crossing point at Williamsport.

Lee’s army had about half the distance that Meade’s had to travel 

to reach Williamsport. Unfortunately for the Confederates, when they 

reached there, they found that their pontoon bridge had been destroyed in 

a Federal raid and that recent heavy rains swelled the Potomac River. Lee 

ordered crossings to be prepared and his army to entrench. He was still 

hopeful that Meade would attack.81

Meade finally had his army assembled in front of the Confederate 

positions at Williamsport on 12 July. During the evening he met with 

his corps commanders and found them still reluctant to attack prepared 

enemy positions. Not having seen the ground over which an attack would 

have to be made, Meade withheld his decision to attack and on the next 

day conducted a personal reconnaissance with his chief of staff. Determining that an assault was feasible, he directed the army to attack on 14 

July. By then, Lee was safely back on Virginia soil.

Lincoln and Stanton were furious. In Washington, it appeared that 

Meade had missed the opportunity for which everyone in the North had 

been waiting—the complete destruction of the Army of Northern Virginia. Lincoln was quoted as saying that Meade looked like an old lady 

trying to shoo her geese across a creek. The Joint Congressional Committee on the Conduct of the War later held hearings hostile to Meade, 

accusing him of cowardice. Meade was taken aback by this attitude in the 

capital. Instead of being a great hero, he was being characterized as just 

the opposite. The final proof of Meade’s excellent abilities, however, was 

the ultimate honor bestowed on him. The Northern leadership stopped 

looking for a new commander for the Army of the Potomac. When Lee 

surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House 

almost two years later, Meade still commanded the army that ultimately 

trapped and defeated him. The Army of the Potomac was to be Meade’s 

for the duration of the war.82

Operational Artists

Many commentators on the Gettysburg campaign have focused on 

the tactics of Meade and Lee. For these analysts, the campaign only 

provides the backdrop against which to view the events of 1–3 July. 

They have examined the commanders’ battlefield decisions often in excruciating detail to discover the reasons for the successes and failures 

of both sides. They have identified key tactical events and decisions 
380 historical perspectives of the operational art 

a railhead at Frederick. But Sedgwick’s report of the results of his reconnaissance as far as Fairfield seemed to indicate that Lee was still looking 

for a fight in Pennsylvania. Meade halted his army for a day and a half 

until he determined that the Army of Northern Virginia was in fact withdrawing. By the time his army was on the move again, the Confederates 

were safely approaching their crossing point at Williamsport.

Lee’s army had about half the distance that Meade’s had to travel 

to reach Williamsport. Unfortunately for the Confederates, when they 

reached there, they found that their pontoon bridge had been destroyed in 

a Federal raid and that recent heavy rains swelled the Potomac River. Lee 

ordered crossings to be prepared and his army to entrench. He was still 

hopeful that Meade would attack.81

Meade finally had his army assembled in front of the Confederate 

positions at Williamsport on 12 July. During the evening he met with 

his corps commanders and found them still reluctant to attack prepared 

enemy positions. Not having seen the ground over which an attack would 

have to be made, Meade withheld his decision to attack and on the next 

day conducted a personal reconnaissance with his chief of staff. Determining that an assault was feasible, he directed the army to attack on 14 

July. By then, Lee was safely back on Virginia soil.

Lincoln and Stanton were furious. In Washington, it appeared that 

Meade had missed the opportunity for which everyone in the North had 

been waiting—the complete destruction of the Army of Northern Virginia. Lincoln was quoted as saying that Meade looked like an old lady 

trying to shoo her geese across a creek. The Joint Congressional Committee on the Conduct of the War later held hearings hostile to Meade, 

accusing him of cowardice. Meade was taken aback by this attitude in the 

capital. Instead of being a great hero, he was being characterized as just 

the opposite. The final proof of Meade’s excellent abilities, however, was 

the ultimate honor bestowed on him. The Northern leadership stopped 

looking for a new commander for the Army of the Potomac. When Lee 

surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia at Appomattox Court House 

almost two years later, Meade still commanded the army that ultimately 

trapped and defeated him. The Army of the Potomac was to be Meade’s 

for the duration of the war.82

Operational Artists

Many commentators on the Gettysburg campaign have focused on 

the tactics of Meade and Lee. For these analysts, the campaign only 

provides the backdrop against which to view the events of 1–3 July. 

They have examined the commanders’ battlefield decisions often in excruciating detail to discover the reasons for the successes and failures 

of both sides. They have identified key tactical events and decisions 
382 historical perspectives of the operational art 

objectives translated into precise military objectives. The results of the 

application of military power against them could be easily measured.

Applying these objectives to the theater setting provides an interesting contrast between Lee’s and Meade’s orientations. Lee’s objectives did 

not automatically focus either him or his army on the enemy. In fact, in 

order to gather supplies, the Army of Northern Virginia had to operate 

out of the range of the Army of the Potomac. Therefore, it was important not to operate in the enemy’s presence. Naturally, Lee knew that 

the Federals would pursue him once they had determined the extent of 

his operations. During the Maryland campaign in September 1862, even 

the overly cautious George B. McClellan finally pursued Lee’s invading 

army. Lee knew that once the Yankees had substantial combat power in 

Pennsylvania, widespread foraging was out of the question among the 

hostile population and in unfamiliar territory.

To accomplish both the objective of gathering supplies and the objective of fighting a battle, Lee needed at least to know the Yankees’ movements if not their intentions. Lee’s poor use of his cavalry during the latter 

half of June was devastating. His substandard use of his cavalry meant 

that he did not know the enemy’s dispositions and had no way of inferring 

their intentions. Even after Hill’s corps had engaged the vanguard of the 

Army of the Potomac on 1 July, Lee still did not know the extent of the 

damage that he could inflict or that could be inflicted upon him.

There is no evidence to suggest that Lee prioritized any of the conflicting objectives he was trying to accomplish during the campaign. 

There also is no evidence to suggest that either he or his staff analyzed 

the consistencies and inconsistencies between the objectives. Because of 

the complex relationships between his political and military objectives, 

an analysis to prioritize and to determine inconsistencies was absolutely 

essential. At the time, this probably was not seen as being particularly 

important because everyone believed that the Army of Northern Virginia 

could do virtually anything it wanted when confronted by the Army of 

the Potomac. Unfortunately for the Confederacy, past experiences were 

irrelevant. The Army of the Potomac had a new commander on 28 June.

Meade’s objectives focused him only on the enemy. Within the theater setting, the objective to cover Washington and Baltimore for political reasons still meant that he must remain oriented on the locations and 

movements of the Army of Northern Virginia. His aggressive intent, excellent combat command experience at all levels of command, and absolute attention on the enemy meant that the Army of the Potomac was not 

going to be distracted by anything like Stuart’s cavalry raid. In addition, 

Meade’s political guidance translated quite readily into military terms: 

find, fix, and fight Lee’s army.

Initially, Lee’s concept of operations masked the weaknesses in his 

plan. It was excellent up to the point where an aggressive opponent put 
382 historical perspectives of the operational art 

objectives translated into precise military objectives. The results of the 

application of military power against them could be easily measured.

Applying these objectives to the theater setting provides an interesting contrast between Lee’s and Meade’s orientations. Lee’s objectives did 

not automatically focus either him or his army on the enemy. In fact, in 

order to gather supplies, the Army of Northern Virginia had to operate 

out of the range of the Army of the Potomac. Therefore, it was important not to operate in the enemy’s presence. Naturally, Lee knew that 

the Federals would pursue him once they had determined the extent of 

his operations. During the Maryland campaign in September 1862, even 

the overly cautious George B. McClellan finally pursued Lee’s invading 

army. Lee knew that once the Yankees had substantial combat power in 

Pennsylvania, widespread foraging was out of the question among the 

hostile population and in unfamiliar territory.

To accomplish both the objective of gathering supplies and the objective of fighting a battle, Lee needed at least to know the Yankees’ movements if not their intentions. Lee’s poor use of his cavalry during the latter 

half of June was devastating. His substandard use of his cavalry meant 

that he did not know the enemy’s dispositions and had no way of inferring 

their intentions. Even after Hill’s corps had engaged the vanguard of the 

Army of the Potomac on 1 July, Lee still did not know the extent of the 

damage that he could inflict or that could be inflicted upon him.

There is no evidence to suggest that Lee prioritized any of the conflicting objectives he was trying to accomplish during the campaign. 

There also is no evidence to suggest that either he or his staff analyzed 

the consistencies and inconsistencies between the objectives. Because of 

the complex relationships between his political and military objectives, 

an analysis to prioritize and to determine inconsistencies was absolutely 

essential. At the time, this probably was not seen as being particularly 

important because everyone believed that the Army of Northern Virginia 

could do virtually anything it wanted when confronted by the Army of 

the Potomac. Unfortunately for the Confederacy, past experiences were 

irrelevant. The Army of the Potomac had a new commander on 28 June.

Meade’s objectives focused him only on the enemy. Within the theater setting, the objective to cover Washington and Baltimore for political reasons still meant that he must remain oriented on the locations and 

movements of the Army of Northern Virginia. His aggressive intent, excellent combat command experience at all levels of command, and absolute attention on the enemy meant that the Army of the Potomac was not 

going to be distracted by anything like Stuart’s cavalry raid. In addition, 

Meade’s political guidance translated quite readily into military terms: 

find, fix, and fight Lee’s army.

Initially, Lee’s concept of operations masked the weaknesses in his 

plan. It was excellent up to the point where an aggressive opponent put 
384 historical perspectives of the operational art 

won because his forces were deployed for successful maneuver at the 

operational level. If Lee had decided to withdraw on 2 July instead of 4 

July, we might be analyzing the Battle of Gettysburg as another Confederate victory. Lee would have outmaneuvered Meade, driven the Federals 

off the battlefield at Gettysburg, and then, having gathered substantial 

supplies and won a battle, could have withdrawn southward. The extent 

of the victory certainly would have been equal to the victory at Chancellorsville. But once Lee decided on the evening of 1 July that the tactical 

victory was not great enough, Meade outmaneuvered him operationally. 

Rapidly, Meade brought superior combat and logistical power to bear at 

the operationally decisive place and time.

Meade’s ability to generate operational reserves permitted him to 

achieve superiority at the critical points. During the movement toward 

Gettysburg from 28 June to 1 July, he deployed his corps on a wide front 

but kept them close enough together to avoid defeat in detail. Covering 

his supply base at Westminster, Maryland, Meade could respond in any 

direction and reasonably expect success. More important, his dispositions meant that even if he made unexpected contact with Lee’s army, 

the campaign would still unfold in accordance with his long-range operational vision. He effectively operated against the invading force of 

rebels. Furthermore, he also was in a position to shift eastward to cover 

Baltimore and Washington, his other primary objectives. The positioning 

of his corps in relation to each other and in support of his two objectives 

allowed Meade to use uncommitted forces to respond flexibly and creatively, regardless of the Confederate reaction to contact with the Army 

of the Potomac.

The Army of Northern Virginia’s immediate reaction to the unexpected contact with the Army of the Potomac on 1 July also demonstrated 

Lee’s understanding of the effective use of operational reserves. Even 

though he was only vaguely aware of the location of the enemy, Lee had 

sensibly deployed his army so combat power could be built up wherever 

it was needed when battle occurred. Perhaps an argument could be made 

that his forces were deployed too well: When battle was joined, it was too 

difficult for Lee to slow down its development. Aggressive subordinates 

made use of the operational reserves that Lee should have kept firmly 

under his control. Nevertheless, Lee’s understanding of the importance of 

operational reserves and their effective use was a hallmark of his repeated successes throughout the war. Gettysburg demonstrated once again his 

understanding of their importance.

Of particular interest is the comparison between the operational reserves available to Lee and Meade on the evening of 3 July. Lee had run 

out of them. Meade still had operational reserves available. Faced with 

this reality, Lee only had one alternative: Withdraw to Virginia. Meade, 

on the other hand, possessed numerous alternatives. He could attack Lee 
384 historical perspectives of the operational art 

won because his forces were deployed for successful maneuver at the 

operational level. If Lee had decided to withdraw on 2 July instead of 4 

July, we might be analyzing the Battle of Gettysburg as another Confederate victory. Lee would have outmaneuvered Meade, driven the Federals 

off the battlefield at Gettysburg, and then, having gathered substantial 

supplies and won a battle, could have withdrawn southward. The extent 

of the victory certainly would have been equal to the victory at Chancellorsville. But once Lee decided on the evening of 1 July that the tactical 

victory was not great enough, Meade outmaneuvered him operationally. 

Rapidly, Meade brought superior combat and logistical power to bear at 

the operationally decisive place and time.

Meade’s ability to generate operational reserves permitted him to 

achieve superiority at the critical points. During the movement toward 

Gettysburg from 28 June to 1 July, he deployed his corps on a wide front 

but kept them close enough together to avoid defeat in detail. Covering 

his supply base at Westminster, Maryland, Meade could respond in any 

direction and reasonably expect success. More important, his dispositions meant that even if he made unexpected contact with Lee’s army, 

the campaign would still unfold in accordance with his long-range operational vision. He effectively operated against the invading force of 

rebels. Furthermore, he also was in a position to shift eastward to cover 

Baltimore and Washington, his other primary objectives. The positioning 

of his corps in relation to each other and in support of his two objectives 

allowed Meade to use uncommitted forces to respond flexibly and creatively, regardless of the Confederate reaction to contact with the Army 

of the Potomac.

The Army of Northern Virginia’s immediate reaction to the unexpected contact with the Army of the Potomac on 1 July also demonstrated 

Lee’s understanding of the effective use of operational reserves. Even 

though he was only vaguely aware of the location of the enemy, Lee had 

sensibly deployed his army so combat power could be built up wherever 

it was needed when battle occurred. Perhaps an argument could be made 

that his forces were deployed too well: When battle was joined, it was too 

difficult for Lee to slow down its development. Aggressive subordinates 

made use of the operational reserves that Lee should have kept firmly 

under his control. Nevertheless, Lee’s understanding of the importance of 

operational reserves and their effective use was a hallmark of his repeated successes throughout the war. Gettysburg demonstrated once again his 

understanding of their importance.

Of particular interest is the comparison between the operational reserves available to Lee and Meade on the evening of 3 July. Lee had run 

out of them. Meade still had operational reserves available. Faced with 

this reality, Lee only had one alternative: Withdraw to Virginia. Meade, 

on the other hand, possessed numerous alternatives. He could attack Lee 
386 historical perspectives of the operational art 

campaign was lost at the tactical level. Lee felt that he could only accomplish his campaign objectives by winning a battle more spectacular than 

his defensive stroke at Chancellorsville. He believed that this required 

him to attack if he was going to win a more clear-cut victory. But it is 

by no means obvious that a firmer, more decisive Robert E. Lee would 

have made any tactical difference. The experience of the commanders 

in the Civil War repeatedly demonstrated that an attacker was at a severe disadvantage. Technology favored the defender. Furthermore, in the 

area where there can be a search for alternative outcomes, one can overlook the importance of the enemy in determining the original outcome. 

A competent commander led the Army of the Potomac; Lee was facing a 

fundamentally different situation than he had in previous confrontations 

with Union commanders.

George G. Meade’s relationships with his subordinates were highly 

effective. Throughout the campaign, he selected trusted subordinates to 

command several corps in order to reduce his span of control. Reynolds 

commanded a “wing” of the Army of the Potomac while it was moving 

in the direction of Gettysburg. After Reynolds was killed and Meade had 

received word that a battle was in progress at Gettysburg, he directed 

Hancock to ride to the scene and take charge, even though Hancock was 

junior to other corps commanders already on the field. He used councils 

of war to cement relationships. Rather than being signs of weakness and 

lack of command presence, they tended to ensure that his senior commanders understood that Meade knew and valued their views on key decisions. By contrast, Joe Hooker and other preceding commanders had 

kept their subordinates in the dark on their operational concept. Meade 

demonstrated effective operational command.

In the final analysis, making an overall comparison of the two opponents is very difficult. Each commander faced different problems, not the 

least of which is that they faced each other. Measuring performance against 

objectives, however, narrows the evaluation considerably. Meade accomplished the objectives given to him by his military commander, Henry 

W. Halleck. He operated effectively against the invading force of rebels 

and effectively covered Washington and Baltimore. But he did not achieve 

total success. He did not achieve the objective of his political leaders: the 

destruction of the Army of Northern Virginia. It is possible to argue that 

this was an implied task subordinate to his specified task to operate against 

the invaders, and therefore he should have pursued this objective without 

specific instructions. It is interesting to note, however, that the experienced 

combat leaders, Halleck and Meade, did not identify this implied task. 

Perhaps their previous Civil War experiences taught them that a single 

crushing blow in a Napoleonic battle was an impossible task.

Even though he lost the battle and thus lost the campaign, Lee accomplished almost everything he intended. He had gathered supplies 
386 historical perspectives of the operational art 

campaign was lost at the tactical level. Lee felt that he could only accomplish his campaign objectives by winning a battle more spectacular than 

his defensive stroke at Chancellorsville. He believed that this required 

him to attack if he was going to win a more clear-cut victory. But it is 

by no means obvious that a firmer, more decisive Robert E. Lee would 

have made any tactical difference. The experience of the commanders 

in the Civil War repeatedly demonstrated that an attacker was at a severe disadvantage. Technology favored the defender. Furthermore, in the 

area where there can be a search for alternative outcomes, one can overlook the importance of the enemy in determining the original outcome. 

A competent commander led the Army of the Potomac; Lee was facing a 

fundamentally different situation than he had in previous confrontations 

with Union commanders.

George G. Meade’s relationships with his subordinates were highly 

effective. Throughout the campaign, he selected trusted subordinates to 

command several corps in order to reduce his span of control. Reynolds 

commanded a “wing” of the Army of the Potomac while it was moving 

in the direction of Gettysburg. After Reynolds was killed and Meade had 

received word that a battle was in progress at Gettysburg, he directed 

Hancock to ride to the scene and take charge, even though Hancock was 

junior to other corps commanders already on the field. He used councils 

of war to cement relationships. Rather than being signs of weakness and 

lack of command presence, they tended to ensure that his senior commanders understood that Meade knew and valued their views on key decisions. By contrast, Joe Hooker and other preceding commanders had 

kept their subordinates in the dark on their operational concept. Meade 

demonstrated effective operational command.

In the final analysis, making an overall comparison of the two opponents is very difficult. Each commander faced different problems, not the 

least of which is that they faced each other. Measuring performance against 

objectives, however, narrows the evaluation considerably. Meade accomplished the objectives given to him by his military commander, Henry 

W. Halleck. He operated effectively against the invading force of rebels 

and effectively covered Washington and Baltimore. But he did not achieve 

total success. He did not achieve the objective of his political leaders: the 

destruction of the Army of Northern Virginia. It is possible to argue that 

this was an implied task subordinate to his specified task to operate against 

the invaders, and therefore he should have pursued this objective without 

specific instructions. It is interesting to note, however, that the experienced 

combat leaders, Halleck and Meade, did not identify this implied task. 

Perhaps their previous Civil War experiences taught them that a single 

crushing blow in a Napoleonic battle was an impossible task.

Even though he lost the battle and thus lost the campaign, Lee accomplished almost everything he intended. He had gathered supplies 
388 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. Histories of the Gettysburg campaign abound. Because this chapter is only a synopsis of the more important events that shaped the campaign at the operational level, I have 

omitted many details. I have used citations that will direct the reader to sources helpful 

for those who desire a more complete understanding of the events. For a description of the 

Confederate cabinet discussions with Lee, see, for example, John H. Reagan, Memoirs, 

With Special Reference to Secession and the Civil War (New York: The Neale Publishing 

Co., 1906), p. 121. The best overall source for the Gettysburg campaign is Edwin B. Coddington, The Gettysburg Campaign: A Study in Command (New York: Scribner’s, 1968). 

This was published in a paperback edition in 1984 and is widely available.

2. Stephen Sears, George B. McClellan: The Young Napoleon (New York: Ticknor & 

Fields, 1988), pp. 339–40; T. Harry Williams, Lincoln and His Generals (New York: 

Knopf, 1952), p. 212.

3. It is interesting to note that these discussions reflect precisely what Clausewitz advocated in one section of On War. Lee, the commander, was participating in strategic discussions with the cabinet. Did the results of these discussions support or refute Clausewitz’s 

admonition? Instead of adding clarity, the discussions may have contributed to cloudy 

strategic thinking. See Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and 

Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 608.

4. Archer Jones, Confederate Strategy From Shiloh to Vicksburg (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1961), pp. 199–200.

5. Douglas S. Freeman, R. E. Lee: A Biography, 4 vols. (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 

1934), 2: 19; U.S. War Department, The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, 69 vols. (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1880–1901), ser. 1, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 782 (hereafter cited as OR); 

Jones, Confederate Strategy, pp. 205–06.

6. OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, pp. 791–92; Armistead L. Long, Memoirs of Robert E. Lee (New 

York: J. M. Stoddart & Co., 1886), p. 267.

7. J. William Jones, ed., Southern Historical Society Papers, 52 vols. (Richmond: Virginia Historical Society, 1877), 4: 153.

8. Clifford Dowdey and Louis H. Manarin, eds., Wartime Papers of R. E. Lee (Boston: 

Little, Brown, 1961), p. 508.

9. Reagan, Memoirs, pp. 121–22; Jones, Historical Society Papers, 4: 153; Long, 

Memoirs of Robert E. Lee, pp. 268–69.

10. Dowdey and Manarin, Wartime Papers, p. 490; Jones, Historical Society Papers, 4: 

160.

11. OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 810.

12. Douglas S. Freeman, Lee’s Lieutenants: A Study in Command, 3 vols. (New York: C. 

Scribner’s Sons, 1942), 2: 712; OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 840.

13. Herman Hattaway and Archer Jones, How the North Won: A Military History of the 

Civil War (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1983), pp. 382–83.

14. OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 438.

15. Williams, Lincoln and His Generals, pp. 243–46.
388 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. Histories of the Gettysburg campaign abound. Because this chapter is only a synopsis of the more important events that shaped the campaign at the operational level, I have 

omitted many details. I have used citations that will direct the reader to sources helpful 

for those who desire a more complete understanding of the events. For a description of the 

Confederate cabinet discussions with Lee, see, for example, John H. Reagan, Memoirs, 

With Special Reference to Secession and the Civil War (New York: The Neale Publishing 

Co., 1906), p. 121. The best overall source for the Gettysburg campaign is Edwin B. Coddington, The Gettysburg Campaign: A Study in Command (New York: Scribner’s, 1968). 

This was published in a paperback edition in 1984 and is widely available.

2. Stephen Sears, George B. McClellan: The Young Napoleon (New York: Ticknor & 

Fields, 1988), pp. 339–40; T. Harry Williams, Lincoln and His Generals (New York: 

Knopf, 1952), p. 212.

3. It is interesting to note that these discussions reflect precisely what Clausewitz advocated in one section of On War. Lee, the commander, was participating in strategic discussions with the cabinet. Did the results of these discussions support or refute Clausewitz’s 

admonition? Instead of adding clarity, the discussions may have contributed to cloudy 

strategic thinking. See Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and 

Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 608.

4. Archer Jones, Confederate Strategy From Shiloh to Vicksburg (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1961), pp. 199–200.

5. Douglas S. Freeman, R. E. Lee: A Biography, 4 vols. (New York: C. Scribner’s Sons, 

1934), 2: 19; U.S. War Department, The War of the Rebellion: A Compilation of the Official Records of the Union and Confederate Armies, 69 vols. (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1880–1901), ser. 1, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 782 (hereafter cited as OR); 

Jones, Confederate Strategy, pp. 205–06.

6. OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, pp. 791–92; Armistead L. Long, Memoirs of Robert E. Lee (New 

York: J. M. Stoddart & Co., 1886), p. 267.

7. J. William Jones, ed., Southern Historical Society Papers, 52 vols. (Richmond: Virginia Historical Society, 1877), 4: 153.

8. Clifford Dowdey and Louis H. Manarin, eds., Wartime Papers of R. E. Lee (Boston: 

Little, Brown, 1961), p. 508.

9. Reagan, Memoirs, pp. 121–22; Jones, Historical Society Papers, 4: 153; Long, 

Memoirs of Robert E. Lee, pp. 268–69.

10. Dowdey and Manarin, Wartime Papers, p. 490; Jones, Historical Society Papers, 4: 

160.

11. OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 810.

12. Douglas S. Freeman, Lee’s Lieutenants: A Study in Command, 3 vols. (New York: C. 

Scribner’s Sons, 1942), 2: 712; OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 840.

13. Herman Hattaway and Archer Jones, How the North Won: A Military History of the 

Civil War (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1983), pp. 382–83.

14. OR, vol. 25, pt. 2, p. 438.

15. Williams, Lincoln and His Generals, pp. 243–46.
390 historical perspectives of the operational art 

41. Emerson G. Taylor, Gouverneur Kemble Warren (New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 

1959), pp. 119–20.

42. Frederick H. Dyer, A Compendium of the War of the Rebellion, 3 vols. (New York: T. 

Yoseloff, 1959), 1: 287, 301, 323, 318; Meade, Life and Letters, 1: 389; OR, vol. 25, pt. 

2, pp. 471–72.

43. Freeman Cleaves, Meade of Gettysburg (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 

1960), pp. 129–30; OR, vol. 27, pt. 1, p. 65.

44. James Longstreet, From Manassas to Appomattox: Memoirs of the Civil War in 

America (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co., 1896), pp. 346–47.

45. Thomason, Jeb Stuart, pp. 421–24.

46. OR, vol. 27, pt. 3, p. 923.

47. Much historical controversy surrounds the misuse of the Confederate cavalry during 

this stage of the campaign. The safest to say is that Lee and Stuart share the blame. Lee 

had sufficient cavalry with the army to keep him informed. Their orders, however, did not 

tell them specifically to maintain contact with the Union army and report its movements. 

Stuart’s share of the blame is that he actually did not pass around the Union army without 

hindrance. Soon after setting out, he ran into part of Hancock’s II Federal Corps and had 

to make a detour. Arguably, he also took the best brigade commanders with him. Moreover, he captured 125 supply wagons, which he decided to take with him. This seriously 

decreased his rate of march. Clearly, the Confederate cavalry was not used properly during this stage of the campaign; the eyes and ears of the Army of Northern Virginia were 

not focused on the campaign objectives.

48. OR, vol. 27, pt. 2, p. 316.

49. Coddington, Gettysburg Campaign, pp. 186–93.

50. Ibid., pp. 194–95.

51. OR, vol. 27, pt. 1, pp. 62–63.

52. Ibid.

53. Edward J. Nichols, Toward Gettysburg: A Biography of General John F. Reynolds

(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1956), p. 196; OR, vol. 27, pt. 1, 

p. 69.

54. James L. Morrison, Jr., ed., The Memoirs of Henry Heth (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1974), p. 173.

55. During a courtesy call at Chambersburg by one of Longstreet’s division commanders, John B. Hood, Lee exclaimed “Ah! General, the enemy is a long time finding us; if 

he does not succeed soon, we must go in search of him.” See John B. Hood, Advance 

and Retreat (New Orleans, La.: G. T. Beauregard, 1886), p. 55; Coddington, Gettysburg 

Campaign, p. 195.

56. Coddington, Gettysburg Campaign, pp. 309–10.

57. Nichols, Toward Gettysburg, pp. 200–02; Cleaves, Meade of Gettysburg, pp. 134–

35.

58. Coddington, Gettysburg Campaign, pp. 294–97; Oliver O. Howard, Autobiography 

of Oliver Otis Howard (New York: The Baker & Taylor Co., 1908), pp. 417–18.

59. OR, vol. 27, pt. 2, p. 318.

60. Shelby Foote, The Civil War: A Narrative, 3 vols. (New York: Random House, 1963), 

2: 479–80; Jones, Confederate Strategy, pp. 207–08.

61. After the battle, many Southerners searched for opportunities they had missed during the battle—opportunities that would have turned the defeat into a victory. (Ewell’s 

decision not to attack was generally viewed as a missed opportunity.) See, for example, 

Henry Kyd Douglas, I Rode with Stonewall (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina 
390 historical perspectives of the operational art 

41. Emerson G. Taylor, Gouverneur Kemble Warren (New York: Houghton Mifflin Co., 

1959), pp. 119–20.

42. Frederick H. Dyer, A Compendium of the War of the Rebellion, 3 vols. (New York: T. 

Yoseloff, 1959), 1: 287, 301, 323, 318; Meade, Life and Letters, 1: 389; OR, vol. 25, pt. 

2, pp. 471–72.

43. Freeman Cleaves, Meade of Gettysburg (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 

1960), pp. 129–30; OR, vol. 27, pt. 1, p. 65.

44. James Longstreet, From Manassas to Appomattox: Memoirs of the Civil War in 

America (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Co., 1896), pp. 346–47.

45. Thomason, Jeb Stuart, pp. 421–24.

46. OR, vol. 27, pt. 3, p. 923.

47. Much historical controversy surrounds the misuse of the Confederate cavalry during 

this stage of the campaign. The safest to say is that Lee and Stuart share the blame. Lee 

had sufficient cavalry with the army to keep him informed. Their orders, however, did not 

tell them specifically to maintain contact with the Union army and report its movements. 

Stuart’s share of the blame is that he actually did not pass around the Union army without 

hindrance. Soon after setting out, he ran into part of Hancock’s II Federal Corps and had 

to make a detour. Arguably, he also took the best brigade commanders with him. Moreover, he captured 125 supply wagons, which he decided to take with him. This seriously 

decreased his rate of march. Clearly, the Confederate cavalry was not used properly during this stage of the campaign; the eyes and ears of the Army of Northern Virginia were 

not focused on the campaign objectives.

48. OR, vol. 27, pt. 2, p. 316.

49. Coddington, Gettysburg Campaign, pp. 186–93.

50. Ibid., pp. 194–95.

51. OR, vol. 27, pt. 1, pp. 62–63.

52. Ibid.

53. Edward J. Nichols, Toward Gettysburg: A Biography of General John F. Reynolds

(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1956), p. 196; OR, vol. 27, pt. 1, 

p. 69.

54. James L. Morrison, Jr., ed., The Memoirs of Henry Heth (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1974), p. 173.

55. During a courtesy call at Chambersburg by one of Longstreet’s division commanders, John B. Hood, Lee exclaimed “Ah! General, the enemy is a long time finding us; if 

he does not succeed soon, we must go in search of him.” See John B. Hood, Advance 

and Retreat (New Orleans, La.: G. T. Beauregard, 1886), p. 55; Coddington, Gettysburg 

Campaign, p. 195.

56. Coddington, Gettysburg Campaign, pp. 309–10.

57. Nichols, Toward Gettysburg, pp. 200–02; Cleaves, Meade of Gettysburg, pp. 134–

35.

58. Coddington, Gettysburg Campaign, pp. 294–97; Oliver O. Howard, Autobiography 

of Oliver Otis Howard (New York: The Baker & Taylor Co., 1908), pp. 417–18.

59. OR, vol. 27, pt. 2, p. 318.

60. Shelby Foote, The Civil War: A Narrative, 3 vols. (New York: Random House, 1963), 

2: 479–80; Jones, Confederate Strategy, pp. 207–08.

61. After the battle, many Southerners searched for opportunities they had missed during the battle—opportunities that would have turned the defeat into a victory. (Ewell’s 

decision not to attack was generally viewed as a missed opportunity.) See, for example, 

Henry Kyd Douglas, I Rode with Stonewall (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina 


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396 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tially like the innumerable failed frontal assaults on the Western Front of 

1914–1918, because inherently an amphibious assault must be a headon attack and not a flanking maneuver. An amphibious assault would be 

yet more hopeless than attacks on the old Western Front because of the 

necessity to attack out of the water, with soldiers’ movement impeded 

and even minor wounds likely to lead to death by drowning. Moreover, 

there was the necessity to reinforce and resupply by transshipment out 

of the water. When the planning for the cross-Channel invasion of 1944 

began in earnest during the winter of 1943–1944, the Gallipoli syndrome 

had not yet been exorcised to the extent that we may now imagine. The 

only amphibious assaults of that time in World War II that had contended 

against serious resistance on the beaches were Salerno in Italy on 9 September and Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific on 20 November 

1943; both had brushed uncomfortably close to failure. Neither Salerno 

nor Tarawa had presented defenses nearly so formidable as those with 

which the Germans would guard the northwest coast of France by the 

spring of 1944.

Finally, fear clouded the Neptune planning. An Anglo-American defeat on the Normandy beaches so late in the war might produce incalculably grave effects upon the whole remaining course of World War II, 

particularly upon the resolve of war-weary Great Britain and the fate of 

Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s government. For the very reason that 

the fears were so deep-rooted and severe, to overcome them Neptune became the most meticulously planned endeavor in all military history.

Fortunately for the Allies, Neptune—translated into action on DDay, 6 June 1944—rewarded the care of its planners by proceeding so 

smoothly and effectively that the D-Day invasion was almost an anticlimax. The losses in the invading force that day, somewhat over 10,000 

in total with about 2,000 dead,2

 were obviously not inconsiderable, but 

they were certainly fewer than most of the Allied planners and commanders had anticipated. On four of the five assault beaches, there was never 

any question following the first waves of the landing force that the invasion would stay and would not be pushed back into the water. Even on 

the Americans’ Omaha Beach, the only place where during the morning 

there seemed to be danger of a reversal, doubts were resolved by noon.

But the Neptune planning had been tactical and technological rather 

than operational. D-Day had been almost anticlimactic in its success because there had been intricately detailed calculation of such tactically important minutiae as considerations of the proper timing of the first landings in relation to tidal conditions—preferably at midpoint on a rising 

tide so that landing vessels disembarking troops and cargo could readily 

be re-floated. This also meant that troops would not have to advance the 

excessive distance across open beaches under enemy fire that would result from landings at low tide. At the same time, the enemy’s beach ob396 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tially like the innumerable failed frontal assaults on the Western Front of 

1914–1918, because inherently an amphibious assault must be a headon attack and not a flanking maneuver. An amphibious assault would be 

yet more hopeless than attacks on the old Western Front because of the 

necessity to attack out of the water, with soldiers’ movement impeded 

and even minor wounds likely to lead to death by drowning. Moreover, 

there was the necessity to reinforce and resupply by transshipment out 

of the water. When the planning for the cross-Channel invasion of 1944 

began in earnest during the winter of 1943–1944, the Gallipoli syndrome 

had not yet been exorcised to the extent that we may now imagine. The 

only amphibious assaults of that time in World War II that had contended 

against serious resistance on the beaches were Salerno in Italy on 9 September and Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific on 20 November 

1943; both had brushed uncomfortably close to failure. Neither Salerno 

nor Tarawa had presented defenses nearly so formidable as those with 

which the Germans would guard the northwest coast of France by the 

spring of 1944.

Finally, fear clouded the Neptune planning. An Anglo-American defeat on the Normandy beaches so late in the war might produce incalculably grave effects upon the whole remaining course of World War II, 

particularly upon the resolve of war-weary Great Britain and the fate of 

Prime Minister Winston Churchill’s government. For the very reason that 

the fears were so deep-rooted and severe, to overcome them Neptune became the most meticulously planned endeavor in all military history.

Fortunately for the Allies, Neptune—translated into action on DDay, 6 June 1944—rewarded the care of its planners by proceeding so 

smoothly and effectively that the D-Day invasion was almost an anticlimax. The losses in the invading force that day, somewhat over 10,000 

in total with about 2,000 dead,2

 were obviously not inconsiderable, but 

they were certainly fewer than most of the Allied planners and commanders had anticipated. On four of the five assault beaches, there was never 

any question following the first waves of the landing force that the invasion would stay and would not be pushed back into the water. Even on 

the Americans’ Omaha Beach, the only place where during the morning 

there seemed to be danger of a reversal, doubts were resolved by noon.

But the Neptune planning had been tactical and technological rather 

than operational. D-Day had been almost anticlimactic in its success because there had been intricately detailed calculation of such tactically important minutiae as considerations of the proper timing of the first landings in relation to tidal conditions—preferably at midpoint on a rising 

tide so that landing vessels disembarking troops and cargo could readily 

be re-floated. This also meant that troops would not have to advance the 

excessive distance across open beaches under enemy fire that would result from landings at low tide. At the same time, the enemy’s beach ob398 historical perspectives of the operational art 

logisticians who believed that the early capture of a large seaport would 

be vital to winning the battle of the logistical buildup against the enemy. 

Normandy also was within the combat radius from English bases of all 

the aircraft required for aerial support, including the relatively shortranging Supermarine Spitfire. Indeed, Allied planners choosing the invasion site had long since concluded that there was no practical alternative 

to Normandy.8

But going to Normandy meant, especially in the American zone to 

the west of the British, at the base of the Cotentin or Cherbourg Peninsula 

and just east of there, the necessity to press from the beaches into the 

hedgerows of the bocage. The hedgerows divided the Norman countryside into innumerable separate earthen-walled enclosures, some about 

as large as an American football field, most considerably smaller. The 

hedgerows were often as much as two meters thick at the base and two 

to three meters high. Hawthorn bushes and other vegetation springing 

out from them might reach as much as four meters above the ground. 

All but the most important roads through the hedgerow country tended 

to be sunken lanes, worn down by centuries of wagon traffic to make the 

adjacent hedgerows more commanding still, with foliage overarching the 

lanes. In this terrain the Allies’ strong suit of mobility could not be appropriately exploited. Truck and even tank movement could be too readily 

blocked. Tanks could not break through the hedgerows. The enemy could 

shelter himself against artillery fire. Combat would tend to resolve itself 

into a series of field-by-field infantry battles, the foot soldiers having to 

fight for each hedgerow in turn, then having to move across the exposed 

intervening ground to reach the next hedgerow.9

On the right of the American sector, around the base of the Cotentin or 

Cherbourg Peninsula, the hedgerows gave way to different but equally difficult obstacles of terrain. Here, low-lying land could be and in the event 

was readily inundated by the German defenders, so that only occasional 

causeways afforded dry passage across flooded prairies. An entire division 

might have to advance on a front not much more than one tank wide.10

The Overlord planners gave almost no thought to the terrain obstacles of the bocage, and only slightly more to the inundated prairies. 

Certainly the obstacles were visible in aerial photographs. There were 

occasional references to them in preinvasion discussions, especially 

by British planners who had traveled in Normandy before the war. But 

there was no effective operational planning to cope with Norman geography. Allied ground commanders were left to improvise responses to 

the bocage after the invasion began to press inland from the beaches. Indeed, not only operational but also tactical and technological responses 

were left to be tinkered out under the pressures of costly and nearly 

stalemated combat. Only after the hedgerows had frustrated attempts to 

break through with ordinary tanks did the troops in the field improvise 
398 historical perspectives of the operational art 

logisticians who believed that the early capture of a large seaport would 

be vital to winning the battle of the logistical buildup against the enemy. 

Normandy also was within the combat radius from English bases of all 

the aircraft required for aerial support, including the relatively shortranging Supermarine Spitfire. Indeed, Allied planners choosing the invasion site had long since concluded that there was no practical alternative 

to Normandy.8

But going to Normandy meant, especially in the American zone to 

the west of the British, at the base of the Cotentin or Cherbourg Peninsula 

and just east of there, the necessity to press from the beaches into the 

hedgerows of the bocage. The hedgerows divided the Norman countryside into innumerable separate earthen-walled enclosures, some about 

as large as an American football field, most considerably smaller. The 

hedgerows were often as much as two meters thick at the base and two 

to three meters high. Hawthorn bushes and other vegetation springing 

out from them might reach as much as four meters above the ground. 

All but the most important roads through the hedgerow country tended 

to be sunken lanes, worn down by centuries of wagon traffic to make the 

adjacent hedgerows more commanding still, with foliage overarching the 

lanes. In this terrain the Allies’ strong suit of mobility could not be appropriately exploited. Truck and even tank movement could be too readily 

blocked. Tanks could not break through the hedgerows. The enemy could 

shelter himself against artillery fire. Combat would tend to resolve itself 

into a series of field-by-field infantry battles, the foot soldiers having to 

fight for each hedgerow in turn, then having to move across the exposed 

intervening ground to reach the next hedgerow.9

On the right of the American sector, around the base of the Cotentin or 

Cherbourg Peninsula, the hedgerows gave way to different but equally difficult obstacles of terrain. Here, low-lying land could be and in the event 

was readily inundated by the German defenders, so that only occasional 

causeways afforded dry passage across flooded prairies. An entire division 

might have to advance on a front not much more than one tank wide.10

The Overlord planners gave almost no thought to the terrain obstacles of the bocage, and only slightly more to the inundated prairies. 

Certainly the obstacles were visible in aerial photographs. There were 

occasional references to them in preinvasion discussions, especially 

by British planners who had traveled in Normandy before the war. But 

there was no effective operational planning to cope with Norman geography. Allied ground commanders were left to improvise responses to 

the bocage after the invasion began to press inland from the beaches. Indeed, not only operational but also tactical and technological responses 

were left to be tinkered out under the pressures of costly and nearly 

stalemated combat. Only after the hedgerows had frustrated attempts to 

break through with ordinary tanks did the troops in the field improvise 
400 historical perspectives of the operational art 

cise of operational imagination offered itself until the Americans had not 

only struggled through the worst of the bocage but carried their front, between the towns of St. Lô and Périers, to a stretch of Route Nationale 800 

that ran for some 23 kilometers from east-southeast to west-northwest as 

straight as an arrow. This highway feature presented the American command with an uncommonly apt invitation to exploit another Allied trump 

card, superior airpower, in support of the ground battle. The straight road 

could serve as a landmark readily enough visible from the air. While 

American troops gathered, poised for assault, just north of the highway, 

aircraft including heavy bombers could saturation-bomb an area just 

south of the road so thoroughly that the defenders might be pulverized or 

stunned into helplessness and the possibility thus be opened to rupture 

the German lines.

Upon this tactical conception the American command built an ambitious operational design, the work largely of Lt. Gen. Omar N. Bradley, 

commanding the First U.S. Army (as well as the 12th Army Group, not 

yet fully operational), and Maj. Gen. J. Lawton “Lightning Joe” Collins, 

commanding the VII Corps. These formations were to have three infantry divisions—from right to left, the 9th, 4th, and 30th—deployed and 

ready to assail the German defenders in the area of the saturation bombing, a rectangle 7,000 yards wide and 2,500 yards deep (approximately 

the same dimensions in meters) immediately after the bombardment. Behind the three assaulting infantry divisions waited three mechanized divisions: the 1st Infantry Division, motorized for the occasion, with Combat 

Command B of the 2d Armored Division attached; the remainder of the 

2d Armored Division; and the 3d Armored Division with the 22d Infantry attached. Once the three forward divisions had punched a hole in the 

German lines, the mechanized divisions were to exploit the breakthrough 

into a breakout that would end the near deadlock persisting since D-Day. 

This was to be Operation Cobra.

16

It was, incidentally, one of the few occasions during the European 

campaign when the Americans, inclined by their consciousness of bountiful overall strength to attack on broad fronts, acted in recognition of the 

value of concentration.

Tragedy, however, twice stained the launching of Cobra. The operation was scheduled to begin on 24 July but had to be postponed because 

of bad weather. Before word of the postponement could reach the headquarters of all the relevant air commands of the Allied Expeditionary 

Air Forces, the heavy bombers had commenced their bombing runs, and 

enough bombs fell short of their targets to kill 25 men and wound 131 

infantrymen attached to the 30th Division. The short bombing was the 

result partly of the bombers making their approach perpendicular to the 

target area and thus over the heads of the American infantry, although 

Bradley thought that the air chieftains had assured him that the bomb400 historical perspectives of the operational art 

cise of operational imagination offered itself until the Americans had not 

only struggled through the worst of the bocage but carried their front, between the towns of St. Lô and Périers, to a stretch of Route Nationale 800 

that ran for some 23 kilometers from east-southeast to west-northwest as 

straight as an arrow. This highway feature presented the American command with an uncommonly apt invitation to exploit another Allied trump 

card, superior airpower, in support of the ground battle. The straight road 

could serve as a landmark readily enough visible from the air. While 

American troops gathered, poised for assault, just north of the highway, 

aircraft including heavy bombers could saturation-bomb an area just 

south of the road so thoroughly that the defenders might be pulverized or 

stunned into helplessness and the possibility thus be opened to rupture 

the German lines.

Upon this tactical conception the American command built an ambitious operational design, the work largely of Lt. Gen. Omar N. Bradley, 

commanding the First U.S. Army (as well as the 12th Army Group, not 

yet fully operational), and Maj. Gen. J. Lawton “Lightning Joe” Collins, 

commanding the VII Corps. These formations were to have three infantry divisions—from right to left, the 9th, 4th, and 30th—deployed and 

ready to assail the German defenders in the area of the saturation bombing, a rectangle 7,000 yards wide and 2,500 yards deep (approximately 

the same dimensions in meters) immediately after the bombardment. Behind the three assaulting infantry divisions waited three mechanized divisions: the 1st Infantry Division, motorized for the occasion, with Combat 

Command B of the 2d Armored Division attached; the remainder of the 

2d Armored Division; and the 3d Armored Division with the 22d Infantry attached. Once the three forward divisions had punched a hole in the 

German lines, the mechanized divisions were to exploit the breakthrough 

into a breakout that would end the near deadlock persisting since D-Day. 

This was to be Operation Cobra.

16

It was, incidentally, one of the few occasions during the European 

campaign when the Americans, inclined by their consciousness of bountiful overall strength to attack on broad fronts, acted in recognition of the 

value of concentration.

Tragedy, however, twice stained the launching of Cobra. The operation was scheduled to begin on 24 July but had to be postponed because 

of bad weather. Before word of the postponement could reach the headquarters of all the relevant air commands of the Allied Expeditionary 

Air Forces, the heavy bombers had commenced their bombing runs, and 

enough bombs fell short of their targets to kill 25 men and wound 131 

infantrymen attached to the 30th Division. The short bombing was the 

result partly of the bombers making their approach perpendicular to the 

target area and thus over the heads of the American infantry, although 

Bradley thought that the air chieftains had assured him that the bomb402 historical perspectives of the operational art 

armored divisions, the 4th and the 6th, rather than one such division as 

usually assigned to an American corps.19

General Montgomery was to remain Allied ground commander 

through his 21st Army Group headquarters until General Eisenhower set 

up headquarters on the Continent and assumed direct ground command. 

This transition occurred at noon on 1 September, whereupon Bradley’s 

army group passed altogether from Montgomery’s control (the British 

government compensated Montgomery by promoting him to field marshal as of that date).20 Meanwhile, however, Montgomery believed that 

for reasons of diplomacy he must hold the reins much more loosely when 

he dealt with American rather than British subordinates. Wisely, Montgomery perceived that the breakout went far toward negating the need for 

the Breton ports. With Allied forces now able to drive rapidly eastward, 

other ports could be secured much closer to the main front; by the time 

the Breton ports were captured and cleared of the predictable German demolitions, better logistical facilities would be available. Thus Montgomery deemed the commitment of an exceptionally large corps to Brittany a 

misuse of scarce resources.21

Contrary to the American impression of Montgomery as an inveterately cautious commander, he was willing to take risks where Brittany 

was concerned for the sake of a more powerful drive east toward Berlin 

and, it could be hoped, a prompt end to the war. Bradley and the principal 

American commanders were unwilling to take those risks. The Overlord plan, developed when a breakout could not be counted on, called 

for the westward turn from Normandy into Brittany, and the Americans 

remained locked into the plan. They failed to develop the operational 

possibilities of their own tactical success with Cobra.

As Montgomery feared, the Breton ports ended up having little relevance to the campaign eastward, particularly because a tenacious German defense held Brest until 20 September. The consequences were serious. One of the two armored divisions in Brittany, the 4th, turned back 

eastward after pressing only about halfway into the Peninsula, but in the 

meantime it contributed to the Brittany offensive’s heavy consumption 

for dubious purposes of supplies that would soon become desperately 

scarce elsewhere. This description applies particularly to fuel. The Allied drive across France unleashed by the Cobra breakout was destined 

to halt at about the borders of Germany and the Low Countries, because 

there it ran out of fuel. The Allies had to pause, and the pause lasted just 

long enough to permit the Germans to regroup in their Westwall defenses 

and to impose a new deadlock upon the Allies in the autumn. Even relatively small additional amounts of gasoline, certainly those amounts that 

powered the VIII Corps drive across Brittany, might conceivably have 

provided enough additional impetus to the Allies to deny the enemy the 

respite he needed after his flight from France.22
402 historical perspectives of the operational art 

armored divisions, the 4th and the 6th, rather than one such division as 

usually assigned to an American corps.19

General Montgomery was to remain Allied ground commander 

through his 21st Army Group headquarters until General Eisenhower set 

up headquarters on the Continent and assumed direct ground command. 

This transition occurred at noon on 1 September, whereupon Bradley’s 

army group passed altogether from Montgomery’s control (the British 

government compensated Montgomery by promoting him to field marshal as of that date).20 Meanwhile, however, Montgomery believed that 

for reasons of diplomacy he must hold the reins much more loosely when 

he dealt with American rather than British subordinates. Wisely, Montgomery perceived that the breakout went far toward negating the need for 

the Breton ports. With Allied forces now able to drive rapidly eastward, 

other ports could be secured much closer to the main front; by the time 

the Breton ports were captured and cleared of the predictable German demolitions, better logistical facilities would be available. Thus Montgomery deemed the commitment of an exceptionally large corps to Brittany a 

misuse of scarce resources.21

Contrary to the American impression of Montgomery as an inveterately cautious commander, he was willing to take risks where Brittany 

was concerned for the sake of a more powerful drive east toward Berlin 

and, it could be hoped, a prompt end to the war. Bradley and the principal 

American commanders were unwilling to take those risks. The Overlord plan, developed when a breakout could not be counted on, called 

for the westward turn from Normandy into Brittany, and the Americans 

remained locked into the plan. They failed to develop the operational 

possibilities of their own tactical success with Cobra.

As Montgomery feared, the Breton ports ended up having little relevance to the campaign eastward, particularly because a tenacious German defense held Brest until 20 September. The consequences were serious. One of the two armored divisions in Brittany, the 4th, turned back 

eastward after pressing only about halfway into the Peninsula, but in the 

meantime it contributed to the Brittany offensive’s heavy consumption 

for dubious purposes of supplies that would soon become desperately 

scarce elsewhere. This description applies particularly to fuel. The Allied drive across France unleashed by the Cobra breakout was destined 

to halt at about the borders of Germany and the Low Countries, because 

there it ran out of fuel. The Allies had to pause, and the pause lasted just 

long enough to permit the Germans to regroup in their Westwall defenses 

and to impose a new deadlock upon the Allies in the autumn. Even relatively small additional amounts of gasoline, certainly those amounts that 

powered the VIII Corps drive across Brittany, might conceivably have 

provided enough additional impetus to the Allies to deny the enemy the 

respite he needed after his flight from France.22
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Map 15
406 historical perspectives of the operational art 

near Argentan. He preferred to pause to consolidate along that shoulder. 

Second, when the short envelopment began, the Canadians to the north 

had been much closer to Argentan than the Americans, so the boundary between the 12th and 21st Army Groups lay just over ten kilometers 

south of that town. To advance farther, Haislip would have to press into 

the zone of the British army group, and Bradley feared a costly collision 

between Allied troops.

Behind the latter two overt reasons for Bradley’s halting the XV 

Corps lay factors of personality of the sort that can readily inject elements 

of irrationality into otherwise rational planning—factors not reflected 

on neat maps displaying combat formations as orderly rectangles. Montgomery was a vain and egotistical man, continually attempting to appropriate to himself as much credit as possible for everything that went well 

in his vicinity, whether or not the credit rightly belonged to him. He was 

not widely liked, even among his fellow British officers (although he had 

created a bond of rapport with his British soldiers—he got along much 

better with those separated from him by a wide gap in rank and age than 

with his peers or his immediate subordinates). Among the Americans, the 

distance occasioned by his headline-hunting and by his vanity and acerbity more generally was aggravated by the condescension he affected toward those with less combat experience than himself and his countrymen 

(which was largely experience in losing, the cynical might respond).

Patton had come to loathe Montgomery when they commanded the 

U.S. Seventh and British Eighth Armies, respectively, in Sicily and raced 

each other for the port of Messina. Notwithstanding Montgomery’s forbearance in handling the Americans since D-Day in Normandy, numerous points of friction had exacerbated bad feelings, with Bradley as well 

as with Patton. The latter two, estranged over Patton’s soldier-slapping 

escapades in Sicily and other indications of his instability of character, 

had renewed their friendship in no small degree on the basis of their 

shared aversion to Montgomery. By August 1944 Patton was playing 

upon and encouraging Bradley’s preference for keeping his distance 

from Montgomery.

Under the command structure prevailing in August, Bradley would 

have needed Montgomery’s permission to alter the interarmy group 

boundary to facilitate an American advance through Argentan and beyond. But Bradley would not pick up the telephone to ask Montgomery 

for the change, so wide a chasm had opened between the senior American and British field commanders. Nor would General Dwight D. Eisenhower intervene: His conception of his and his subordinates’ command 

responsibilities required that matters of direct concern to the army groups 

be left to the heads of the army groups—probably excessive self-denial 

on the part of the Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Forces. 

This interplay of personalities among the generals may well do more to 
406 historical perspectives of the operational art 

near Argentan. He preferred to pause to consolidate along that shoulder. 

Second, when the short envelopment began, the Canadians to the north 

had been much closer to Argentan than the Americans, so the boundary between the 12th and 21st Army Groups lay just over ten kilometers 

south of that town. To advance farther, Haislip would have to press into 

the zone of the British army group, and Bradley feared a costly collision 

between Allied troops.

Behind the latter two overt reasons for Bradley’s halting the XV 

Corps lay factors of personality of the sort that can readily inject elements 

of irrationality into otherwise rational planning—factors not reflected 

on neat maps displaying combat formations as orderly rectangles. Montgomery was a vain and egotistical man, continually attempting to appropriate to himself as much credit as possible for everything that went well 

in his vicinity, whether or not the credit rightly belonged to him. He was 

not widely liked, even among his fellow British officers (although he had 

created a bond of rapport with his British soldiers—he got along much 

better with those separated from him by a wide gap in rank and age than 

with his peers or his immediate subordinates). Among the Americans, the 

distance occasioned by his headline-hunting and by his vanity and acerbity more generally was aggravated by the condescension he affected toward those with less combat experience than himself and his countrymen 

(which was largely experience in losing, the cynical might respond).

Patton had come to loathe Montgomery when they commanded the 

U.S. Seventh and British Eighth Armies, respectively, in Sicily and raced 

each other for the port of Messina. Notwithstanding Montgomery’s forbearance in handling the Americans since D-Day in Normandy, numerous points of friction had exacerbated bad feelings, with Bradley as well 

as with Patton. The latter two, estranged over Patton’s soldier-slapping 

escapades in Sicily and other indications of his instability of character, 

had renewed their friendship in no small degree on the basis of their 

shared aversion to Montgomery. By August 1944 Patton was playing 

upon and encouraging Bradley’s preference for keeping his distance 

from Montgomery.

Under the command structure prevailing in August, Bradley would 

have needed Montgomery’s permission to alter the interarmy group 

boundary to facilitate an American advance through Argentan and beyond. But Bradley would not pick up the telephone to ask Montgomery 

for the change, so wide a chasm had opened between the senior American and British field commanders. Nor would General Dwight D. Eisenhower intervene: His conception of his and his subordinates’ command 

responsibilities required that matters of direct concern to the army groups 

be left to the heads of the army groups—probably excessive self-denial 

on the part of the Supreme Commander, Allied Expeditionary Forces. 

This interplay of personalities among the generals may well do more to 
408 historical perspectives of the operational art 

On 16 August Montgomery belatedly took the initiative to restore the 

short envelopment. His belatedness underlines once more the absence of 

sustained operational forethought and planning, on the part of both the 

principal Allies, the British as well as the Americans. Montgomery telephoned Bradley—note the direction of the call—to suggest a renewed 

push to close the encirclement of the Germans remaining in the FalaiseArgentan Pocket by closing the pincers between Falaise and Argentan. 

To this end the British command took the initiative also in suggesting a 

revised interarmy group boundary, so that the Americans would meet the 

Canadians about eleven kilometers northeast of Argentan, near Trun and 

Chambois.28 (See Map 15.)

Unfortunately for the Allies, because the Germans were rushing to 

escape from the pocket they were now in considerably greater strength 

between the Allied pincers than they would have been if the Americans 

had persisted in the attack on the thirteenth or fourteenth. Bradley accepted Montgomery’s suggestion, but German resistance was a good 

deal stiffer than it would have been likely to be a few days earlier. The 

departure of General Haislip compelled the Americans to shuffle their 

command structure around Argentan, which caused further delay. On 16 

August Patton created a provisional corps under his chief of staff, Maj. 

Gen. Hugh J. Gaffey, to take over the French 2ème Division Blindée and 

the American 90th Infantry Division from the XV Corps, along with 

the 80th Infantry Division. Gaffey ordered his troops to be ready to attack by 1000 hours on 17 August, but before the effort could get under 

way, Maj. Gen. Leonard T. Gerow arrived by Bradley’s orders with his 

V Corps headquarters of the First Army to take over from Gaffey and 

Patton the three divisions scheduled to make the Argentan drive. Gerow 

took command by daybreak on the seventeenth, but his desire for an 

improved line of departure postponed the main attack until the early 

hours of 18 August.29

The Falaise-Argentan pincers closed at last the next day, 19 August, 

near Chambois. The closing sealed, after all, an impressive Allied victory. Some 50,000 Germans were caught in the envelopment and became 

prisoners. About 10,000 German dead lay within the encirclement area. 

As the pocket had narrowed, Allied tactical air power had battered the 

enemy’s equipment within it mercilessly, and the tanks, self-propelled 

guns, and other heavy materiel not wrecked from the air largely had to be 

abandoned as the last Germans fled through the closing jaws. The German defeat was complete enough that the long envelopment on the Seine, 

on which Patton’s Third Army embarked after the shift from Argentan, 

produced far less spectacular results, because the spectacular prizes were 

no longer available.30

Nevertheless, the enemy was able to extricate nearly all his army, 

corps, and division headquarters staffs, which meant that he retained the 
408 historical perspectives of the operational art 

On 16 August Montgomery belatedly took the initiative to restore the 

short envelopment. His belatedness underlines once more the absence of 

sustained operational forethought and planning, on the part of both the 

principal Allies, the British as well as the Americans. Montgomery telephoned Bradley—note the direction of the call—to suggest a renewed 

push to close the encirclement of the Germans remaining in the FalaiseArgentan Pocket by closing the pincers between Falaise and Argentan. 

To this end the British command took the initiative also in suggesting a 

revised interarmy group boundary, so that the Americans would meet the 

Canadians about eleven kilometers northeast of Argentan, near Trun and 

Chambois.28 (See Map 15.)

Unfortunately for the Allies, because the Germans were rushing to 

escape from the pocket they were now in considerably greater strength 

between the Allied pincers than they would have been if the Americans 

had persisted in the attack on the thirteenth or fourteenth. Bradley accepted Montgomery’s suggestion, but German resistance was a good 

deal stiffer than it would have been likely to be a few days earlier. The 

departure of General Haislip compelled the Americans to shuffle their 

command structure around Argentan, which caused further delay. On 16 

August Patton created a provisional corps under his chief of staff, Maj. 

Gen. Hugh J. Gaffey, to take over the French 2ème Division Blindée and 

the American 90th Infantry Division from the XV Corps, along with 

the 80th Infantry Division. Gaffey ordered his troops to be ready to attack by 1000 hours on 17 August, but before the effort could get under 

way, Maj. Gen. Leonard T. Gerow arrived by Bradley’s orders with his 

V Corps headquarters of the First Army to take over from Gaffey and 

Patton the three divisions scheduled to make the Argentan drive. Gerow 

took command by daybreak on the seventeenth, but his desire for an 

improved line of departure postponed the main attack until the early 

hours of 18 August.29

The Falaise-Argentan pincers closed at last the next day, 19 August, 

near Chambois. The closing sealed, after all, an impressive Allied victory. Some 50,000 Germans were caught in the envelopment and became 

prisoners. About 10,000 German dead lay within the encirclement area. 

As the pocket had narrowed, Allied tactical air power had battered the 

enemy’s equipment within it mercilessly, and the tanks, self-propelled 

guns, and other heavy materiel not wrecked from the air largely had to be 

abandoned as the last Germans fled through the closing jaws. The German defeat was complete enough that the long envelopment on the Seine, 

on which Patton’s Third Army embarked after the shift from Argentan, 

produced far less spectacular results, because the spectacular prizes were 

no longer available.30

Nevertheless, the enemy was able to extricate nearly all his army, 

corps, and division headquarters staffs, which meant that he retained the 
410 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the West had neglected, in the area of the operational art. Here, repeated 

failures to exploit tactical advantages as fully as possible to implement 

the strategic design for the destruction of German power in the West, failures to link tactics to strategy by way of a refined, thoughtful, coherent 

operational art, probably prolonged World War II. The Allied campaign 

in northwest Europe in 1944 was a triumphant military endeavor on a 

grand scale, and its commanders and soldiers merit the heroic stature 

that history has usually accorded them. But the triumph could have been 

more complete.
410 historical perspectives of the operational art 

the West had neglected, in the area of the operational art. Here, repeated 

failures to exploit tactical advantages as fully as possible to implement 

the strategic design for the destruction of German power in the West, failures to link tactics to strategy by way of a refined, thoughtful, coherent 

operational art, probably prolonged World War II. The Allied campaign 

in northwest Europe in 1944 was a triumphant military endeavor on a 

grand scale, and its commanders and soldiers merit the heroic stature 

that history has usually accorded them. But the triumph could have been 

more complete.
412 historical perspectives of the operational art 

upon, mainly as it determined the subsequent occupation zones in Germany, in Cornelius 

Ryan, The Last Battle (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1966), pp. 144–45.

16. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 185–223; Bradley, A Soldier’s Story, pp. 

329–34, 338–42; J. Lawton Collins, Lightning Joe: An Autobiography (Baton Rouge: 

Louisiana State University Press, 1979), pp. 233–38; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 

337–51.

17. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 228–33 (p. 229, for casualties); Bradley, A 

Soldier’s Story, pp. 346–47; Collins, Lightning Joe, pp. 238–39.

18. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 231–66 (particularly p. 241, for Collins’ decision); Collins, Lightning Joe, pp. 241–46 (particularly p. 242, for the same decision); 

D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 403–07.

19. See Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 343–44, for the new command arrangements; see pp. 347–49 for the plans for the Third Army and VIII Corps to advance into 

Brittany.

20. Forrest C. Pogue, The Supreme Command, U.S. Army in World War II (Washington, 

D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1954), pp. 204, 261–63; Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 343–44, 684, and 684, for Montgomery’s promotion.

21. On Montgomery’s wishes to throw the overwhelming bulk of the Allied armies 

eastward with no emphasis on Brittany, see The Memoirs of Field-Marshal the Viscount 

Montgomery of Alamein, K.G. (Cleveland: The World Publishing Co., 1958), pp. 238–40; 

Nigel Hamilton, Master of the Battlefield: Monty’s War Years, 1942–1944 (New York: 

McGraw Hill, 1983), pp. 778–79.

22. For the American belief in the importance of the Breton ports, see Blumenson, 

Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 209–10, 343–44; for the operations in Brittany, see pp. 337–

415, 631–56; for the end of resistance at Brest on 20 September, see p. 652; for the 

inutility of the Breton ports as events unfolded, see pp. 655–56. For subsequent Allied 

logistical problems, see pp. 657–75, 676–702, and Ruppenthal, Logistical Support of the 

Armies, 2: 3–21.

23. For Allied envelopment plans, see Pogue, The Supreme Command, pp. 208–09; Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 479–81, 492–99. For the German counterattack, see 

Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 457–75.

24. D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 415–17, 420–21; Ralph Bennett, Ultra in the 

West: The Normandy Campaign of 1944–45 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1980), 

pp. 115–19.

25. For the halt on 13 August, see Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, p. 505. For Bradley’s and the Allies’ decision-making and the problems of inter-Allied command relations, see Bradley, A Soldier’s Story, pp. 373–79; Dwight D. Eisenhower, Crusade in 

Europe (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday and Co., 1948), pp. 276–79; Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 506–09, 523–24, 527; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 439–60. 

For Bradley’s blaming Montgomery, see Bradley, A Soldier’s Story, p. 377; Blumenson, 

Breakout and Pursuit, p. 508.

26. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, p. 523.

27. Ibid., p. 524.

28. Ibid., p. 527.

29. Ibid., pp. 527, 529–30.

30. Ibid., pp. 537–42, for 19 August; p. 557, for the number of Germans captured; p. 

558, for the German dead and losses of equipment.

31. Ibid., pp. 530–35, 538, 540, 542–58, and Wilmot, Struggle for Europe, pp. 423–44 

on the escape of German cadres. For the implications, see Wilmot, Struggle for Europe, 
412 historical perspectives of the operational art 

upon, mainly as it determined the subsequent occupation zones in Germany, in Cornelius 

Ryan, The Last Battle (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1966), pp. 144–45.

16. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 185–223; Bradley, A Soldier’s Story, pp. 

329–34, 338–42; J. Lawton Collins, Lightning Joe: An Autobiography (Baton Rouge: 

Louisiana State University Press, 1979), pp. 233–38; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 

337–51.

17. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 228–33 (p. 229, for casualties); Bradley, A 

Soldier’s Story, pp. 346–47; Collins, Lightning Joe, pp. 238–39.

18. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 231–66 (particularly p. 241, for Collins’ decision); Collins, Lightning Joe, pp. 241–46 (particularly p. 242, for the same decision); 

D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 403–07.

19. See Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 343–44, for the new command arrangements; see pp. 347–49 for the plans for the Third Army and VIII Corps to advance into 

Brittany.

20. Forrest C. Pogue, The Supreme Command, U.S. Army in World War II (Washington, 

D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1954), pp. 204, 261–63; Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 343–44, 684, and 684, for Montgomery’s promotion.

21. On Montgomery’s wishes to throw the overwhelming bulk of the Allied armies 

eastward with no emphasis on Brittany, see The Memoirs of Field-Marshal the Viscount 

Montgomery of Alamein, K.G. (Cleveland: The World Publishing Co., 1958), pp. 238–40; 

Nigel Hamilton, Master of the Battlefield: Monty’s War Years, 1942–1944 (New York: 

McGraw Hill, 1983), pp. 778–79.

22. For the American belief in the importance of the Breton ports, see Blumenson, 

Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 209–10, 343–44; for the operations in Brittany, see pp. 337–

415, 631–56; for the end of resistance at Brest on 20 September, see p. 652; for the 

inutility of the Breton ports as events unfolded, see pp. 655–56. For subsequent Allied 

logistical problems, see pp. 657–75, 676–702, and Ruppenthal, Logistical Support of the 

Armies, 2: 3–21.

23. For Allied envelopment plans, see Pogue, The Supreme Command, pp. 208–09; Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 479–81, 492–99. For the German counterattack, see 

Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 457–75.

24. D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 415–17, 420–21; Ralph Bennett, Ultra in the 

West: The Normandy Campaign of 1944–45 (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1980), 

pp. 115–19.

25. For the halt on 13 August, see Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, p. 505. For Bradley’s and the Allies’ decision-making and the problems of inter-Allied command relations, see Bradley, A Soldier’s Story, pp. 373–79; Dwight D. Eisenhower, Crusade in 

Europe (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday and Co., 1948), pp. 276–79; Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, pp. 506–09, 523–24, 527; D’Este, Decision in Normandy, pp. 439–60. 

For Bradley’s blaming Montgomery, see Bradley, A Soldier’s Story, p. 377; Blumenson, 

Breakout and Pursuit, p. 508.

26. Blumenson, Breakout and Pursuit, p. 523.

27. Ibid., p. 524.

28. Ibid., p. 527.

29. Ibid., pp. 527, 529–30.

30. Ibid., pp. 537–42, for 19 August; p. 557, for the number of Germans captured; p. 

558, for the German dead and losses of equipment.

31. Ibid., pp. 530–35, 538, 540, 542–58, and Wilmot, Struggle for Europe, pp. 423–44 

on the escape of German cadres. For the implications, see Wilmot, Struggle for Europe, 


416 historical perspectives of the operational art

air power to isolate the battlefield.3 Arguably, there were elements of all 

these in MacArthur’s defeat, but they offer little help to either serious 

students of military history or the serving professionals who seek to understand how UNC came to find itself in such disarray on the eve of the 

Chinese counterstroke and why miscalculation so quickly turned into 

calamity. Certainly, they cannot be assigned appropriate weight unless 

one first asks what demands were made on the command and control 

system adapted for operations in North Korea and its adequacy for the 

purpose. Analysis of the reverses suffered by UNC in fact shows that 

it was the failure of the operational command and control system more 

than MacArthur’s often-cited single-mindedness that made inevitable a 

defeat of the magnitude the Chinese inflicted. That the latter contributed to the former is indisputable, given the dominance of MacArthur’s 

personality; yet UNC would not have come so close to catastrophe with 

less flawed command and control.

This essay concentrates on the period from the recapture of Seoul 

at the end of September 1950 to the withdrawal of UN and Republic of 

Korea (ROK) forces from North Korea completed in late December. The 

transition to the offensive from the stubborn, not infrequently desperate, defense of the Pusan Perimeter began with the Inch’on landings on 

15 September and subsequent breakout from the Perimeter by Eighth 

Army; it was completed with the linkup of forces south of the Han River 

and consolidation at Seoul on 27 September. The same day, MacArthur 

received from the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) the mission to destroy the 

North Korean armed forces and the authority to conduct military operations north of the 38th Parallel to this end. (Map 16) Further, the JCS 

directive specified the political and military constraints on UNC operations and described actions to be taken in the event of contingent Soviet 

or Chinese intervention.

Crossing the 38th Parallel in early October, UN and ROK forces drove 

into North Korea in an aggressive pursuit across a broad front that encountered no serious checks until the surprise Chinese counterattacks at the end of 

the month against extended forces. After a period of consolidation and adjustment of unit boundaries dictated by tactical withdrawals of forward elements, 

the final UN offensive designed to achieve the military objectives of the campaign opened on 24 November. Within seventy-two hours, the Chinese had 

struck hard at several points on UNC’s extended front and threatened to cut 

off major forces deep in North Korea. Though UNC was able to keep open 

its lines of communications (LOC) and extricate most forces in danger of encirclement, it was at the cost of heavy casualties, abandonment or destruction 

of large quantities of materiel, and the ultimate loss of all the hard-won gains 

of the offensive. By Christmas Day, UNC found itself almost where it had 

started three months earlier. It was, as MacArthur himself had reported to the 

JCS on 28 November, “an entirely new war.”4
416 historical perspectives of the operational art

air power to isolate the battlefield.3 Arguably, there were elements of all 

these in MacArthur’s defeat, but they offer little help to either serious 

students of military history or the serving professionals who seek to understand how UNC came to find itself in such disarray on the eve of the 

Chinese counterstroke and why miscalculation so quickly turned into 

calamity. Certainly, they cannot be assigned appropriate weight unless 

one first asks what demands were made on the command and control 

system adapted for operations in North Korea and its adequacy for the 

purpose. Analysis of the reverses suffered by UNC in fact shows that 

it was the failure of the operational command and control system more 

than MacArthur’s often-cited single-mindedness that made inevitable a 

defeat of the magnitude the Chinese inflicted. That the latter contributed to the former is indisputable, given the dominance of MacArthur’s 

personality; yet UNC would not have come so close to catastrophe with 

less flawed command and control.

This essay concentrates on the period from the recapture of Seoul 

at the end of September 1950 to the withdrawal of UN and Republic of 

Korea (ROK) forces from North Korea completed in late December. The 

transition to the offensive from the stubborn, not infrequently desperate, defense of the Pusan Perimeter began with the Inch’on landings on 

15 September and subsequent breakout from the Perimeter by Eighth 

Army; it was completed with the linkup of forces south of the Han River 

and consolidation at Seoul on 27 September. The same day, MacArthur 

received from the Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) the mission to destroy the 

North Korean armed forces and the authority to conduct military operations north of the 38th Parallel to this end. (Map 16) Further, the JCS 

directive specified the political and military constraints on UNC operations and described actions to be taken in the event of contingent Soviet 

or Chinese intervention.

Crossing the 38th Parallel in early October, UN and ROK forces drove 

into North Korea in an aggressive pursuit across a broad front that encountered no serious checks until the surprise Chinese counterattacks at the end of 

the month against extended forces. After a period of consolidation and adjustment of unit boundaries dictated by tactical withdrawals of forward elements, 

the final UN offensive designed to achieve the military objectives of the campaign opened on 24 November. Within seventy-two hours, the Chinese had 

struck hard at several points on UNC’s extended front and threatened to cut 

off major forces deep in North Korea. Though UNC was able to keep open 

its lines of communications (LOC) and extricate most forces in danger of encirclement, it was at the cost of heavy casualties, abandonment or destruction 

of large quantities of materiel, and the ultimate loss of all the hard-won gains 

of the offensive. By Christmas Day, UNC found itself almost where it had 

started three months earlier. It was, as MacArthur himself had reported to the 

JCS on 28 November, “an entirely new war.”4
418 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Genesis of Operations in North Korea

Prior to the recapture of Seoul and the opening of the campaign outlined above, the operational task confronting the Commander in Chief, 

UN Command (CINCUNC), was simple: to maintain a foothold in South 

Korea until a counteroffensive could be undertaken. The command and 

control measures in effect represented ad hoc modifications of the organizations that existed when the North Koreans attacked. These measures 

were generally adequate as long as operations were confined to the area 

enclosed by the Pusan Perimeter and logistical support was uncomplicated (which is not to say easy).5

 The command and control system that existed before hostilities and the initial modifications for war merit a brief 

description before considering operational planning for the invasion of 

North Korea.

First of all, even though MacArthur received his authority and missions as Commander in Chief, Far East (CINCFE), from the JCS, and 

his command included major navy and air force headquarters, General 

Headquarters, Far East Command (GHQ FEC), in Tokyo was essentially 

an army headquarters, staffed almost entirely by army personnel.6

 As a 

gesture toward “jointness,” the staff coordinated planning through a Joint 

Strategic Plans and Operations Group (JSPOG), but the absence in GHQ 

of anything like balanced representation from the three services kept it 

from being a true joint headquarters.7

 Functionally, MacArthur was also 

Commander, U.S. Army Forces Far East (USAFFE), although he did not 

use the title. Therefore, Lt. Gen. Walton Walker, Commander of Eighth 

U.S. Army, was merely the senior major subordinate commander within 

USAFFE, rather than the ground component commander within a joint 

headquarters.8

 Walker had under his direct command four infantry divisions, all garrisoned in Japan, with no intermediate corps headquarters. 

This was the situation when the North Koreans attacked.

When Walker was named commander of ground forces in Korea in 

July 1950, Eighth Army’s area of responsibility was simply extended to 

Korea, and this geographical extension (or subtheater) was designated 

Eighth U.S. Army Korea (EUSAK) to differentiate it from the base structure.9

 While Walker effectively controlled ROK army units in the Pusan 

Perimeter, he had no formal command authority over them (a good example of the improvised nature of initial operations). As quickly as skeleton 

corps headquarters could be organized in the Continental United States 

(CONUS), it was rushed to the theater, with Walker’s immediate requirements taking precedence. Although there was doubt in some quarters that 

Eighth Army could even hold the Perimeter, MacArthur early conceived 

the Inch’on landing as an operational maneuver to regain the initiative. 

This turning movement would isolate the bulk of the North Korean Army 

in the south, recover Seoul, and facilitate immediate offensive operations 
418 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Genesis of Operations in North Korea

Prior to the recapture of Seoul and the opening of the campaign outlined above, the operational task confronting the Commander in Chief, 

UN Command (CINCUNC), was simple: to maintain a foothold in South 

Korea until a counteroffensive could be undertaken. The command and 

control measures in effect represented ad hoc modifications of the organizations that existed when the North Koreans attacked. These measures 

were generally adequate as long as operations were confined to the area 

enclosed by the Pusan Perimeter and logistical support was uncomplicated (which is not to say easy).5

 The command and control system that existed before hostilities and the initial modifications for war merit a brief 

description before considering operational planning for the invasion of 

North Korea.

First of all, even though MacArthur received his authority and missions as Commander in Chief, Far East (CINCFE), from the JCS, and 

his command included major navy and air force headquarters, General 

Headquarters, Far East Command (GHQ FEC), in Tokyo was essentially 

an army headquarters, staffed almost entirely by army personnel.6

 As a 

gesture toward “jointness,” the staff coordinated planning through a Joint 

Strategic Plans and Operations Group (JSPOG), but the absence in GHQ 

of anything like balanced representation from the three services kept it 

from being a true joint headquarters.7

 Functionally, MacArthur was also 

Commander, U.S. Army Forces Far East (USAFFE), although he did not 

use the title. Therefore, Lt. Gen. Walton Walker, Commander of Eighth 

U.S. Army, was merely the senior major subordinate commander within 

USAFFE, rather than the ground component commander within a joint 

headquarters.8

 Walker had under his direct command four infantry divisions, all garrisoned in Japan, with no intermediate corps headquarters. 

This was the situation when the North Koreans attacked.

When Walker was named commander of ground forces in Korea in 

July 1950, Eighth Army’s area of responsibility was simply extended to 

Korea, and this geographical extension (or subtheater) was designated 

Eighth U.S. Army Korea (EUSAK) to differentiate it from the base structure.9

 While Walker effectively controlled ROK army units in the Pusan 

Perimeter, he had no formal command authority over them (a good example of the improvised nature of initial operations). As quickly as skeleton 

corps headquarters could be organized in the Continental United States 

(CONUS), it was rushed to the theater, with Walker’s immediate requirements taking precedence. Although there was doubt in some quarters that 

Eighth Army could even hold the Perimeter, MacArthur early conceived 

the Inch’on landing as an operational maneuver to regain the initiative. 

This turning movement would isolate the bulk of the North Korean Army 

in the south, recover Seoul, and facilitate immediate offensive operations 
420 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The CINC, however, obviously had not communicated his concept of operations to his staff; nor had the staff validated the planning assumptions 

upon which they were proceeding. For, one day prior to receipt of the JCS 

directive, MacArthur surprised the staff with instructions to plan an offensive into North Korea that would feature a deep amphibious envelopment 

(à la Inch’on), in conjunction with a cross-country advance across the 

38th. Although MacArthur did not specify the formation to be used for the 

amphibious landing, there was obviously only one candidate: X Corps.

A New Concept of Operations

MacArthur’s principal staff had assumed that he intended to give 

Walker command of X Corps; the FEC deputy chief of staff, the G–3 

(assistant chief of staff for operations), and G–4 (assistant chief of staff 

for logistics) all strongly favored such a course.15 The Eighth Army staff 

also shared this mistaken assumption and had planned accordingly: After 

Seoul was retaken, X Corps was to continue the attack north toward the 

enemy capital, P’yongyang, maintaining the momentum of the offensive, 

while Eighth Army moved up behind it. Depending upon the development 

of the situation, X Corps might continue the attack in the west toward the 

Yalu, or move laterally along the P’yongyang-Wonsan corridor to assist 

ROK units advancing northward along the east coast. In either event, operations of both forces would be coordinated under Walker’s command.16

Because Inch’on had originally been conceived as only one pincer 

of a vast double envelopment, with a second amphibious operation on 

the east coast, JSPOG already had current data on likely landing sites, 

and within hours of receiving CINCUNC’s guidance was able to present 

MacArthur with an outline plan.17 The most likely candidate was Wonsan, 

an excellent deepwater port on the opposite side of the peninsula’s waist 

from P’yongyang and connected to it by the only east-west LOC of any 

consequence north of the 38th Parallel. MacArthur readily accepted the 

hybrid plan prepared by JSPOG, calling for X Corps to make an amphibious landing at Wonsan and prepare either to effect a juncture with Eighth 

Army (advancing in the west to capture P’yongyang) or to advance north 

to the key coast industrial complex, Hamhung-Hungnam.18 The X Corps 

would constitute an operational maneuver force under command of the 

CINCUNC. MacArthur apparently based his concept of operations on 

four assumptions, which seem not to have been explicitly stated at the 

time but tacitly accepted as the general conditions for operations in North 

Korea. First, the extremely difficult, nearly trackless mountain terrain 

running generally north-south divides maneuver into eastern and western compartments. Second, given the primitive condition of the transport 

system and the efficient work of Far East Air Forces (FEAF) on LOC 

interdiction, logistical support of operations throughout North Korea 
420 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The CINC, however, obviously had not communicated his concept of operations to his staff; nor had the staff validated the planning assumptions 

upon which they were proceeding. For, one day prior to receipt of the JCS 

directive, MacArthur surprised the staff with instructions to plan an offensive into North Korea that would feature a deep amphibious envelopment 

(à la Inch’on), in conjunction with a cross-country advance across the 

38th. Although MacArthur did not specify the formation to be used for the 

amphibious landing, there was obviously only one candidate: X Corps.

A New Concept of Operations

MacArthur’s principal staff had assumed that he intended to give 

Walker command of X Corps; the FEC deputy chief of staff, the G–3 

(assistant chief of staff for operations), and G–4 (assistant chief of staff 

for logistics) all strongly favored such a course.15 The Eighth Army staff 

also shared this mistaken assumption and had planned accordingly: After 

Seoul was retaken, X Corps was to continue the attack north toward the 

enemy capital, P’yongyang, maintaining the momentum of the offensive, 

while Eighth Army moved up behind it. Depending upon the development 

of the situation, X Corps might continue the attack in the west toward the 

Yalu, or move laterally along the P’yongyang-Wonsan corridor to assist 

ROK units advancing northward along the east coast. In either event, operations of both forces would be coordinated under Walker’s command.16

Because Inch’on had originally been conceived as only one pincer 

of a vast double envelopment, with a second amphibious operation on 

the east coast, JSPOG already had current data on likely landing sites, 

and within hours of receiving CINCUNC’s guidance was able to present 

MacArthur with an outline plan.17 The most likely candidate was Wonsan, 

an excellent deepwater port on the opposite side of the peninsula’s waist 

from P’yongyang and connected to it by the only east-west LOC of any 

consequence north of the 38th Parallel. MacArthur readily accepted the 

hybrid plan prepared by JSPOG, calling for X Corps to make an amphibious landing at Wonsan and prepare either to effect a juncture with Eighth 

Army (advancing in the west to capture P’yongyang) or to advance north 

to the key coast industrial complex, Hamhung-Hungnam.18 The X Corps 

would constitute an operational maneuver force under command of the 

CINCUNC. MacArthur apparently based his concept of operations on 

four assumptions, which seem not to have been explicitly stated at the 

time but tacitly accepted as the general conditions for operations in North 

Korea. First, the extremely difficult, nearly trackless mountain terrain 

running generally north-south divides maneuver into eastern and western compartments. Second, given the primitive condition of the transport 

system and the efficient work of Far East Air Forces (FEAF) on LOC 

interdiction, logistical support of operations throughout North Korea 
422 historical perspectives of the operational art 

arrangement was the fruition of air force efforts to centralize theater air 

allocation and targeting that had been going on since July—resisted by 

the navy and GHQ FEC itself. At no time, however, through the end of 

the UNC’s withdrawal from North Korea was the air campaign fully integrated into planning at operational level.23

Finally, there seems not to have been a mechanism to disseminate to 

the staff principals planning guidance by which they in turn could have 

provided timely, thorough estimates and mission analyses to the CINC 

(as witness the staff’s confusion about the direction of future operations 

after Seoul’s recapture and MacArthur’s apparent ignorance of serious 

doubts concerning the feasibility of a second amphibious thrust). Perhaps 

this was due to the failure to name a permanent replacement for General 

Almond, who had been FEC chief of staff when he was selected to command X Corps: He was expected to resume his former post upon conclusion of the campaign. Given MacArthur’s Olympian style of command, 

in which access to his telephoneless office in the Tokyo Dai Ichi Building 

was limited to a few trusted advisers, there was no conduit for the routine 

exchange of critical information between the CINC and his staff.24

Signs of Strain

On 2 October the CINCUNC issued orders assigning to Eighth 

Army the main attack in the west, with the initial objective of capturing P’yongyang. The X Corps was to land amphibiously at Wonsan to 

encircle enemy forces escaping north across the 38th Parallel. Once in 

possession of their respective objectives, each organization was to attack toward the other along the east-west LOC across the waist of the 

peninsula, cutting off all escape routes. The X Corps would remain under 

the direct command of General MacArthur.25 Adding insult to injury, as 

the Eighth Army staff saw it, Walker was also ordered on 2 October to 

provide logistical support to X Corps—without having any control over 

the corps’ operations. This added significantly to the burden on Eighth 

Army, which was already feeling the strain caused by the requirement 

to give priority at Inch’on and Pusan to outloading X Corps units. From 

1–17 October the total tonnage unloaded was negligible, and most of 

that was necessarily diverted to X Corps.26 Throughout October, Eighth 

Army’s advance would be limited by the adverse logistical situation; its 

troops had nearly reached P’yongyang before it could get any supplies 

through Inch’on.27 Yet Eighth Army was not relieved of logistical support 

responsibility for X Corps until well after the corps had landed at Wonsan 

and commenced operations in North Korea.

It is impossible, without reading the detailed after-action reports and 

without some firsthand knowledge of the terrain, to appreciate the serious difficulties Eighth Army faced in making equitable distribution to X 
422 historical perspectives of the operational art 

arrangement was the fruition of air force efforts to centralize theater air 

allocation and targeting that had been going on since July—resisted by 

the navy and GHQ FEC itself. At no time, however, through the end of 

the UNC’s withdrawal from North Korea was the air campaign fully integrated into planning at operational level.23

Finally, there seems not to have been a mechanism to disseminate to 

the staff principals planning guidance by which they in turn could have 

provided timely, thorough estimates and mission analyses to the CINC 

(as witness the staff’s confusion about the direction of future operations 

after Seoul’s recapture and MacArthur’s apparent ignorance of serious 

doubts concerning the feasibility of a second amphibious thrust). Perhaps 

this was due to the failure to name a permanent replacement for General 

Almond, who had been FEC chief of staff when he was selected to command X Corps: He was expected to resume his former post upon conclusion of the campaign. Given MacArthur’s Olympian style of command, 

in which access to his telephoneless office in the Tokyo Dai Ichi Building 

was limited to a few trusted advisers, there was no conduit for the routine 

exchange of critical information between the CINC and his staff.24

Signs of Strain

On 2 October the CINCUNC issued orders assigning to Eighth 

Army the main attack in the west, with the initial objective of capturing P’yongyang. The X Corps was to land amphibiously at Wonsan to 

encircle enemy forces escaping north across the 38th Parallel. Once in 

possession of their respective objectives, each organization was to attack toward the other along the east-west LOC across the waist of the 

peninsula, cutting off all escape routes. The X Corps would remain under 

the direct command of General MacArthur.25 Adding insult to injury, as 

the Eighth Army staff saw it, Walker was also ordered on 2 October to 

provide logistical support to X Corps—without having any control over 

the corps’ operations. This added significantly to the burden on Eighth 

Army, which was already feeling the strain caused by the requirement 

to give priority at Inch’on and Pusan to outloading X Corps units. From 

1–17 October the total tonnage unloaded was negligible, and most of 

that was necessarily diverted to X Corps.26 Throughout October, Eighth 

Army’s advance would be limited by the adverse logistical situation; its 

troops had nearly reached P’yongyang before it could get any supplies 

through Inch’on.27 Yet Eighth Army was not relieved of logistical support 

responsibility for X Corps until well after the corps had landed at Wonsan 

and commenced operations in North Korea.

It is impossible, without reading the detailed after-action reports and 

without some firsthand knowledge of the terrain, to appreciate the serious difficulties Eighth Army faced in making equitable distribution to X 
424 historical perspectives of the operational art

peared dubious, the operation was soon to take on the aspect of a débâcle. The Navy found Wonsan Harbor to have been skillfully and heavily 

mined; after arriving off the objective area on 19 October, X Corps troops 

steamed back and forth until they were finally able to begin landing on the 

twenty-fifth.33 But probably the most pernicious effect of the ill-starred 

operation was on Eighth Army’s pursuit in the west: not until 9 October 

did the spearhead division strike across the 38th Parallel for P’yongyang, 

a delay caused primarily by supply shortages.34

The objective of the Wonsan landing was to permit X Corps to 

rapidly strike west toward P’yongyang, as Eighth Army drove north, 

thereby cutting off the withdrawal of the main North Korean forces 

that had been committed against the Pusan Perimeter. When it became 

clear that the North Korean capital could fall to UN forces long before 

X Corps debarked, CINCUNC issued a new operations order on 17 

October that drew a proposed boundary between Eighth Army and X 

Corps, to become effective on his further order. The boundary ran northsouth, generally along the watershed of the Taebaek Mountain range, to an 

objective line deep in North Korea that corresponded to the JCS-directed 

limit of advance for non-Korean elements of the UNC. Eighth Army was 

to advance to the western extension of the line, X Corps to the eastern.35

On the eve of X Corps’ landing, MacArthur modified his instructions, 

ordering both commanders to drive forward to the Yalu River as rapidly as 

possible with all forces under their command—the old objective line was 

to be regarded as merely “an initial objective.”36 (Map 17)

The failure of the Wonsan operation to achieve the objective for 

which it was designed demonstrated the soundness of the view that 

Walker should have been given X Corps and designated the ground component commander for the post-Inch’on exploitation phase. But, with 

Wonsan and P’yongyang in friendly hands, the CINCUNC’s concept 

of two operational forces, maneuvering independently on either side of 

the Taebaek range, was eminently sound. It minimized the extremely 

formidable difficulties imposed by terrain and promised the rapid destruction of the North Korean Army as an organized force, assuming 

the continued forbearance of the Soviets and Chinese. Events almost 

immediately called into question the validity of that assumption. On 

25 October Eighth Army units encountered Chinese Communist Forces 

(CCF) troops for the first time, north of the Ch’ongch’on River (just 

as the U.S. I Corps published its order for the advance to the Yalu).37

The following night Chinese units struck hard at the ROK II Corps 

on Eighth Army’s right and over the next three days caused the ROKs 

to pivot northeast to face in the direction of the Chinese main attack. 

This opened a gap in Eighth Army’s front, leaving the U.S. I Corps’ 

right flank open. Some 1st Cavalry Division elements were moved in 

to shore up the ROKs, and one regiment was badly mauled in the pro424 historical perspectives of the operational art

peared dubious, the operation was soon to take on the aspect of a débâcle. The Navy found Wonsan Harbor to have been skillfully and heavily 

mined; after arriving off the objective area on 19 October, X Corps troops 

steamed back and forth until they were finally able to begin landing on the 

twenty-fifth.33 But probably the most pernicious effect of the ill-starred 

operation was on Eighth Army’s pursuit in the west: not until 9 October 

did the spearhead division strike across the 38th Parallel for P’yongyang, 

a delay caused primarily by supply shortages.34

The objective of the Wonsan landing was to permit X Corps to 

rapidly strike west toward P’yongyang, as Eighth Army drove north, 

thereby cutting off the withdrawal of the main North Korean forces 

that had been committed against the Pusan Perimeter. When it became 

clear that the North Korean capital could fall to UN forces long before 

X Corps debarked, CINCUNC issued a new operations order on 17 

October that drew a proposed boundary between Eighth Army and X 

Corps, to become effective on his further order. The boundary ran northsouth, generally along the watershed of the Taebaek Mountain range, to an 

objective line deep in North Korea that corresponded to the JCS-directed 

limit of advance for non-Korean elements of the UNC. Eighth Army was 

to advance to the western extension of the line, X Corps to the eastern.35

On the eve of X Corps’ landing, MacArthur modified his instructions, 

ordering both commanders to drive forward to the Yalu River as rapidly as 

possible with all forces under their command—the old objective line was 

to be regarded as merely “an initial objective.”36 (Map 17)

The failure of the Wonsan operation to achieve the objective for 

which it was designed demonstrated the soundness of the view that 

Walker should have been given X Corps and designated the ground component commander for the post-Inch’on exploitation phase. But, with 

Wonsan and P’yongyang in friendly hands, the CINCUNC’s concept 

of two operational forces, maneuvering independently on either side of 

the Taebaek range, was eminently sound. It minimized the extremely 

formidable difficulties imposed by terrain and promised the rapid destruction of the North Korean Army as an organized force, assuming 

the continued forbearance of the Soviets and Chinese. Events almost 

immediately called into question the validity of that assumption. On 

25 October Eighth Army units encountered Chinese Communist Forces 

(CCF) troops for the first time, north of the Ch’ongch’on River (just 

as the U.S. I Corps published its order for the advance to the Yalu).37

The following night Chinese units struck hard at the ROK II Corps 

on Eighth Army’s right and over the next three days caused the ROKs 

to pivot northeast to face in the direction of the Chinese main attack. 

This opened a gap in Eighth Army’s front, leaving the U.S. I Corps’ 

right flank open. Some 1st Cavalry Division elements were moved in 

to shore up the ROKs, and one regiment was badly mauled in the pro426 historical perspectives of the operational art 

cess. The Chinese attacks ceased on 6 November as suddenly as they 

had begun, leaving Eighth Army holding a shallow bridgehead across 

the Ch’ongch’on, but with the ROK II Corps crippled and its troops 

demoralized.38 To the east, X Corps’ marines encountered Chinese 

troops in divisional strength, but repulsed them with limited losses. 

There, too, the Chinese broke contact after the end of the first week 

in November, although there were numerous signs that unknown size 

elements remained in the area.

In the wake of the Chinese “tap,” Eighth Army was shaken, X 

Corps sobered, and GHQ unsure as to the “present actual scope of 

[Chinese] intervention in North Korea.”39 On 14 November another 

ominous harbinger was recorded as temperatures plummeted — as 

much as 40 degrees in some places — to lows well below zero.40 Nevertheless, Walker made clear that he had no intention of going on 

the defensive, bringing the U.S. IX Corps up in the center in order 

to renew the advance in greater strength.41 Similarly, there was soon 

renewed confidence in Almond’s headquarters: Diminishing contacts 

led the Corps G–2 (assistant chief of staff for intelligence) to conclude on 18 November that the enemy had ended his delaying operations and was once again withdrawing to the north.42 Most significantly, in Tokyo the CCF intervention was clearly not taken at face 

value, that is, as evidence that the Chinese intended to prevent the 

complete destruction of the North Korean Army and the occupation 

of all North Korea to the Yalu by UN forces.

Under the circumstances, such a degree of optimism was extraordinary. The FEC G–2 (despite MacArthur’s later assertions to the 

contrary) had sufficient intelligence by mid-November to raise serious doubts about the wisdom of plunging into the unknown. He was 

privy to key national intelligence reports, which suggested a hardening resolve by the Chinese leadership to intervene in the conflict, and 

he possessed generally accurate information on the movement of several additional Chinese armies from their normal garrisons into Manchuria.43 That the national intelligence community regarded these indicators as ambiguous does not let theater intelligence analysts off 

the hook, for they were also receiving concrete tactical information 

that, taken with national reporting, suggested grounds for the greatest caution in renewing the offensive.44 Yet the FEC G–2 seems to 

have been unable to move off dead center: neither an unqualified 

positive forecast nor clear warnings of danger. Indecisiveness about 

enemy capabilities and intentions was reflected in the vacillating, 

even self-contradictory, daily intelligence estimates provided CINCUNC at this time. In the absence of solid intelligence estimates 

from his G–2, MacArthur’s reliance on his intuitive conviction that 

the Chinese were bluffing is perhaps more understandable.45
426 historical perspectives of the operational art 

cess. The Chinese attacks ceased on 6 November as suddenly as they 

had begun, leaving Eighth Army holding a shallow bridgehead across 

the Ch’ongch’on, but with the ROK II Corps crippled and its troops 

demoralized.38 To the east, X Corps’ marines encountered Chinese 

troops in divisional strength, but repulsed them with limited losses. 

There, too, the Chinese broke contact after the end of the first week 

in November, although there were numerous signs that unknown size 

elements remained in the area.

In the wake of the Chinese “tap,” Eighth Army was shaken, X 

Corps sobered, and GHQ unsure as to the “present actual scope of 

[Chinese] intervention in North Korea.”39 On 14 November another 

ominous harbinger was recorded as temperatures plummeted — as 

much as 40 degrees in some places — to lows well below zero.40 Nevertheless, Walker made clear that he had no intention of going on 

the defensive, bringing the U.S. IX Corps up in the center in order 

to renew the advance in greater strength.41 Similarly, there was soon 

renewed confidence in Almond’s headquarters: Diminishing contacts 

led the Corps G–2 (assistant chief of staff for intelligence) to conclude on 18 November that the enemy had ended his delaying operations and was once again withdrawing to the north.42 Most significantly, in Tokyo the CCF intervention was clearly not taken at face 

value, that is, as evidence that the Chinese intended to prevent the 

complete destruction of the North Korean Army and the occupation 

of all North Korea to the Yalu by UN forces.

Under the circumstances, such a degree of optimism was extraordinary. The FEC G–2 (despite MacArthur’s later assertions to the 

contrary) had sufficient intelligence by mid-November to raise serious doubts about the wisdom of plunging into the unknown. He was 

privy to key national intelligence reports, which suggested a hardening resolve by the Chinese leadership to intervene in the conflict, and 

he possessed generally accurate information on the movement of several additional Chinese armies from their normal garrisons into Manchuria.43 That the national intelligence community regarded these indicators as ambiguous does not let theater intelligence analysts off 

the hook, for they were also receiving concrete tactical information 

that, taken with national reporting, suggested grounds for the greatest caution in renewing the offensive.44 Yet the FEC G–2 seems to 

have been unable to move off dead center: neither an unqualified 

positive forecast nor clear warnings of danger. Indecisiveness about 

enemy capabilities and intentions was reflected in the vacillating, 

even self-contradictory, daily intelligence estimates provided CINCUNC at this time. In the absence of solid intelligence estimates 

from his G–2, MacArthur’s reliance on his intuitive conviction that 

the Chinese were bluffing is perhaps more understandable.45
428 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The JSPOG, however, tended to look at X Corps’ deployment from 

the standpoint of “how can X Corps best assist Eighth Army?”—even 

though the terrain separating them made such support a dubious proposition at best. From that point of view, there was little to recommend Almond’s plan.48 But its disadvantages were significant: X Corps’ advance, 

as currently oriented (almost due north), risked becoming seriously overextended; should progress by Eighth Army’s right flank be delayed, X 

Corps’ left flank would be completely exposed. On the other hand, X 

Corps could assist Eighth Army if Almond attacked to the northwest, 

thereby threatening enemy forces north of the Ch’ongch’on River with 

envelopment. It was estimated that Almond could make available two 

divisions for this purpose by calling off his advance north.49 This was the 

essence of the JSPOG recommendation to MacArthur, which was implemented on 16 November by a message directing X Corps to develop as 

an alternative a plan for reorienting the main attack west on reaching the 

Chosin Reservoir area.50

There were serious problems with the course of action recommended 

by the JSPOG staff. Perhaps most obvious is that it assigned a mission 

fundamentally incompatible with the scheme of operational maneuver: 

The main reason for control of X Corps as a separate force by the operational commander was the extreme impracticability of coordinating 

its operations with those of Eighth Army. Far worse from the maneuver 

commander’s point of view, the ground over which JSPOG intended that 

X Corps should attack in support of Eighth Army is the worst on the 

peninsula. Avenues of approach from the line of contact were extremely 

restricted due to the rugged, compartmented terrain, the paucity of even 

fair roads, and the virtual impossibility of cross-country motorized movement.51 Some indication of the difficulty involved in mounting mutually 

supporting operations across the Taebaek Mountains could have been received from the fact that, despite several efforts following the October 

Chinese attacks, it had not been possible to establish patrol contact between Eighth Army and X Corps. There was, in fact, an almost complete 

lack of liaison between the two fronts in November.52 The GHQ FEC 

was apparently ignorant of such nuances, probably because of their isolation in Tokyo: After Seoul was retaken JSPOG personnel seem rarely to 

have visited the theater and consequently had few firsthand impressions 

to guide their efforts.53

Whether it was cause or symptom of intelligence shortcomings is 

hard to judge, but operations planning seems to have been done in a vacuum within the staff as well. For example, on 12 November, when JSPOG 

began to develop their proposed branch to X Corps’ plan, planning assumptions credited the Chinese with less than a third of the strength G–2 

had estimated to Washington that same day (whether they were unwitting 

or disbelieving of G–2’s figures is a matter of conjecture).54 And if the 
428 historical perspectives of the operational art 

The JSPOG, however, tended to look at X Corps’ deployment from 

the standpoint of “how can X Corps best assist Eighth Army?”—even 

though the terrain separating them made such support a dubious proposition at best. From that point of view, there was little to recommend Almond’s plan.48 But its disadvantages were significant: X Corps’ advance, 

as currently oriented (almost due north), risked becoming seriously overextended; should progress by Eighth Army’s right flank be delayed, X 

Corps’ left flank would be completely exposed. On the other hand, X 

Corps could assist Eighth Army if Almond attacked to the northwest, 

thereby threatening enemy forces north of the Ch’ongch’on River with 

envelopment. It was estimated that Almond could make available two 

divisions for this purpose by calling off his advance north.49 This was the 

essence of the JSPOG recommendation to MacArthur, which was implemented on 16 November by a message directing X Corps to develop as 

an alternative a plan for reorienting the main attack west on reaching the 

Chosin Reservoir area.50

There were serious problems with the course of action recommended 

by the JSPOG staff. Perhaps most obvious is that it assigned a mission 

fundamentally incompatible with the scheme of operational maneuver: 

The main reason for control of X Corps as a separate force by the operational commander was the extreme impracticability of coordinating 

its operations with those of Eighth Army. Far worse from the maneuver 

commander’s point of view, the ground over which JSPOG intended that 

X Corps should attack in support of Eighth Army is the worst on the 

peninsula. Avenues of approach from the line of contact were extremely 

restricted due to the rugged, compartmented terrain, the paucity of even 

fair roads, and the virtual impossibility of cross-country motorized movement.51 Some indication of the difficulty involved in mounting mutually 

supporting operations across the Taebaek Mountains could have been received from the fact that, despite several efforts following the October 

Chinese attacks, it had not been possible to establish patrol contact between Eighth Army and X Corps. There was, in fact, an almost complete 

lack of liaison between the two fronts in November.52 The GHQ FEC 

was apparently ignorant of such nuances, probably because of their isolation in Tokyo: After Seoul was retaken JSPOG personnel seem rarely to 

have visited the theater and consequently had few firsthand impressions 

to guide their efforts.53

Whether it was cause or symptom of intelligence shortcomings is 

hard to judge, but operations planning seems to have been done in a vacuum within the staff as well. For example, on 12 November, when JSPOG 

began to develop their proposed branch to X Corps’ plan, planning assumptions credited the Chinese with less than a third of the strength G–2 

had estimated to Washington that same day (whether they were unwitting 

or disbelieving of G–2’s figures is a matter of conjecture).54 And if the 
430 historical perspectives of the operational art 

adjustments as were dictated by a “constantly fluid situation.” He concluded that the ultimate objective of the Chinese Communists was “undoubtedly” the complete destruction of all UN forces in Korea and that 

it was “quite evident” that his present strength was insufficient to meet 

this “undeclared war by the Chinese with the inherent advantages which 

accrue thereby to them.”59 But an infantry lieutenant’s recollection of the 

ordeal east of the Chosin Reservoir cuts straight to the heart of the UN 

Command’s defeat: “Once the battle was joined with the overwhelming 

but unorganized Chinese forces, our withdrawals were unnecessarily precipitous and uncontrolled.”60

Thoughts for the Operational Artist

Near the end of his discourse on military genius, Clausewitz characterizes the qualities demanded of the commander in chief in terms that 

precisely sum up the challenge of the theater commander in 1950. He must 

also be a statesman, but he must not cease to be a general. “On the one 

hand, he is aware of the entire political situation; on the other, he knows 

exactly how much he can achieve with the means at his disposal.”61 That 

MacArthur’s leadership and judgment after Inch’on do not pass this test is 

fundamentally attributable to the fault Clausewitz identifies as “obstinacy.” 

“Stubbornness and intolerance of criticism result from a special form of 

egotism, which elevates above everything else the pleasure of its autonomous intellect, to which others must bow.” Unlike vanity, which is content 

with appearances, “obstinacy demands the material reality.” Strength of 

character becomes obstinacy when the commander resists another’s point 

of view “not from superior insight or attachment to some higher principle, 

but because he objects instinctively.”62

This is the hard kernel of MacArthur’s flaw as operational commander. 

His overriding belief in his mission and willingness to call what he surely 

regarded as a Chinese bluff in order to carry out that mission became the 

dominant factors influencing campaign planning for operations in North 

Korea.63 But, even so, the flaw need not have been fatal, if MacArthur’s 

command and control system had left him some margin for rashness, accidents—or chance.64 The main point of this study is that command and control of UNC operations was itself fatally flawed; the command system was 

simply unequal to the demands on it. In essence, it lacked both the structure 

and the flexibility to be successful in the unique circumstances obtaining in 

the fall of 1950. These shortcomings may be summarized as follows.

The GHQ FEC had not been a joint headquarters when the war 

began, nor did it become one until long afterward.65 The staff, not surprisingly, tended to see the war almost exclusively in terms of the ground 

component, usually leaving air and naval coordination as afterthoughts. 

Certainly, the operations of the four services were never synchronized 
430 historical perspectives of the operational art 

adjustments as were dictated by a “constantly fluid situation.” He concluded that the ultimate objective of the Chinese Communists was “undoubtedly” the complete destruction of all UN forces in Korea and that 

it was “quite evident” that his present strength was insufficient to meet 

this “undeclared war by the Chinese with the inherent advantages which 

accrue thereby to them.”59 But an infantry lieutenant’s recollection of the 

ordeal east of the Chosin Reservoir cuts straight to the heart of the UN 

Command’s defeat: “Once the battle was joined with the overwhelming 

but unorganized Chinese forces, our withdrawals were unnecessarily precipitous and uncontrolled.”60

Thoughts for the Operational Artist

Near the end of his discourse on military genius, Clausewitz characterizes the qualities demanded of the commander in chief in terms that 

precisely sum up the challenge of the theater commander in 1950. He must 

also be a statesman, but he must not cease to be a general. “On the one 

hand, he is aware of the entire political situation; on the other, he knows 

exactly how much he can achieve with the means at his disposal.”61 That 

MacArthur’s leadership and judgment after Inch’on do not pass this test is 

fundamentally attributable to the fault Clausewitz identifies as “obstinacy.” 

“Stubbornness and intolerance of criticism result from a special form of 

egotism, which elevates above everything else the pleasure of its autonomous intellect, to which others must bow.” Unlike vanity, which is content 

with appearances, “obstinacy demands the material reality.” Strength of 

character becomes obstinacy when the commander resists another’s point 

of view “not from superior insight or attachment to some higher principle, 

but because he objects instinctively.”62

This is the hard kernel of MacArthur’s flaw as operational commander. 

His overriding belief in his mission and willingness to call what he surely 

regarded as a Chinese bluff in order to carry out that mission became the 

dominant factors influencing campaign planning for operations in North 

Korea.63 But, even so, the flaw need not have been fatal, if MacArthur’s 

command and control system had left him some margin for rashness, accidents—or chance.64 The main point of this study is that command and control of UNC operations was itself fatally flawed; the command system was 

simply unequal to the demands on it. In essence, it lacked both the structure 

and the flexibility to be successful in the unique circumstances obtaining in 

the fall of 1950. These shortcomings may be summarized as follows.

The GHQ FEC had not been a joint headquarters when the war 

began, nor did it become one until long afterward.65 The staff, not surprisingly, tended to see the war almost exclusively in terms of the ground 

component, usually leaving air and naval coordination as afterthoughts. 

Certainly, the operations of the four services were never synchronized 
432 historical perspectives of the operational art 

What gave the Korean War its unique character was that it was fought 

at the margin of U.S. strategy, beyond the line that demarcated America’s 

vital interests. It was also fought on the margin in the sense that resources 

were limited—borrowed from strategic missions elsewhere. In a dangerous world, future crises may overtake us in the same way, at places where 

map sheets end and where there is no contingency planning worthy of 

the name. Against that day, operational planners might do worse than to 

consider the lessons of 1950.
432 historical perspectives of the operational art 

What gave the Korean War its unique character was that it was fought 

at the margin of U.S. strategy, beyond the line that demarcated America’s 

vital interests. It was also fought on the margin in the sense that resources 

were limited—borrowed from strategic missions elsewhere. In a dangerous world, future crises may overtake us in the same way, at places where 

map sheets end and where there is no contingency planning worthy of 

the name. Against that day, operational planners might do worse than to 

consider the lessons of 1950.
434 historical perspectives of the operational art 

11. Ibid., pp. 187–89.

12. Not, as MacArthur subsequently claimed, to reunify Korea. In fact, the 27 September directive carefully left open the question of the future political sovereignty of North 

Korea, reflecting caution in regard to possible Soviet or Chinese counters.

13. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 182–84.

14. Although the fight to retake Seoul was more bitter than expected and the breakout of 

Eighth Army from the Perimeter slower than planned, the success of the Inch’on operation had not been in doubt since the seventeenth. However, in operational terms, planning 

for future operations was tardy and, because of the failure to rapidly exploit success at 

Inch’on, necessitated pursuit into North Korea of enemy forces that should not have been 

allowed to escape. See Ridgway, The Korean War, pp. 41–43.

15. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 189. Several years later, however, MacArthur 

stated these officers never expressed any such views at the time. Appleman, South to the 

Naktong, p. 612.

16. Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 612.

17. Ibid., p. 610. Sufficient forces for two simultaneous amphibious operations were not 

available.

18. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 188.

19. Appleman, South to the Naktong, pp. 609–11; Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 

187–91.

20. Despite his staff’s urging, Walker did not formally raise objections to the CINCUNC’s plan; nor is there any evidence that he ever discussed alternative courses of 

action with MacArthur. Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 611; Schnabel, Policy and 

Direction, p. 190.

21. Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 612.

22. The success of the complex Inch’on operation seems due to the extraordinary skill 

and competence of the component planners entrusted with the details and not a little 

luck.

23. Futrell, Air Force in Korea, pp. 49–55, 213.

24. Almond was reputed to have kept the staff on a very short leash and to have been 

a man feared by many. His deputy, Maj. Gen. Doyle Hickey, who was designated acting 

FEC chief of staff, though capable, did not possess Almond’s formidable talents or obviously the same degree of authority. See Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 490. For a 

most revealing account of MacArthur’s command style and his relations with his confidants and staff, see D. Clayton James, The Years of MacArthur: Volume III: Triumph and 

Disaster, 1945–1964 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985).

25. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. l96–98.

26. HQ Eighth U.S. Army, Korea, Monograph: Special Problems in the Korean Conflict

(APO 301: Eighth Army Historical Service Detachment [Provisional], 1952), pp. 37–38.

27. Although the overall situation improved subsequently, as late as mid-November one 

corps was operating with only a one-day supply of ammunition in reserve. See Appleman, 

South to the Naktong, p. 640; Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 258.

28. Ridgway, The Korean War, p. 48.

29. So strong was the animosity that when, after the withdrawal from North Korea, 

Eighth Army redistributed some X Corps supplies that were no longer required, some 

X Corps officers referred to it as “confiscation.” Eighth Army, Special Problems, pp. 

42–48.

30. The X Corps got control of the ROK I Corps once the Wonsan landings had been 

completed. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 206.
434 historical perspectives of the operational art 

11. Ibid., pp. 187–89.

12. Not, as MacArthur subsequently claimed, to reunify Korea. In fact, the 27 September directive carefully left open the question of the future political sovereignty of North 

Korea, reflecting caution in regard to possible Soviet or Chinese counters.

13. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 182–84.

14. Although the fight to retake Seoul was more bitter than expected and the breakout of 

Eighth Army from the Perimeter slower than planned, the success of the Inch’on operation had not been in doubt since the seventeenth. However, in operational terms, planning 

for future operations was tardy and, because of the failure to rapidly exploit success at 

Inch’on, necessitated pursuit into North Korea of enemy forces that should not have been 

allowed to escape. See Ridgway, The Korean War, pp. 41–43.

15. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 189. Several years later, however, MacArthur 

stated these officers never expressed any such views at the time. Appleman, South to the 

Naktong, p. 612.

16. Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 612.

17. Ibid., p. 610. Sufficient forces for two simultaneous amphibious operations were not 

available.

18. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 188.

19. Appleman, South to the Naktong, pp. 609–11; Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 

187–91.

20. Despite his staff’s urging, Walker did not formally raise objections to the CINCUNC’s plan; nor is there any evidence that he ever discussed alternative courses of 

action with MacArthur. Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 611; Schnabel, Policy and 

Direction, p. 190.

21. Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 612.

22. The success of the complex Inch’on operation seems due to the extraordinary skill 

and competence of the component planners entrusted with the details and not a little 

luck.

23. Futrell, Air Force in Korea, pp. 49–55, 213.

24. Almond was reputed to have kept the staff on a very short leash and to have been 

a man feared by many. His deputy, Maj. Gen. Doyle Hickey, who was designated acting 

FEC chief of staff, though capable, did not possess Almond’s formidable talents or obviously the same degree of authority. See Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 490. For a 

most revealing account of MacArthur’s command style and his relations with his confidants and staff, see D. Clayton James, The Years of MacArthur: Volume III: Triumph and 

Disaster, 1945–1964 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1985).

25. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. l96–98.

26. HQ Eighth U.S. Army, Korea, Monograph: Special Problems in the Korean Conflict

(APO 301: Eighth Army Historical Service Detachment [Provisional], 1952), pp. 37–38.

27. Although the overall situation improved subsequently, as late as mid-November one 

corps was operating with only a one-day supply of ammunition in reserve. See Appleman, 

South to the Naktong, p. 640; Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 258.

28. Ridgway, The Korean War, p. 48.

29. So strong was the animosity that when, after the withdrawal from North Korea, 

Eighth Army redistributed some X Corps supplies that were no longer required, some 

X Corps officers referred to it as “confiscation.” Eighth Army, Special Problems, pp. 

42–48.

30. The X Corps got control of the ROK I Corps once the Wonsan landings had been 

completed. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 206.
436 historical perspectives of the operational art 

as CINCUNC was aware of a substantial number of Chinese soldiers in North Korea, 

estimates fell far short of the reality: FEC G–2 was estimating about 76,800 total Chinese 

troops in Korea, when in fact there were approximately 180,000 concentrated in front of 

Eighth Army and 120,000 in front of X Corps. JCS, Joint Daily SITREP no. 133, 13 Nov 

50; Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 769.

46. HQ X Corps, WD, 1–30 Nov 50, “Drive to the Yalu: CCF Counter Attack,” p. 2. U.S. 

troops at the time called the reservoir Chosin, which is the Japanese rendering of the Korean name, because that is what was on their maps. It is today usually called by its proper 

Korean name, Changjin. For purposes of consistency it will be referred to here as Chosin, 

as it was invariably rendered in contemporary documents.

47. Ibid., p. 3. For these rear-area missions, the X Corps commander had available after 

17 November the entire U.S. 3d Infantry Division, the last reinforcing combat unit to arrive from CONUS.

48. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 260–62. The “advantages” to Almond’s plan, 

which the staff developed during the course-of-action analysis, were, as the author dryly 

puts it, “so innocuous as to seem fabricated.”

49. Ibid., pp. 260–61.

50. HQ X Corps, WD, 1–30 Nov 50, p. 5.

51. Ibid., p. 19.

52. At the daily EUSAK briefings held at 1330 in Seoul, X Corps liaison reports were 

read. These reports ended as of 0600 on the previous morning. Nor was radio contact between the two commands apparently any better than “occasional.” Eighth Army believed 

that this situation materially contributed to the intelligence failure. Eighth Army, Special 

Problems, pp. 41–42, 50. MacArthur seems to have been unaware of this communications 

gap: When questioned on the subject during the congressional investigation that followed 

his relief from command, he testified that “there was as complete coordination as I have 

ever known between enveloping movements.” U.S. Congress, Senate, Military Situation 

in the Far East, pp. 192, 248.

53. X Corps War Diaries, which contain detailed lists of important conferences and visitors to the command, show no record of GHQ FEC staff visits after early October.

54. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 260.

55. X Corps, PIR no. 49, 14 Nov 50. See also Nicholas A. Canzona and Lynn Montross, 

U.S. Marine Operations in Korea, 1950–1953: Volume III: The Chosin Reservoir Campaign (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1957); Allen S. Whiting, China 

Crosses the Yalu: The Decision to Enter the Korean War (New York: Macmillan, 1960).

56. “Recollections of Hungnam and Chosin,” Korean War Historical Commentary, Edward M. Almond Papers, U.S. Army Military History Institute, Carlisle Barracks, Pa.

57. HQ X Corps, Special Rpt on the Chosin Reservoir, 27 Nov–10 Dec 50, p. 10.

58. JCS, Joint Daily SITREP no. 142, 27 Nov 50.

59. JCS, Joint Daily SITREP no. 143, 28 Nov 50.

60. Roy E. Appleman, East of Chosin: Entrapment and Breakout in Korea (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1987), p. 318.

61. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 112.

62. Ibid., pp. 108–09.

63. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 227–78.

64. As evidence that this is true, consider the accomplishments of the 1st Marine Division. Isolated in extremely restricted terrain on X Corps’ left flank when the Chinese 

struck, the division withdrew in good order despite its reliance on a precarious main 
436 historical perspectives of the operational art 

as CINCUNC was aware of a substantial number of Chinese soldiers in North Korea, 

estimates fell far short of the reality: FEC G–2 was estimating about 76,800 total Chinese 

troops in Korea, when in fact there were approximately 180,000 concentrated in front of 

Eighth Army and 120,000 in front of X Corps. JCS, Joint Daily SITREP no. 133, 13 Nov 

50; Appleman, South to the Naktong, p. 769.

46. HQ X Corps, WD, 1–30 Nov 50, “Drive to the Yalu: CCF Counter Attack,” p. 2. U.S. 

troops at the time called the reservoir Chosin, which is the Japanese rendering of the Korean name, because that is what was on their maps. It is today usually called by its proper 

Korean name, Changjin. For purposes of consistency it will be referred to here as Chosin, 

as it was invariably rendered in contemporary documents.

47. Ibid., p. 3. For these rear-area missions, the X Corps commander had available after 

17 November the entire U.S. 3d Infantry Division, the last reinforcing combat unit to arrive from CONUS.

48. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 260–62. The “advantages” to Almond’s plan, 

which the staff developed during the course-of-action analysis, were, as the author dryly 

puts it, “so innocuous as to seem fabricated.”

49. Ibid., pp. 260–61.

50. HQ X Corps, WD, 1–30 Nov 50, p. 5.

51. Ibid., p. 19.

52. At the daily EUSAK briefings held at 1330 in Seoul, X Corps liaison reports were 

read. These reports ended as of 0600 on the previous morning. Nor was radio contact between the two commands apparently any better than “occasional.” Eighth Army believed 

that this situation materially contributed to the intelligence failure. Eighth Army, Special 

Problems, pp. 41–42, 50. MacArthur seems to have been unaware of this communications 

gap: When questioned on the subject during the congressional investigation that followed 

his relief from command, he testified that “there was as complete coordination as I have 

ever known between enveloping movements.” U.S. Congress, Senate, Military Situation 

in the Far East, pp. 192, 248.

53. X Corps War Diaries, which contain detailed lists of important conferences and visitors to the command, show no record of GHQ FEC staff visits after early October.

54. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, p. 260.

55. X Corps, PIR no. 49, 14 Nov 50. See also Nicholas A. Canzona and Lynn Montross, 

U.S. Marine Operations in Korea, 1950–1953: Volume III: The Chosin Reservoir Campaign (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1957); Allen S. Whiting, China 

Crosses the Yalu: The Decision to Enter the Korean War (New York: Macmillan, 1960).

56. “Recollections of Hungnam and Chosin,” Korean War Historical Commentary, Edward M. Almond Papers, U.S. Army Military History Institute, Carlisle Barracks, Pa.

57. HQ X Corps, Special Rpt on the Chosin Reservoir, 27 Nov–10 Dec 50, p. 10.

58. JCS, Joint Daily SITREP no. 142, 27 Nov 50.

59. JCS, Joint Daily SITREP no. 143, 28 Nov 50.

60. Roy E. Appleman, East of Chosin: Entrapment and Breakout in Korea (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1987), p. 318.

61. Carl von Clausewitz, On War, ed. and trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984), p. 112.

62. Ibid., pp. 108–09.

63. Schnabel, Policy and Direction, pp. 227–78.

64. As evidence that this is true, consider the accomplishments of the 1st Marine Division. Isolated in extremely restricted terrain on X Corps’ left flank when the Chinese 

struck, the division withdrew in good order despite its reliance on a precarious main 


440 historical perspectives of the operational art 

this newly refined doctrine translated into practical capabilities and how 

Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm played out as examples of 

the operational art. Although its focus is the U.S. Army’s experience, it 

takes into account the jointness of the campaign and parallel developments in other services.

Operational Ingredients

Combat veterans will tell you there is a difference between having a 

plan and carrying it through to successful conclusion, between “knowing 

what right looks like” and “making it happen.” Given the comparatively 

recent American articulation of the operational art and the distances in 

time separating most of Desert Storm’s senior commanders from their 

last exposures to service school systems, their success at implementing 

contemporary classroom doctrine would have been surprising had there 

not been additional mechanisms at work to translate newly developed 

theory into practical operational capabilities. Five such mechanisms stand 

out: the proliferation of officers trained in the new doctrine onto the staffs 

wherein operational decisions are effectively made; the general adaptation of a vocabulary that reflected the new doctrine; the Battle Command 

Training Program (BCTP) and similar simulations-driven exercises; the 

development of technical capabilities commensurate with the doctrine; 

and the evolution of the Capable Corps. 

Most senior American leaders of Desert Storm had little exposure 

to the operational art in the Army educational system. Key, albeit relatively junior, members of their staffs had. The United States has long 

had a love-hate relationship with staff specialization such as that represented by the German General Staff. On the one hand, theorists and 

commentators since at least as far back as Emory Upton have praised the 

efficiency of the German General Staff and advocated it as a model—a 

model many European militaries in fact adopted.11 On the other hand, 

frontier and maritime traditions of greater vintage characterized service 

with troops or sailors as “where the action was,” and service on a senior 

staff as somehow less manly. Indeed, General George S. Patton, Jr.’s comments on the subject capture a stereotype quite nicely: 

The typical staff officer is a man past middle life, spare, wrinkled, intelligent, cold, 

noncommittal, with eyes like a codfish, polite in contact, but at the same time 

unresponsive, cool, calm, and as damnably composed as a concrete post or plaster 

of Paris cast; a human petrification with a heart of feldspar and without charm or 

the friendly germ; minus bowels, passions or a sense of humor. Happily they never 

reproduce and all of them finally go to hell.12

Twentieth-century Americans adopted an egalitarian attitude toward military staff work; rather than evolving a small, highly special440 historical perspectives of the operational art 

this newly refined doctrine translated into practical capabilities and how 

Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm played out as examples of 

the operational art. Although its focus is the U.S. Army’s experience, it 

takes into account the jointness of the campaign and parallel developments in other services.

Operational Ingredients

Combat veterans will tell you there is a difference between having a 

plan and carrying it through to successful conclusion, between “knowing 

what right looks like” and “making it happen.” Given the comparatively 

recent American articulation of the operational art and the distances in 

time separating most of Desert Storm’s senior commanders from their 

last exposures to service school systems, their success at implementing 

contemporary classroom doctrine would have been surprising had there 

not been additional mechanisms at work to translate newly developed 

theory into practical operational capabilities. Five such mechanisms stand 

out: the proliferation of officers trained in the new doctrine onto the staffs 

wherein operational decisions are effectively made; the general adaptation of a vocabulary that reflected the new doctrine; the Battle Command 

Training Program (BCTP) and similar simulations-driven exercises; the 

development of technical capabilities commensurate with the doctrine; 

and the evolution of the Capable Corps. 

Most senior American leaders of Desert Storm had little exposure 

to the operational art in the Army educational system. Key, albeit relatively junior, members of their staffs had. The United States has long 

had a love-hate relationship with staff specialization such as that represented by the German General Staff. On the one hand, theorists and 

commentators since at least as far back as Emory Upton have praised the 

efficiency of the German General Staff and advocated it as a model—a 

model many European militaries in fact adopted.11 On the other hand, 

frontier and maritime traditions of greater vintage characterized service 

with troops or sailors as “where the action was,” and service on a senior 

staff as somehow less manly. Indeed, General George S. Patton, Jr.’s comments on the subject capture a stereotype quite nicely: 

The typical staff officer is a man past middle life, spare, wrinkled, intelligent, cold, 

noncommittal, with eyes like a codfish, polite in contact, but at the same time 

unresponsive, cool, calm, and as damnably composed as a concrete post or plaster 

of Paris cast; a human petrification with a heart of feldspar and without charm or 

the friendly germ; minus bowels, passions or a sense of humor. Happily they never 

reproduce and all of them finally go to hell.12

Twentieth-century Americans adopted an egalitarian attitude toward military staff work; rather than evolving a small, highly special442 historical perspectives of the operational art 

use concepts and vocabulary that facilitated its use. The 1986 edition of 

Field Manual (FM) 100–5, Operations, deployed an array of historical 

operational vignettes to make its points; such terms as Center of Gravity, 

Lines of Operation, and Culminating Point were recommended as key 

concepts for operational design. Although they did not develop a precise 

equivalent to SAMS, Navy and Air Force educators also gave due attention to the operational art and campaign planning during this period and 

developed appropriate literature for their student officers as well.17

Although initially a tactical construct, the categorization of the Battlefield Operating Systems (BOS)—maneuver, fire support, intelligence, 

command and control, air defense, mobility-countermobility, and combat 

service support—gave planners a convenient checklist and matrix that 

had operational implications as well. Soviet theorists, with their heavy 

emphasis on the operational art and their advocacy of such instruments 

as the operational maneuver group, were carefully studied, as were the 

alleged operational superiorities of the German World War II Wehrmacht. 

Woe be unto the Leavenworth student who did not have something intelligent to say about Auftragstaktik or Schwerpunkt. In a relatively brief 

period of time the Army school system had permeated grades captain 

through colonel with an appreciation of the operational art and a vocabulary appropriate to that appreciation.18

The intellectual residue of a service school system fades quickly unless it is put to use. Prior to the 1980s the operational level of war was 

not much amenable to rehearsal. Field and fleet exercises at that level, 

even if actual troop and sailor participation were scaled back, were extraordinarily expensive.19 War games using blocks of wood or paper chits 

to represent units or ships had been in use since the nineteenth century, 

but these tended to be torpidly paced, heavily dependent upon umpires 

for scenario depiction and combat resolution, and deficient in placing 

appropriate pressure on combat support and combat service support assets.20 The introduction and rapid maturation of computer simulations 

changed this situation. The BCTP, for example, began as a tactical-level 

simulation capable of forcing battalion staffs to cope with the full range 

of circumstances they might encounter. Computer-generated battlefield 

circumstances were reported through keyboard operators to subordinate 

commanders, who in turn passed them higher. These subordinate commanders, not umpires, had the mission of bringing the computer developments to life, reporting them through doctrinal communications systems 

in such a manner that they seemed real to commanders and staffs above 

them.21 Computer simulation developed considerable sophistication, in 

particular with respect to resolving the probabilities of combat results 

quickly and thus driving combat support and combat service support 

commanders and staffs to perform in real time as well. Within a decade 

simulations were the preferred—and economical—way to drill staffs in 
442 historical perspectives of the operational art 

use concepts and vocabulary that facilitated its use. The 1986 edition of 

Field Manual (FM) 100–5, Operations, deployed an array of historical 

operational vignettes to make its points; such terms as Center of Gravity, 

Lines of Operation, and Culminating Point were recommended as key 

concepts for operational design. Although they did not develop a precise 

equivalent to SAMS, Navy and Air Force educators also gave due attention to the operational art and campaign planning during this period and 

developed appropriate literature for their student officers as well.17

Although initially a tactical construct, the categorization of the Battlefield Operating Systems (BOS)—maneuver, fire support, intelligence, 

command and control, air defense, mobility-countermobility, and combat 

service support—gave planners a convenient checklist and matrix that 

had operational implications as well. Soviet theorists, with their heavy 

emphasis on the operational art and their advocacy of such instruments 

as the operational maneuver group, were carefully studied, as were the 

alleged operational superiorities of the German World War II Wehrmacht. 

Woe be unto the Leavenworth student who did not have something intelligent to say about Auftragstaktik or Schwerpunkt. In a relatively brief 

period of time the Army school system had permeated grades captain 

through colonel with an appreciation of the operational art and a vocabulary appropriate to that appreciation.18

The intellectual residue of a service school system fades quickly unless it is put to use. Prior to the 1980s the operational level of war was 

not much amenable to rehearsal. Field and fleet exercises at that level, 

even if actual troop and sailor participation were scaled back, were extraordinarily expensive.19 War games using blocks of wood or paper chits 

to represent units or ships had been in use since the nineteenth century, 

but these tended to be torpidly paced, heavily dependent upon umpires 

for scenario depiction and combat resolution, and deficient in placing 

appropriate pressure on combat support and combat service support assets.20 The introduction and rapid maturation of computer simulations 

changed this situation. The BCTP, for example, began as a tactical-level 

simulation capable of forcing battalion staffs to cope with the full range 

of circumstances they might encounter. Computer-generated battlefield 

circumstances were reported through keyboard operators to subordinate 

commanders, who in turn passed them higher. These subordinate commanders, not umpires, had the mission of bringing the computer developments to life, reporting them through doctrinal communications systems 

in such a manner that they seemed real to commanders and staffs above 

them.21 Computer simulation developed considerable sophistication, in 

particular with respect to resolving the probabilities of combat results 

quickly and thus driving combat support and combat service support 

commanders and staffs to perform in real time as well. Within a decade 

simulations were the preferred—and economical—way to drill staffs in 
444 historical perspectives of the operational art 

acquired a depth, breadth, and potency of geographical reach that elevated them into operational building blocks. Indeed, the 1990 division 

readily occupied the terrain and assumed the mission of the 1945 corps 

and the 1990 corps that of the 1945 army.27 This trend had been recognized, and by the late 1980s had matured into the concept and then into 

the reality of the Capable Corps. Such a corps featured a sizable inventory of combat support and combat service support units that rendered it 

capable of sustaining combat operations for a prolonged period. Unlike 

the thinly manned command and control headquarters of World War II, 

the late twentieth-century corps had logistical attributes of the World War 

II army group.28 The net result was that Desert Storm was fought on the 

ground with divisions as operational building blocks and corps as practitioners of the operational art.

Americans were late in coming to grips with the theory of the operational art. Although better with actual practice than with theory, they nevertheless suffered from the lack of a conceptual framework when campaigning on a grand scale. By 1990 this imbalance no longer obtained. 

Not only had they sharpened an appreciation of the operational level of 

war in their doctrine, they also had trained a cadre of mid-level officers 

in its use, spread relevant concepts and vocabulary broadly through the 

officer corps, drilled staffs at every level using simulations that captured 

much of the challenge of actual operations, exploited technology that 

considerably enhanced operational capabilities, and driven the level of 

operational practitioner down to the Capable Corps. They would soon 

face the requirement to bring this growth and change to bear in combat.

Desert Shield

It has become fashionable to characterize the American deployment 

during Desert Shield as lethargic, successful only because of the incredible inertia of Saddam Hussein through six long months.29 This is more 

sound bite to facilitate contemporary budget battles than it is historical 

analysis to assess relative performance. In fact, the Desert Shield deployment progressed at least twice as fast as previous efforts to project such heavy forces overseas, albeit in the Army’s case half as fast as 

the standard Chief of Staff General Eric K. Shinseki set in 1998 for the 

Army of 2015.30 Desert Shield represented considerable progress along 

a continuum running from World War II through this future Army. The 

deployment also represented considerable operational finesse, allowing 

thoughtful progression from forces capable of deterrence alone through 

those capable of delay, of defense, and, finally, of attack.

The 2 August 1990 Iraqi seizure of Kuwait had been swift and sure, 

but it had not been without challenges. In part to achieve surprise and 

in part to operate within Iraq’s logistical means, the Iraqis had assault444 historical perspectives of the operational art 

acquired a depth, breadth, and potency of geographical reach that elevated them into operational building blocks. Indeed, the 1990 division 

readily occupied the terrain and assumed the mission of the 1945 corps 

and the 1990 corps that of the 1945 army.27 This trend had been recognized, and by the late 1980s had matured into the concept and then into 

the reality of the Capable Corps. Such a corps featured a sizable inventory of combat support and combat service support units that rendered it 

capable of sustaining combat operations for a prolonged period. Unlike 

the thinly manned command and control headquarters of World War II, 

the late twentieth-century corps had logistical attributes of the World War 

II army group.28 The net result was that Desert Storm was fought on the 

ground with divisions as operational building blocks and corps as practitioners of the operational art.

Americans were late in coming to grips with the theory of the operational art. Although better with actual practice than with theory, they nevertheless suffered from the lack of a conceptual framework when campaigning on a grand scale. By 1990 this imbalance no longer obtained. 

Not only had they sharpened an appreciation of the operational level of 

war in their doctrine, they also had trained a cadre of mid-level officers 

in its use, spread relevant concepts and vocabulary broadly through the 

officer corps, drilled staffs at every level using simulations that captured 

much of the challenge of actual operations, exploited technology that 

considerably enhanced operational capabilities, and driven the level of 

operational practitioner down to the Capable Corps. They would soon 

face the requirement to bring this growth and change to bear in combat.

Desert Shield

It has become fashionable to characterize the American deployment 

during Desert Shield as lethargic, successful only because of the incredible inertia of Saddam Hussein through six long months.29 This is more 

sound bite to facilitate contemporary budget battles than it is historical 

analysis to assess relative performance. In fact, the Desert Shield deployment progressed at least twice as fast as previous efforts to project such heavy forces overseas, albeit in the Army’s case half as fast as 

the standard Chief of Staff General Eric K. Shinseki set in 1998 for the 

Army of 2015.30 Desert Shield represented considerable progress along 

a continuum running from World War II through this future Army. The 

deployment also represented considerable operational finesse, allowing 

thoughtful progression from forces capable of deterrence alone through 

those capable of delay, of defense, and, finally, of attack.

The 2 August 1990 Iraqi seizure of Kuwait had been swift and sure, 

but it had not been without challenges. In part to achieve surprise and 

in part to operate within Iraq’s logistical means, the Iraqis had assault446 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of Savannah, Georgia, preparing to embark.35 By the time it arrived air 

superiority would already have been achieved in theater, in part because 

of the 180 combat aircraft of the Saudis, in part because of about 600 

American Air Force combat aircraft that swiftly reinforced them, in part 

because of the dispatch of 6 American aircraft carriers to nearby waters, 

and in part because of the worldwide reach of such American bombers 

as the B–1, B–52, and F–111. This is not to mention the maturing allied 

naval blockade that was evermore effective in choking off Iraq’s external sources of supply.36

The American buildup progressed quickly and, despite its unprecedented nature and scope, reasonably smoothly. American operational 

planners had long experience with the notions of rapidly deploying forces to Europe or Korea to offset a Warsaw Pact or North Korean buildup. 

They had matured elaborate automated data systems to prioritize and 

track units deploying by sea and air and to associate manpower, equipment, tonnage, and volume with them.37 Legislation was available to make 

civilian commercial lift available to military transporters when military 

means would not suffice. Indeed, Desert Storm saw the first-ever crisis 

activation of the Civilian Reserve Air Fleet (CRAF), and unit load-masters soon found themselves wrestling with Boeing 747 load-plans as well 

as with those of the more familiar C–5s and C–141s.38 The deployment 

challenged the leadership and supervision of military transporters and 

load-masters. At the unit end of the hierarchy these were bright young 

officers and NCOs tracking company equipment and load plans as an 

extra duty. The hierarchy progressed through grizzled Air Force NCOs 

and Navy or Merchant Marine petty officers—who had absolute authority concerning what went where on their plane or vessel—up a ladder of 

technical responsibility that culminated in the four-star commander of 

the Transportation Command (TRANSCOM), activated in 1987. 

The deployment was not without its quirks and shortcomings, with 

too little airlift and sealift for all that the operational planners would have 

liked to accomplish, but it was an impressive and unprecedented accomplishment nevertheless. In less than six months the Army alone loaded and 

unloaded 500 ships and 9,000 aircraft that delivered 1,800 army aircraft; 

12,400 tracked vehicles; 114,000 wheeled vehicles; 38,000 containers; 

1,800,000 tons of cargo; and 350,000 personnel. The small but capable 

fleet of eight newly designed Fast Sealift Ships (FSS) greatly facilitated 

this effort.39 The deployment exercised techniques and systems that had 

matured during dozens of training exercises hypothesizing the speedy 

dispatch of Cold War reinforcements. Indeed, the working mechanics 

were so familiar that staff pundits characterized the movement from Europe to Saudi Arabia as DEFORGER 90, a play on words with respect 

to numerous REFORGER exercises wherein Europe itself was in receipt 

of reinforcements.40 One difference, however, was that most heavy units 
446 historical perspectives of the operational art 

of Savannah, Georgia, preparing to embark.35 By the time it arrived air 

superiority would already have been achieved in theater, in part because 

of the 180 combat aircraft of the Saudis, in part because of about 600 

American Air Force combat aircraft that swiftly reinforced them, in part 

because of the dispatch of 6 American aircraft carriers to nearby waters, 

and in part because of the worldwide reach of such American bombers 

as the B–1, B–52, and F–111. This is not to mention the maturing allied 

naval blockade that was evermore effective in choking off Iraq’s external sources of supply.36

The American buildup progressed quickly and, despite its unprecedented nature and scope, reasonably smoothly. American operational 

planners had long experience with the notions of rapidly deploying forces to Europe or Korea to offset a Warsaw Pact or North Korean buildup. 

They had matured elaborate automated data systems to prioritize and 

track units deploying by sea and air and to associate manpower, equipment, tonnage, and volume with them.37 Legislation was available to make 

civilian commercial lift available to military transporters when military 

means would not suffice. Indeed, Desert Storm saw the first-ever crisis 

activation of the Civilian Reserve Air Fleet (CRAF), and unit load-masters soon found themselves wrestling with Boeing 747 load-plans as well 

as with those of the more familiar C–5s and C–141s.38 The deployment 

challenged the leadership and supervision of military transporters and 

load-masters. At the unit end of the hierarchy these were bright young 

officers and NCOs tracking company equipment and load plans as an 

extra duty. The hierarchy progressed through grizzled Air Force NCOs 

and Navy or Merchant Marine petty officers—who had absolute authority concerning what went where on their plane or vessel—up a ladder of 

technical responsibility that culminated in the four-star commander of 

the Transportation Command (TRANSCOM), activated in 1987. 

The deployment was not without its quirks and shortcomings, with 

too little airlift and sealift for all that the operational planners would have 

liked to accomplish, but it was an impressive and unprecedented accomplishment nevertheless. In less than six months the Army alone loaded and 

unloaded 500 ships and 9,000 aircraft that delivered 1,800 army aircraft; 

12,400 tracked vehicles; 114,000 wheeled vehicles; 38,000 containers; 

1,800,000 tons of cargo; and 350,000 personnel. The small but capable 

fleet of eight newly designed Fast Sealift Ships (FSS) greatly facilitated 

this effort.39 The deployment exercised techniques and systems that had 

matured during dozens of training exercises hypothesizing the speedy 

dispatch of Cold War reinforcements. Indeed, the working mechanics 

were so familiar that staff pundits characterized the movement from Europe to Saudi Arabia as DEFORGER 90, a play on words with respect 

to numerous REFORGER exercises wherein Europe itself was in receipt 

of reinforcements.40 One difference, however, was that most heavy units 
448 historical perspectives of the operational art 

positions with superb fields of fire and state-of-the-art weapons that accurately outranged Iraqi counterparts by hundreds of meters, they could 

anticipate loss ratios of better than a dozen to one in their favor, thus considerably offsetting Iraqi numerical superiorities.42 Within a few weeks 

Egyptian and Syrian heavy divisions equipped equivalently to the Iraqis 

arrived, as did the 1st Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood, Texas. Within 

two months of their attack on Kuwait, Iraqi prospects for a successful follow-on thrust deep into Saudi Arabia had plummeted from high to zero.

As Saudi security stabilized behind an ever more formidable Desert

Shield, the National Command Authority concluded that a diplomatic 

resolution of the crisis was unlikely and that the combination of blockade and economic sanctions also would not yield timely results. Iraqi 

forces had continued to build up in Kuwait. Although Iraqi prospects for 

a successful offensive had faded, their prospects for a successful defense 

had not. Line infantry replaced mechanized units in the border areas, 

and Iraqi engineers constructed arrays of minefields, obstacles, and fighting positions in depth. Saddam himself opined that the American people 

would not stand for 10,000 casualties and seemed determined to exact at 

least that number if forced to defend the country he had seized.43 American squeamishness over casualties might ultimately provide him the diplomatic leverage he sought. Determined to avoid this, on 8 November 

President Bush committed to an additional buildup of forces to provide 

an offensive option. Implied within this further buildup was the need to 

accumulate forces so potent they could crush the Iraqis with minimal 

losses to themselves. Within days the 2d Armored Cavalry Regiment, 

1st Infantry Division (Mechanized), 1st Armored Division, 3d Armored 

Division, the brigade-size 2d Armored Division (Forward), and the remainder of the U.K. 1st Armoured Division were on their way to Saudi 

Arabia. This doubling of American forces in theater progressed at about 

the same pace as the deployment that had preceded it. By mid-February 

1991 a second Capable Corps, the VII, had joined the XVIII Airborne 

Corps in theater.44 (See Map 18.)

As important as the speedy buildup of combat forces was the buildup 

of a logistical apparatus to support them. Accustomed to dealing with 

transoceanic distances, American logisticians had ample experience 

planning for and supporting operations in austere theaters. They had developed a notion of “above the line” and “below the line” forces. Above 

the line were the maneuver units operational commanders mentally perceived as the “chips” on their board. Below the line were the logistical 

units necessary to sustain them. In an austere theater, the ratio with respect to troops between the two was 1.6 to 1 in favor of those below the 

line. In Desert Shield and Desert Storm the required ratio was 1.3 to 1 

because of the Saudi capability to provide important support services.45

Through the long years of planning for Cold War reinforcement, tables 
448 historical perspectives of the operational art 

positions with superb fields of fire and state-of-the-art weapons that accurately outranged Iraqi counterparts by hundreds of meters, they could 

anticipate loss ratios of better than a dozen to one in their favor, thus considerably offsetting Iraqi numerical superiorities.42 Within a few weeks 

Egyptian and Syrian heavy divisions equipped equivalently to the Iraqis 

arrived, as did the 1st Cavalry Division out of Fort Hood, Texas. Within 

two months of their attack on Kuwait, Iraqi prospects for a successful follow-on thrust deep into Saudi Arabia had plummeted from high to zero.

As Saudi security stabilized behind an ever more formidable Desert

Shield, the National Command Authority concluded that a diplomatic 

resolution of the crisis was unlikely and that the combination of blockade and economic sanctions also would not yield timely results. Iraqi 

forces had continued to build up in Kuwait. Although Iraqi prospects for 

a successful offensive had faded, their prospects for a successful defense 

had not. Line infantry replaced mechanized units in the border areas, 

and Iraqi engineers constructed arrays of minefields, obstacles, and fighting positions in depth. Saddam himself opined that the American people 

would not stand for 10,000 casualties and seemed determined to exact at 

least that number if forced to defend the country he had seized.43 American squeamishness over casualties might ultimately provide him the diplomatic leverage he sought. Determined to avoid this, on 8 November 

President Bush committed to an additional buildup of forces to provide 

an offensive option. Implied within this further buildup was the need to 

accumulate forces so potent they could crush the Iraqis with minimal 

losses to themselves. Within days the 2d Armored Cavalry Regiment, 

1st Infantry Division (Mechanized), 1st Armored Division, 3d Armored 

Division, the brigade-size 2d Armored Division (Forward), and the remainder of the U.K. 1st Armoured Division were on their way to Saudi 

Arabia. This doubling of American forces in theater progressed at about 

the same pace as the deployment that had preceded it. By mid-February 

1991 a second Capable Corps, the VII, had joined the XVIII Airborne 

Corps in theater.44 (See Map 18.)

As important as the speedy buildup of combat forces was the buildup 

of a logistical apparatus to support them. Accustomed to dealing with 

transoceanic distances, American logisticians had ample experience 

planning for and supporting operations in austere theaters. They had developed a notion of “above the line” and “below the line” forces. Above 

the line were the maneuver units operational commanders mentally perceived as the “chips” on their board. Below the line were the logistical 

units necessary to sustain them. In an austere theater, the ratio with respect to troops between the two was 1.6 to 1 in favor of those below the 

line. In Desert Shield and Desert Storm the required ratio was 1.3 to 1 

because of the Saudi capability to provide important support services.45

Through the long years of planning for Cold War reinforcement, tables 
Map 18

TALLIL

AS SALMAN

RAFHA

KING KHALID MILITARY CIT

AL Q

B r e a c h Z o n e

ARMY CENTRAL

COMMAND

82d Airborne Division

XVIII ABN CORPS

VII CORPS

5th Special Forces

Group (Airborne)

101st Airborne Division

24th Infantry Division

1st Infantry

Division

1st Cavalry

Division

U.K. 1st Armoured

Division

French

6th Light Division 3d Armored

Cavalry Regiment

2d Armored

Cavalry Regiment

1st Armored

Division

3d Armored

Division

XXX

Euphrates River

Wa ̄di al B

Al Bus ̧

H ̧ afar al Ba ̄t ̧

As Sama ̄wah 

As Salma ̄n

Ash Shabakah

OPERATION DESERT STORM

24–28 February 1991

Miles

0 40

Uni t p osi ti ons app r oxima t e

Allied Advance, Phase 1

Allied Advance, Phase 2

Allied Advance, Phase 3

Allied Advance, Phase 4

ELEVATION IN FEET

0 500 1000 1500 2000 and Above
Map 18

TALLIL

AS SALMAN

RAFHA

KING KHALID MILITARY CIT

AL Q

B r e a c h Z o n e

ARMY CENTRAL

COMMAND

82d Airborne Division

XVIII ABN CORPS

VII CORPS

5th Special Forces

Group (Airborne)

101st Airborne Division

24th Infantry Division

1st Infantry

Division

1st Cavalry

Division

U.K. 1st Armoured

Division

French

6th Light Division 3d Armored

Cavalry Regiment

2d Armored

Cavalry Regiment

1st Armored

Division

3d Armored

Division

XXX

Euphrates River

Wa ̄di al B

Al Bus ̧

H ̧ afar al Ba ̄t ̧

As Sama ̄wah 

As Salma ̄n

Ash Shabakah

OPERATION DESERT STORM

24–28 February 1991

Miles

0 40

Uni t p osi ti ons app r oxima t e

Allied Advance, Phase 1

Allied Advance, Phase 2

Allied Advance, Phase 3

Allied Advance, Phase 4

ELEVATION IN FEET

0 500 1000 1500 2000 and Above
452 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Desert Shield demonstrated the American appreciation of and contributions to the operational art. From a cold start operational planners 

deployed a force that was able to successively deter, delay, defend, and 

attack its Iraqi opponent. Given that the Iraqis had their deployment challenges as well, the window of likely allied defeat was narrow indeed. 

This operational planning was effected by a cadre of mid-level officers 

who had had significant education with respect to the operational art and 

implemented by a much greater number who understood its basic concepts and vocabulary. War plans changed almost weekly, with the area to 

be secured growing from small desert enclaves through the entirety of 

Saudi Arabia itself. Computer simulations assisted in operational analysis through each step in the planning and associated war-gaming process, 

most notably in the Internal Look 90 exercise that defined key issues 

even before Saddam Hussein had seized Kuwait. The American achievement was greatly assisted by technological advances that provided a 

striking qualitative edge over the Iraqis and allowed a division to secure 

a sector formerly appropriate to a corps and a corps to secure a sector 

formerly appropriate to an army. Coincident with this advance with respect to weaponry was the maturation of the corps as a headquarters fully 

capable of integrating combat support, combat service support, and joint 

assets—again characteristics formerly associated with an army. With the 

mission of securing Saudi Arabia complete, American operational planners could now turn to their follow-on mission of liberating Kuwait.

Desert Storm Prepared

Desert Storm was a debilitating aerial and artillery preparation followed by a ground turning movement. On the map, the turning movement 

looks easy; broad arrows sweep in wide arcs to squeeze the hapless Iraqis 

into an evermore compressed pocket. Postwar commentators, particularly 

impressed with the several orders of magnitude difference in casualties, 

might lead one to believe it actually was easy. In fact it was far more 

difficult than one might think, and its eventual lopsided success was the 

result of a great deal of hard work by capable professionals well before 

the first armored vehicle crossed the line of departure. At the operational level plans were developed and refined, allies were incorporated into 

roles that were acceptable and suitable, units were trained and rehearsed 

for their missions, and the preconditions for a successful ground assault 

were achieved. While all this was going on, due precaution had to be 

taken against possible Iraqi actions to interfere with allied preparations. 

Let us examine these major prebattle efforts in turn.

The Jedi Knights conducting General Schwarzkopf’s operational 

planning had a few basic options, all of which the commercial media 

appreciated and debated.50 By November 1990 the Iraqis had matured a 
452 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Desert Shield demonstrated the American appreciation of and contributions to the operational art. From a cold start operational planners 

deployed a force that was able to successively deter, delay, defend, and 

attack its Iraqi opponent. Given that the Iraqis had their deployment challenges as well, the window of likely allied defeat was narrow indeed. 

This operational planning was effected by a cadre of mid-level officers 

who had had significant education with respect to the operational art and 

implemented by a much greater number who understood its basic concepts and vocabulary. War plans changed almost weekly, with the area to 

be secured growing from small desert enclaves through the entirety of 

Saudi Arabia itself. Computer simulations assisted in operational analysis through each step in the planning and associated war-gaming process, 

most notably in the Internal Look 90 exercise that defined key issues 

even before Saddam Hussein had seized Kuwait. The American achievement was greatly assisted by technological advances that provided a 

striking qualitative edge over the Iraqis and allowed a division to secure 

a sector formerly appropriate to a corps and a corps to secure a sector 

formerly appropriate to an army. Coincident with this advance with respect to weaponry was the maturation of the corps as a headquarters fully 

capable of integrating combat support, combat service support, and joint 

assets—again characteristics formerly associated with an army. With the 

mission of securing Saudi Arabia complete, American operational planners could now turn to their follow-on mission of liberating Kuwait.

Desert Storm Prepared

Desert Storm was a debilitating aerial and artillery preparation followed by a ground turning movement. On the map, the turning movement 

looks easy; broad arrows sweep in wide arcs to squeeze the hapless Iraqis 

into an evermore compressed pocket. Postwar commentators, particularly 

impressed with the several orders of magnitude difference in casualties, 

might lead one to believe it actually was easy. In fact it was far more 

difficult than one might think, and its eventual lopsided success was the 

result of a great deal of hard work by capable professionals well before 

the first armored vehicle crossed the line of departure. At the operational level plans were developed and refined, allies were incorporated into 

roles that were acceptable and suitable, units were trained and rehearsed 

for their missions, and the preconditions for a successful ground assault 

were achieved. While all this was going on, due precaution had to be 

taken against possible Iraqi actions to interfere with allied preparations. 

Let us examine these major prebattle efforts in turn.

The Jedi Knights conducting General Schwarzkopf’s operational 

planning had a few basic options, all of which the commercial media 

appreciated and debated.50 By November 1990 the Iraqis had matured a 
454 historical perspectives of the operational art 

main attack would be that of the VII Corps, consisting of five heavy divisions, four separate field artillery brigades, an armored cavalry regiment, 

and a separate aviation brigade. This mailed fist—a description the corps 

commander, Lt. Gen. Frederick M. Franks, Jr., had chosen—would envelope the Iraqi line at its far west end, turning east to annihilate the Republican Guard before sweeping across the northern half of Kuwait. The 

four-division XVIII Airborne Corps, already commanding the air assault 

intrusion into Iraq, would ride the VII Corps’ left flank and continue to 

isolate the Kuwaiti Theater from the west, while assisting in closing the 

trap to the east. 

The scheme of attack that emerged from Schwarzkopf’s operational 

planners during the fall of 1990 and early winter of 1990–1991 seems as 

close to a “Leavenworth Solution” as one could hope to see. Every unit 

in theater had been given a role appropriate to its technical capabilities, 

doctrine, and, in some cases, national sensibilities. Elaborate matrices 

synchronized the actions of each of the battlefield operating systems: maneuver, fire support, mobility and countermobility, air defense, command 

and control, intelligence, and combat service support. A clever balance 

had been achieved amongst feints, supporting attacks, economy-of-force 

measures, and a main attack sufficiently weighted to achieve decisive 

results. Officers who had war-gamed dozens of campaigns in simulation 

war-gamed this one in simulation as well—time and again to refine details.53 Shortcomings that ultimately emerged during the conduct of Desert Storm would not result from officers and staffs insufficiently trained 

to develop doctrinally correct campaign plans. 

One significant attribute of the Desert Storm campaign plan was 

the extent to which it changed over time.54 Word processors, improved 

duplication techniques, and modern communications made it feasible to 

edit and amend plans as disseminated documents. Space-age intelligence 

assets and ingrained habits of leadership rehearsal provided reasons to do 

so. Since Desert Storm it has been fashionable to point out deficiencies in 

the shared intelligence picture. These complaints would ring hollow with 

such German generals as Alexander von Kluck approaching the Marne 

in 1914 or Hermann Hoth attacking the Kursk Salient in 1943—commanders who had real intelligence dilemmas.55 No army in history has 

had as precise and accurate a picture of how its adversary laid out on 

the ground as did the American Third Army on 24 February 1991. Prior 

to the 1st Infantry Division breach, for example, battalion commanders 

received aerial photos detailing Iraqi platoon positions in their sectors. 

Narrative descriptions concerning where units were and when one could 

expect to encounter them proved remarkably accurate.56 Satellite imagery, aerial photography, unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) feedback, and 

information drawn from a fistful of other sensors fed huge amounts of 

material into the voracious appetites of military intelligence analysts. At 
454 historical perspectives of the operational art 

main attack would be that of the VII Corps, consisting of five heavy divisions, four separate field artillery brigades, an armored cavalry regiment, 

and a separate aviation brigade. This mailed fist—a description the corps 

commander, Lt. Gen. Frederick M. Franks, Jr., had chosen—would envelope the Iraqi line at its far west end, turning east to annihilate the Republican Guard before sweeping across the northern half of Kuwait. The 

four-division XVIII Airborne Corps, already commanding the air assault 

intrusion into Iraq, would ride the VII Corps’ left flank and continue to 

isolate the Kuwaiti Theater from the west, while assisting in closing the 

trap to the east. 

The scheme of attack that emerged from Schwarzkopf’s operational 

planners during the fall of 1990 and early winter of 1990–1991 seems as 

close to a “Leavenworth Solution” as one could hope to see. Every unit 

in theater had been given a role appropriate to its technical capabilities, 

doctrine, and, in some cases, national sensibilities. Elaborate matrices 

synchronized the actions of each of the battlefield operating systems: maneuver, fire support, mobility and countermobility, air defense, command 

and control, intelligence, and combat service support. A clever balance 

had been achieved amongst feints, supporting attacks, economy-of-force 

measures, and a main attack sufficiently weighted to achieve decisive 

results. Officers who had war-gamed dozens of campaigns in simulation 

war-gamed this one in simulation as well—time and again to refine details.53 Shortcomings that ultimately emerged during the conduct of Desert Storm would not result from officers and staffs insufficiently trained 

to develop doctrinally correct campaign plans. 

One significant attribute of the Desert Storm campaign plan was 

the extent to which it changed over time.54 Word processors, improved 

duplication techniques, and modern communications made it feasible to 

edit and amend plans as disseminated documents. Space-age intelligence 

assets and ingrained habits of leadership rehearsal provided reasons to do 

so. Since Desert Storm it has been fashionable to point out deficiencies in 

the shared intelligence picture. These complaints would ring hollow with 

such German generals as Alexander von Kluck approaching the Marne 

in 1914 or Hermann Hoth attacking the Kursk Salient in 1943—commanders who had real intelligence dilemmas.55 No army in history has 

had as precise and accurate a picture of how its adversary laid out on 

the ground as did the American Third Army on 24 February 1991. Prior 

to the 1st Infantry Division breach, for example, battalion commanders 

received aerial photos detailing Iraqi platoon positions in their sectors. 

Narrative descriptions concerning where units were and when one could 

expect to encounter them proved remarkably accurate.56 Satellite imagery, aerial photography, unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) feedback, and 

information drawn from a fistful of other sensors fed huge amounts of 

material into the voracious appetites of military intelligence analysts. At 
456 historical perspectives of the operational art 

not actually maneuvered above the brigade level.61 Once clear of their 

port of debarkation and bivouacked in the desert, all now had ample opportunity to conduct maneuver training at every level. Commanders carefully balanced the advantages of additional maneuver training against 

wear and tear on unit equipment. Most found the opportunity to maneuver their units on an unprecedented scale through extraordinary distances 

while pacing themselves in such a manner that they sustained high operational readiness rates as well.62 When the air war had disrupted Iraqi intelligence collection and the time came to shift the VII Corps and XVIII 

Airborne Corps from Desert Shield positions proximate to the east coast 

of Saudi Arabia to the staging areas for Desert Storm farther inland, 

the respective corps commanders took the opportunity to maneuver on 

the grandest possible scale. The VII Corps, for example, rehearsed largescale offensive movements through dozens of kilometers while moving 

west to its staging areas.63

This surrogate maneuver training was invaluable in itself and also 

provided the opportunity to resolve a number of technical issues with operational implications. Few soldiers, for example, had been familiar with 

the new GPS technology before Desert Shield, but in short order virtually every platoon leader had one. This presented both training worries 

and doctrinal issues as several different makes of GPS were worked into 

the modus operandi of maneuver units. The results were dramatic. Suddenly units as small as platoons could maintain perfect alignment with 

each other while maneuvering in formations as large as a corps through 

hundreds of kilometers of trackless desert in the dark. The Iraqis would 

later be totally surprised by this unprecedented operational capability.64

Similarly, the experience of the rehearsal allowed operational commanders to determine the pace at which such uninterrupted maneuver should 

progress: twelve miles an hour. It turned out that this speed was one of 

several smoothly riding interfaces between gear ratios on the M1A1 

tank—and the fastest such interface at which linear formations of unlike vehicles in a battalion or brigade formation could be kept together. 

Because the M1A1 rode smoothly at that speed, its gyrostabilization was 

optimized and the tank could fire accurately while moving.65 This yielded 

yet another operational capability unheard-of in earlier wars: the uninterrupted advance of a great mass of armor firing accurately on the move 

into a defender who could not hope to achieve the same range or accuracy 

even from fixed and surveyed positions. Twelve miles an hour may sound 

slow, but what historical army has ever sustained such an opposed rate of 

advance for days at a time?

Other training progressed collaterally with these first-in-a-generation 

corps-level maneuvers. A case in point was the 1st Infantry Division’s 

elaborate rehearsal of the breach it was to conduct during the first day of 

the ground war—to include the carefully choreographed passage of the 
456 historical perspectives of the operational art 

not actually maneuvered above the brigade level.61 Once clear of their 

port of debarkation and bivouacked in the desert, all now had ample opportunity to conduct maneuver training at every level. Commanders carefully balanced the advantages of additional maneuver training against 

wear and tear on unit equipment. Most found the opportunity to maneuver their units on an unprecedented scale through extraordinary distances 

while pacing themselves in such a manner that they sustained high operational readiness rates as well.62 When the air war had disrupted Iraqi intelligence collection and the time came to shift the VII Corps and XVIII 

Airborne Corps from Desert Shield positions proximate to the east coast 

of Saudi Arabia to the staging areas for Desert Storm farther inland, 

the respective corps commanders took the opportunity to maneuver on 

the grandest possible scale. The VII Corps, for example, rehearsed largescale offensive movements through dozens of kilometers while moving 

west to its staging areas.63

This surrogate maneuver training was invaluable in itself and also 

provided the opportunity to resolve a number of technical issues with operational implications. Few soldiers, for example, had been familiar with 

the new GPS technology before Desert Shield, but in short order virtually every platoon leader had one. This presented both training worries 

and doctrinal issues as several different makes of GPS were worked into 

the modus operandi of maneuver units. The results were dramatic. Suddenly units as small as platoons could maintain perfect alignment with 

each other while maneuvering in formations as large as a corps through 

hundreds of kilometers of trackless desert in the dark. The Iraqis would 

later be totally surprised by this unprecedented operational capability.64

Similarly, the experience of the rehearsal allowed operational commanders to determine the pace at which such uninterrupted maneuver should 

progress: twelve miles an hour. It turned out that this speed was one of 

several smoothly riding interfaces between gear ratios on the M1A1 

tank—and the fastest such interface at which linear formations of unlike vehicles in a battalion or brigade formation could be kept together. 

Because the M1A1 rode smoothly at that speed, its gyrostabilization was 

optimized and the tank could fire accurately while moving.65 This yielded 

yet another operational capability unheard-of in earlier wars: the uninterrupted advance of a great mass of armor firing accurately on the move 

into a defender who could not hope to achieve the same range or accuracy 

even from fixed and surveyed positions. Twelve miles an hour may sound 

slow, but what historical army has ever sustained such an opposed rate of 

advance for days at a time?

Other training progressed collaterally with these first-in-a-generation 

corps-level maneuvers. A case in point was the 1st Infantry Division’s 

elaborate rehearsal of the breach it was to conduct during the first day of 

the ground war—to include the carefully choreographed passage of the 
458 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Scuds, these primitive missiles had an impact well beyond their numbers. 

Their range enabled them to reach, albeit inaccurately, soft and unprepared targets. Indeed, for Americans the bloodiest single incident of the 

war occurred when a Scud missile slammed into a barracks in Al Khobar, 

killing twenty-eight and wounding ninety-eight—almost half from a single unit, the 14th Quartermaster Detachment from Greensburg, Pennsylvania.69 Perhaps as troubling, Scuds launched at Israel threatened to bring 

that embattled nation into the war, thus wrecking carefully constructed 

American alliances with Arab nations hostile to or suspicious of Israel.70

Patriot air defense missiles hastily deployed to Saudi Arabia and Israel 

did destroy a number of incoming Scuds, but by 24 January 40 percent 

of all allied air sorties were nevertheless directed against the Scuds—as 

were significant intelligence, electronic warfare, and special operations 

resources.71 A vast cat-and-mouse game developed throughout western 

Iraq as American intelligence and reconnaissance assets attempted to find 

Scuds for fighter bombers to engage, while Iraqis attempted to fire their 

mobile missiles quickly and then scoot out of harm’s way. Planes hunting 

Scuds were not, of course, pursuing other previously agreed-upon targets 

whose destruction had been preconditions for the ground assault.

One frequent comment with respect to Desert Shield and Desert

Storm was surprise that Saddam Hussein did not do more to interfere 

with the allied buildup.72 We have already commented on the relative 

buildup of forces in the Kuwaiti Theater of Operations and on the narrow window of opportunity wherein a preemptive ground assault by 

Iraqis could have worked—if at all. The abortive Iraqi thrust at Khafji 

on 29–31 January 1991 reinforces this point. Terrorists and commandos 

could perhaps have been a viable threat to the logistical buildup, but the 

allies had given considerable time and attention to protecting themselves 

against them.73 Maneuver units made a point of scattering themselves 

into the open desert as quickly as possible, thus presenting a poor target 

themselves while being able to readily target any person or vehicle approaching them. 

Preemptive strikes and terrorist attacks simply do not seem to have 

been in the plan whereby Saddam Hussein intended to achieve his diplomatic objectives. He had presented the world with a fait accompli, and 

hoped he could consolidate his gains, in all or in part, without an actual fight. If he convinced the allies that the forcible liberation of Kuwait 

would be prohibitively costly, he could strike a favorable deal. Before 

the air campaign began, it served him no purpose to further provoke the 

allies. Indeed, he took a number of measures, to include releasing the 

last of some thirteen hundred western hostages, to appear conciliatory.74

After the air attacks commenced, terrorist attacks and commando raids 

might have made more sense, but they would have had to overcome the 

extraordinary efforts the Saudis—possessed of a security apparatus with 
458 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Scuds, these primitive missiles had an impact well beyond their numbers. 

Their range enabled them to reach, albeit inaccurately, soft and unprepared targets. Indeed, for Americans the bloodiest single incident of the 

war occurred when a Scud missile slammed into a barracks in Al Khobar, 

killing twenty-eight and wounding ninety-eight—almost half from a single unit, the 14th Quartermaster Detachment from Greensburg, Pennsylvania.69 Perhaps as troubling, Scuds launched at Israel threatened to bring 

that embattled nation into the war, thus wrecking carefully constructed 

American alliances with Arab nations hostile to or suspicious of Israel.70

Patriot air defense missiles hastily deployed to Saudi Arabia and Israel 

did destroy a number of incoming Scuds, but by 24 January 40 percent 

of all allied air sorties were nevertheless directed against the Scuds—as 

were significant intelligence, electronic warfare, and special operations 

resources.71 A vast cat-and-mouse game developed throughout western 

Iraq as American intelligence and reconnaissance assets attempted to find 

Scuds for fighter bombers to engage, while Iraqis attempted to fire their 

mobile missiles quickly and then scoot out of harm’s way. Planes hunting 

Scuds were not, of course, pursuing other previously agreed-upon targets 

whose destruction had been preconditions for the ground assault.

One frequent comment with respect to Desert Shield and Desert

Storm was surprise that Saddam Hussein did not do more to interfere 

with the allied buildup.72 We have already commented on the relative 

buildup of forces in the Kuwaiti Theater of Operations and on the narrow window of opportunity wherein a preemptive ground assault by 

Iraqis could have worked—if at all. The abortive Iraqi thrust at Khafji 

on 29–31 January 1991 reinforces this point. Terrorists and commandos 

could perhaps have been a viable threat to the logistical buildup, but the 

allies had given considerable time and attention to protecting themselves 

against them.73 Maneuver units made a point of scattering themselves 

into the open desert as quickly as possible, thus presenting a poor target 

themselves while being able to readily target any person or vehicle approaching them. 

Preemptive strikes and terrorist attacks simply do not seem to have 

been in the plan whereby Saddam Hussein intended to achieve his diplomatic objectives. He had presented the world with a fait accompli, and 

hoped he could consolidate his gains, in all or in part, without an actual fight. If he convinced the allies that the forcible liberation of Kuwait 

would be prohibitively costly, he could strike a favorable deal. Before 

the air campaign began, it served him no purpose to further provoke the 

allies. Indeed, he took a number of measures, to include releasing the 

last of some thirteen hundred western hostages, to appear conciliatory.74

After the air attacks commenced, terrorist attacks and commando raids 

might have made more sense, but they would have had to overcome the 

extraordinary efforts the Saudis—possessed of a security apparatus with 
460 historical perspectives of the operational art 

A demonstration is an operation wherein contact is not actually 

made, but sufficient force is visibly deployed to cause an adversary to 

allocate significant resources to meet it.79 The U.S. Navy demonstrated 

with the 5th Marine Expeditionary Brigade (MEB) to create the impression that an amphibious assault was imminent. Like many, the Iraqis had 

been exposed to Marine Corps publicity concerning its ability to wreak 

havoc across the shore and had believed what they heard. Conscious exposure of the 5th MEB and its preparatory activities on the Cable News 

Network (CNN) and through other media heightened the Iraqi sense of 

anxiety, as did the visible presence of naval vessels in the Persian Gulf. 

The Iraqis dug in four divisions along their seaward flank specifically 

for the purpose of defending against amphibious assault, and as many 

more divisions were postured in such a manner that they might quickly 

intercede when the marines came across the beaches. Instead, once the 

ground war was well under way, the 5th MEB landed behind friendly 

lines and became an operational reserve for the supporting attacks discussed below.80

A feint is an operation wherein rounds are actually exchanged and 

fighting actually occurs, but the attacking force does not commit itself 

decisively in such a manner that it cannot readily extract itself.81 Again, 

the intent is to deceive the enemy with respect to where an actual attack 

will occur. The 1st Cavalry Division began its ground war by attacking up 

the Wadi al Batin, ultimately drawing the attention of five Iraqi divisions. 

(See Map 18.) After exchanging shots and doing some damage, the 1st 

Cavalry backed out of the wadi and swung west to catch up with the VII 

Corps and serve as its operational reserve.82

Demonstrations and feints work best if the deception they are intended to promulgate is plausible and one the enemy is inclined to believe 

anyway. The Iraqis had reason to be anxious concerning their two-hundred-plus kilometer coastline, particularly since important supply routes 

ran along it. They also fully expected an attack up the Wadi al Batin, 

recognizing that that prominent terrain feature would facilitate land navigation deep into the heart of their theater. Indeed, when VII Corps did 

conduct its attack from the west, it came across mile after mile of vehicle 

defensive positions aligned precisely along the azimuth described by 240 

degrees magnetic—facing in the direction of an attack up the Wadi al 

Batin.83 Without much effort the theater deception plan had taken 20 percent of the Iraqi in-theater force structure out of the fight. By the time the 

Iraqis realized their mistake and attempted to redeploy, it was too late. 

The 5th MEB and 1st Cavalry Division, on the other hand, were readily 

available for operations elsewhere. 

A supporting attack is a significant offensive effort intended to destroy units or to seize terrain and facilities that are important to the overall 

campaign scheme.84 Supporting attacks are often timed in such a manner 
460 historical perspectives of the operational art 

A demonstration is an operation wherein contact is not actually 

made, but sufficient force is visibly deployed to cause an adversary to 

allocate significant resources to meet it.79 The U.S. Navy demonstrated 

with the 5th Marine Expeditionary Brigade (MEB) to create the impression that an amphibious assault was imminent. Like many, the Iraqis had 

been exposed to Marine Corps publicity concerning its ability to wreak 

havoc across the shore and had believed what they heard. Conscious exposure of the 5th MEB and its preparatory activities on the Cable News 

Network (CNN) and through other media heightened the Iraqi sense of 

anxiety, as did the visible presence of naval vessels in the Persian Gulf. 

The Iraqis dug in four divisions along their seaward flank specifically 

for the purpose of defending against amphibious assault, and as many 

more divisions were postured in such a manner that they might quickly 

intercede when the marines came across the beaches. Instead, once the 

ground war was well under way, the 5th MEB landed behind friendly 

lines and became an operational reserve for the supporting attacks discussed below.80

A feint is an operation wherein rounds are actually exchanged and 

fighting actually occurs, but the attacking force does not commit itself 

decisively in such a manner that it cannot readily extract itself.81 Again, 

the intent is to deceive the enemy with respect to where an actual attack 

will occur. The 1st Cavalry Division began its ground war by attacking up 

the Wadi al Batin, ultimately drawing the attention of five Iraqi divisions. 

(See Map 18.) After exchanging shots and doing some damage, the 1st 

Cavalry backed out of the wadi and swung west to catch up with the VII 

Corps and serve as its operational reserve.82

Demonstrations and feints work best if the deception they are intended to promulgate is plausible and one the enemy is inclined to believe 

anyway. The Iraqis had reason to be anxious concerning their two-hundred-plus kilometer coastline, particularly since important supply routes 

ran along it. They also fully expected an attack up the Wadi al Batin, 

recognizing that that prominent terrain feature would facilitate land navigation deep into the heart of their theater. Indeed, when VII Corps did 

conduct its attack from the west, it came across mile after mile of vehicle 

defensive positions aligned precisely along the azimuth described by 240 

degrees magnetic—facing in the direction of an attack up the Wadi al 

Batin.83 Without much effort the theater deception plan had taken 20 percent of the Iraqi in-theater force structure out of the fight. By the time the 

Iraqis realized their mistake and attempted to redeploy, it was too late. 

The 5th MEB and 1st Cavalry Division, on the other hand, were readily 

available for operations elsewhere. 

A supporting attack is a significant offensive effort intended to destroy units or to seize terrain and facilities that are important to the overall 

campaign scheme.84 Supporting attacks are often timed in such a manner 
462 historical perspectives of the operational art 

An economy-of-force mission, as the name implies, is an effort to accomplish a supporting purpose with a minimal investment of resources.87

In the case of Desert Storm the supporting purpose to be served was the 

isolation of the Kuwaiti Theater of Operations (KTO) from the rest of 

Iraq. Iraqi units and logistical assets from outside the KTO were not to be 

admitted, nor were Iraqi forces to be allowed to escape the theater. The 

XVIII Airborne Corps was ideally suited for such a role. The French 6th 

Light Armored Division, reinforced with paratroopers from the 82d Airborne Division and incorporating organic missile-firing Gazelle helicopters, had the general attributes of an American cavalry regiment. On day 

one of the ground war it rushed forward to seize As Salman in a spirited 

fight and then faced west to guard against Iraqi intrusion from that direction. At the same time the heliborne 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) flew in to seize a forward operating base 176 kilometers deep into 

Iraq and then leaped a brigade forward to the Euphrates River Valley the 

following day. From these positions, swarms of Apache and Cobra attack 

helicopters fanned out to intercept and terrorize Iraqi ground movement 

along the northerly routes into the KTO. The dangerous east flank of the 

XVIII Airborne Corps was carried by the formidably heavy 24th Infantry 

Division (Mechanized) and the 3d Armored Cavalry Regiment. These 

units backstopped the French 6th Light Armored and 101st Airborne (Air 

Assault) Divisions until they were set, cleared the corps’ right flank to 

the Euphrates, and then turned east to cooperate with the VII Corps in its 

main attack against the Iraqi Republican Guard. Given that its heavy division in effect became part of the main attack, the XVIII Airborne Corps 

had in fact isolated the KTO with minimal but well-chosen force.88

The main attack was that of the awesome Anglo-American VII 

Corps. This massive steel fist—five heavy divisions, an armored cavalry 

regiment, an aviation brigade, and four artillery brigades—boasted over 

146,000 soldiers and almost 50,000 vehicles. Its divisions advanced with 

footprints twenty-four kilometers wide by forty-eight kilometers deep. 

Never before had so much firepower been concentrated into such an organization, and never before had such an organization featured such extraordinary tactical mobility. The purpose of a main attack generally is 

to crush an enemy’s center of gravity, that asset or attribute that is most 

essential to their prospects for success. The Iraqi center of gravity was 

adjudged to be the Republican Guard, three heavy and five motorized divisions equipped and trained to the highest Iraqi standards. As formidable 

as the Republican Guard was, the even more superbly equipped and far 

more highly trained VII Corps seemed the right force to defeat them.89

The 1st Infantry Division (Mechanized) breach was as methodical 

and even more mechanized than that of the marines farther east. Tightly synchronized teams of M1A1 dozer tanks, M1A1 mine-plow tanks, 

combat engineer vehicles, and accompanying engineers in armored per462 historical perspectives of the operational art 

An economy-of-force mission, as the name implies, is an effort to accomplish a supporting purpose with a minimal investment of resources.87

In the case of Desert Storm the supporting purpose to be served was the 

isolation of the Kuwaiti Theater of Operations (KTO) from the rest of 

Iraq. Iraqi units and logistical assets from outside the KTO were not to be 

admitted, nor were Iraqi forces to be allowed to escape the theater. The 

XVIII Airborne Corps was ideally suited for such a role. The French 6th 

Light Armored Division, reinforced with paratroopers from the 82d Airborne Division and incorporating organic missile-firing Gazelle helicopters, had the general attributes of an American cavalry regiment. On day 

one of the ground war it rushed forward to seize As Salman in a spirited 

fight and then faced west to guard against Iraqi intrusion from that direction. At the same time the heliborne 101st Airborne Division (Air Assault) flew in to seize a forward operating base 176 kilometers deep into 

Iraq and then leaped a brigade forward to the Euphrates River Valley the 

following day. From these positions, swarms of Apache and Cobra attack 

helicopters fanned out to intercept and terrorize Iraqi ground movement 

along the northerly routes into the KTO. The dangerous east flank of the 

XVIII Airborne Corps was carried by the formidably heavy 24th Infantry 

Division (Mechanized) and the 3d Armored Cavalry Regiment. These 

units backstopped the French 6th Light Armored and 101st Airborne (Air 

Assault) Divisions until they were set, cleared the corps’ right flank to 

the Euphrates, and then turned east to cooperate with the VII Corps in its 

main attack against the Iraqi Republican Guard. Given that its heavy division in effect became part of the main attack, the XVIII Airborne Corps 

had in fact isolated the KTO with minimal but well-chosen force.88

The main attack was that of the awesome Anglo-American VII 

Corps. This massive steel fist—five heavy divisions, an armored cavalry 

regiment, an aviation brigade, and four artillery brigades—boasted over 

146,000 soldiers and almost 50,000 vehicles. Its divisions advanced with 

footprints twenty-four kilometers wide by forty-eight kilometers deep. 

Never before had so much firepower been concentrated into such an organization, and never before had such an organization featured such extraordinary tactical mobility. The purpose of a main attack generally is 

to crush an enemy’s center of gravity, that asset or attribute that is most 

essential to their prospects for success. The Iraqi center of gravity was 

adjudged to be the Republican Guard, three heavy and five motorized divisions equipped and trained to the highest Iraqi standards. As formidable 

as the Republican Guard was, the even more superbly equipped and far 

more highly trained VII Corps seemed the right force to defeat them.89

The 1st Infantry Division (Mechanized) breach was as methodical 

and even more mechanized than that of the marines farther east. Tightly synchronized teams of M1A1 dozer tanks, M1A1 mine-plow tanks, 

combat engineer vehicles, and accompanying engineers in armored per464 historical perspectives of the operational art 

destroyed by the tankers or surrendered to the infantrymen so quickly 

that the artillerymen seldom had an opportunity to fire, but when they did 

the effects were devastating. The Republican Guard—outflanked, surprised, outranged, and in any given exchange generally outgunned—had 

no more chance of reversing this inexorable advance than vegetation in 

the path of a magma flow. Their choices were to die, surrender, or flee. 

Those who fled found themselves horribly exposed to the attack helicopters and close-air-support aircraft that ranged forward to intercept Iraqis 

the ground troops had flushed out. The decisive attack achieved decisive 

results; in little more than a day the VII Corps smashed the Republican 

Guard and accompanying regular army units in its path and swept on 

across northern Kuwait.92 (See Map 18.)

Americans reasonably expected to win the war with Saddam Hussein 

but nevertheless were surprised by the expediency of the victory and its 

low cost in American lives. A major fraction of that happy result can be explained by American mastery of the operational art. The operational plan 

we adopted was solid. A corporate product, it may not quite have demonstrated the personal genius of Alexander’s timing at Arbela, Marlboro’s 

poise at Blenheim, or Lee’s eye for the ground at Fredericksburg.93 The 

interplay between commander and staff in contemporary planning makes 

personal genius difficult to isolate. The Desert Storm plan was a good 

piece of staff workmanship, however, and made thoughtful use of each of 

the operational components involved. The demonstration and the feint reinforced misperceptions the Iraqis were already inclined to believe: that an 

amphibious attack would occur and that the main attack would be up the 

Wadi al Batin. A fifth of the Iraqi force structure was neutralized by deception, whereas the demonstrating and feinting forces were restored into play 

elsewhere. The supporting attacks seized important objectives—Kuwait 

City, for example—while taking on adversaries within their means. The 

fact that there were three supporting attacks rather than one neatly accommodated national sensibilities without unduly straining military resources. 

Perhaps more important, the location of these attacks further reinforced the 

Iraqi conviction that the main attack was coming across the Kuwaiti border 

from the south and led the Iraqis to persist in malpositioning the Republican Guard—their operational reserves. The XVIII Airborne Corps neatly 

isolated the battlefield with forces ideally suited for guarding a lengthy 

frontage, and the VII Corps conducted the main attack with forces ideally 

suited to delivering a devastating blow. The parts of the plan came together 

nicely, and each unit involved was well suited to play its part. 

The allied capacity for operational maneuver juxtaposed to an Iraqi 

incapacity to do the same. The relatively few advantages the Iraqis 

had—generally longer-range tube artillery, chemical stockpiles, prepared defenses and, in some cases, combat experience—had been quickly compromised. There is little evidence that the Iraqis attempted an op464 historical perspectives of the operational art 

destroyed by the tankers or surrendered to the infantrymen so quickly 

that the artillerymen seldom had an opportunity to fire, but when they did 

the effects were devastating. The Republican Guard—outflanked, surprised, outranged, and in any given exchange generally outgunned—had 

no more chance of reversing this inexorable advance than vegetation in 

the path of a magma flow. Their choices were to die, surrender, or flee. 

Those who fled found themselves horribly exposed to the attack helicopters and close-air-support aircraft that ranged forward to intercept Iraqis 

the ground troops had flushed out. The decisive attack achieved decisive 

results; in little more than a day the VII Corps smashed the Republican 

Guard and accompanying regular army units in its path and swept on 

across northern Kuwait.92 (See Map 18.)

Americans reasonably expected to win the war with Saddam Hussein 

but nevertheless were surprised by the expediency of the victory and its 

low cost in American lives. A major fraction of that happy result can be explained by American mastery of the operational art. The operational plan 

we adopted was solid. A corporate product, it may not quite have demonstrated the personal genius of Alexander’s timing at Arbela, Marlboro’s 

poise at Blenheim, or Lee’s eye for the ground at Fredericksburg.93 The 

interplay between commander and staff in contemporary planning makes 

personal genius difficult to isolate. The Desert Storm plan was a good 

piece of staff workmanship, however, and made thoughtful use of each of 

the operational components involved. The demonstration and the feint reinforced misperceptions the Iraqis were already inclined to believe: that an 

amphibious attack would occur and that the main attack would be up the 

Wadi al Batin. A fifth of the Iraqi force structure was neutralized by deception, whereas the demonstrating and feinting forces were restored into play 

elsewhere. The supporting attacks seized important objectives—Kuwait 

City, for example—while taking on adversaries within their means. The 

fact that there were three supporting attacks rather than one neatly accommodated national sensibilities without unduly straining military resources. 

Perhaps more important, the location of these attacks further reinforced the 

Iraqi conviction that the main attack was coming across the Kuwaiti border 

from the south and led the Iraqis to persist in malpositioning the Republican Guard—their operational reserves. The XVIII Airborne Corps neatly 

isolated the battlefield with forces ideally suited for guarding a lengthy 

frontage, and the VII Corps conducted the main attack with forces ideally 

suited to delivering a devastating blow. The parts of the plan came together 

nicely, and each unit involved was well suited to play its part. 

The allied capacity for operational maneuver juxtaposed to an Iraqi 

incapacity to do the same. The relatively few advantages the Iraqis 

had—generally longer-range tube artillery, chemical stockpiles, prepared defenses and, in some cases, combat experience—had been quickly compromised. There is little evidence that the Iraqis attempted an op466 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Shortcomings and Remediations

As successful an example of the operational art as Desert Storm

was, it was not flawless. Even in the midst of brilliant success, certain 

shortcomings became obvious: divergent pictures of the battlefield, fratricide, overwrought logistics, and differences in purpose and capability 

amongst coalition partners. Let us discuss each of these shortcomings in 

turn and then comment on the implications for the future of the operational art of postwar efforts to remediate them.

Once the ground war began in earnest and units were moving quickly 

and colliding with the enemy, appreciations of what was actually happening on the ground diverged. The theater headquarters in Riyadh had 

a different picture than that of the field-grade commanders in the directfire battle, with intermediate headquarters having their own snapshots as 

well.95 This was no new thing; since time immemorial battlefield confusion has been so commonplace that terms such as “the fog of war” have 

been invented to describe it. Desert Storm varied on this theme given 

that modern technology produced an illusion of clarity that was not actually there. Space-age intelligence assets—satellite imagery, aerial photography, long-range radio intercepts, and preliminary reports speeding 

through advanced communications systems—convinced Riyadh that the 

Iraqi Army was in full flight and that a hell-for-leather pursuit was an imperative. Field-grade commanders, on the other hand, encountering their 

own fierce little battles, characterized the Iraqis as offering various levels 

of resistance depending upon whom they had fought and assumed that 

because of modern communications their reports were being taken into 

account. Whatever their intent, Iraqi communications were so severely 

degraded they could not have coordinated a withdrawal if they chose. The 

Iraqis who did fight seem to have fought back instinctively, without much 

evidence they were responding to any recent guidance. The field-grade 

commanders who met such resistance were understandably loath to rush 

carelessly into it.96

The most obvious operational implication of this discoordinate appreciation of the battlefield was the alleged snit between the theater commander, General Schwarzkopf, and the VII Corps commander, General 

Franks, over the pace of the VII Corps advance.97 Confident in his intelligence, Schwarzkopf set aside the customary usage of deferring to 

the commander closest to the action and with ever-increasing fervor admonished Lt. Gen. Joseph Yeosock, the Third Army commander, to have 

Franks pick up his pace. Franks recoiled from the idea of willy-nilly pursuit, particularly when his own subordinates suggested serious resistance 

was still prospective. Unfortunately, Franks’ internal information flowed 

in patterns not much changed since World War II—land lines, radios, 

operations sergeants posting maps with stickers or grease pencils, and 
466 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Shortcomings and Remediations

As successful an example of the operational art as Desert Storm

was, it was not flawless. Even in the midst of brilliant success, certain 

shortcomings became obvious: divergent pictures of the battlefield, fratricide, overwrought logistics, and differences in purpose and capability 

amongst coalition partners. Let us discuss each of these shortcomings in 

turn and then comment on the implications for the future of the operational art of postwar efforts to remediate them.

Once the ground war began in earnest and units were moving quickly 

and colliding with the enemy, appreciations of what was actually happening on the ground diverged. The theater headquarters in Riyadh had 

a different picture than that of the field-grade commanders in the directfire battle, with intermediate headquarters having their own snapshots as 

well.95 This was no new thing; since time immemorial battlefield confusion has been so commonplace that terms such as “the fog of war” have 

been invented to describe it. Desert Storm varied on this theme given 

that modern technology produced an illusion of clarity that was not actually there. Space-age intelligence assets—satellite imagery, aerial photography, long-range radio intercepts, and preliminary reports speeding 

through advanced communications systems—convinced Riyadh that the 

Iraqi Army was in full flight and that a hell-for-leather pursuit was an imperative. Field-grade commanders, on the other hand, encountering their 

own fierce little battles, characterized the Iraqis as offering various levels 

of resistance depending upon whom they had fought and assumed that 

because of modern communications their reports were being taken into 

account. Whatever their intent, Iraqi communications were so severely 

degraded they could not have coordinated a withdrawal if they chose. The 

Iraqis who did fight seem to have fought back instinctively, without much 

evidence they were responding to any recent guidance. The field-grade 

commanders who met such resistance were understandably loath to rush 

carelessly into it.96

The most obvious operational implication of this discoordinate appreciation of the battlefield was the alleged snit between the theater commander, General Schwarzkopf, and the VII Corps commander, General 

Franks, over the pace of the VII Corps advance.97 Confident in his intelligence, Schwarzkopf set aside the customary usage of deferring to 

the commander closest to the action and with ever-increasing fervor admonished Lt. Gen. Joseph Yeosock, the Third Army commander, to have 

Franks pick up his pace. Franks recoiled from the idea of willy-nilly pursuit, particularly when his own subordinates suggested serious resistance 

was still prospective. Unfortunately, Franks’ internal information flowed 

in patterns not much changed since World War II—land lines, radios, 

operations sergeants posting maps with stickers or grease pencils, and 
468 historical perspectives of the operational art 

power of suggestion being as potent as it is, crews perpetrating fratricide 

seem to have “seen” enemy vehicles in shapes that would have been indistinct blobs under normal circumstances.104

In previous wars fratricide had generally been a tactical rather than 

an operational issue, often adjudged as an unfortunate cost of doing business.105 Desert Storm commanders, less tolerant of such casualties, went 

to elaborate lengths to preclude them. By the fourth day of the ground 

campaign, with units stung by fratricides that had nevertheless occurred, 

restrictions accumulated to render fire and movement—even at the operational level—far more cautious, methodical, and tentative than it had 

been in the first few days. One battalion commander spoke of clearing all 

fires personally, for example, and an officer in a different unit reported 

taking an hour to get clearance to fire at a unit that was firing at him.106

Fortunately, this gingerly behavior occurred in the face of an enemy that 

was already defeated.

Another source of impedence in the closing hours of the ground war 

was a deteriorating logistical situation. At the battalion level, fuel, ammunition, and other supplies moved on the capable and relatively nimble 

HEMTT, a modern vehicle with outsized wheels, ample clearance, and 

good off-road performance. In the open desert, it readily kept up with the 

tanks. The vehicles designated to replenish the HEMTTs, however, were 

far less mobile. The 5,000-gallon tankers of the forward support battalion 

were road bound and awkward, as were most of the vehicles in the echelons of combat service support above it. M1A1 tanks were extremely fuel 

consumptive. Theoretically, they could achieve a 300-mile range on 500 

gallons of fuel, but in practice they traveled perhaps half as far.107 Their 

powerful turbine engines consumed about as much fuel idling as on the 

move, and engines needed to be kept idling to support the power requirements of their highly sophisticated sights, fire controls, hydraulics, and 

communications. Other armored vehicles consumed less fuel than the 

M1A1 but nevertheless put enormous demands upon the supply system. 

Indeed, a heavy division could easily require 500,000 gallons of fuel to 

conduct a day of offensive operations.108

Logistical planners identify constraints that operational planners are 

wise to acknowledge. No tanker, for example, wants to be low on fuel 

in the presence of the enemy. As a rule of thumb, sustaining vehicles 

half-full or more on fuel during a movement-to-contact precludes that 

possibility. In a Desert Storm American heavy division this imperative 

dictated a rotation of fuel truckers forward and back as HEMTTs that 

refueled combat vehicles cycled to the rear to refill from the 5,000-gallon 

tankers of the support battalion and then returned, often passing newly 

emptied HEMTTs on their way back. The 5,000-gallon tankers in turn 

had to rotate even farther to the rear to replenish themselves from established stocks. Given the fuel consumption of the M1A1 and the working 
468 historical perspectives of the operational art 

power of suggestion being as potent as it is, crews perpetrating fratricide 

seem to have “seen” enemy vehicles in shapes that would have been indistinct blobs under normal circumstances.104

In previous wars fratricide had generally been a tactical rather than 

an operational issue, often adjudged as an unfortunate cost of doing business.105 Desert Storm commanders, less tolerant of such casualties, went 

to elaborate lengths to preclude them. By the fourth day of the ground 

campaign, with units stung by fratricides that had nevertheless occurred, 

restrictions accumulated to render fire and movement—even at the operational level—far more cautious, methodical, and tentative than it had 

been in the first few days. One battalion commander spoke of clearing all 

fires personally, for example, and an officer in a different unit reported 

taking an hour to get clearance to fire at a unit that was firing at him.106

Fortunately, this gingerly behavior occurred in the face of an enemy that 

was already defeated.

Another source of impedence in the closing hours of the ground war 

was a deteriorating logistical situation. At the battalion level, fuel, ammunition, and other supplies moved on the capable and relatively nimble 

HEMTT, a modern vehicle with outsized wheels, ample clearance, and 

good off-road performance. In the open desert, it readily kept up with the 

tanks. The vehicles designated to replenish the HEMTTs, however, were 

far less mobile. The 5,000-gallon tankers of the forward support battalion 

were road bound and awkward, as were most of the vehicles in the echelons of combat service support above it. M1A1 tanks were extremely fuel 

consumptive. Theoretically, they could achieve a 300-mile range on 500 

gallons of fuel, but in practice they traveled perhaps half as far.107 Their 

powerful turbine engines consumed about as much fuel idling as on the 

move, and engines needed to be kept idling to support the power requirements of their highly sophisticated sights, fire controls, hydraulics, and 

communications. Other armored vehicles consumed less fuel than the 

M1A1 but nevertheless put enormous demands upon the supply system. 

Indeed, a heavy division could easily require 500,000 gallons of fuel to 

conduct a day of offensive operations.108

Logistical planners identify constraints that operational planners are 

wise to acknowledge. No tanker, for example, wants to be low on fuel 

in the presence of the enemy. As a rule of thumb, sustaining vehicles 

half-full or more on fuel during a movement-to-contact precludes that 

possibility. In a Desert Storm American heavy division this imperative 

dictated a rotation of fuel truckers forward and back as HEMTTs that 

refueled combat vehicles cycled to the rear to refill from the 5,000-gallon 

tankers of the support battalion and then returned, often passing newly 

emptied HEMTTs on their way back. The 5,000-gallon tankers in turn 

had to rotate even farther to the rear to replenish themselves from established stocks. Given the fuel consumption of the M1A1 and the working 
470 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tion the physical fatigue of soldiers who had been rolling for four days 

and the encumbrance upon speedy engagement caused by hastily minted 

precautions against fratricide. Ironically, other traditional ingredients of 

a Clausewitzian culminating point—casualties, ammunition shortages, 

maintenance attrition, and dwindling water supplies and rations—did 

not apply at this point in the Gulf War. Indeed, these factors reflected 

hardly any degradation at all.112

The integration of allies into the overall operational scheme was another feature of the campaign reflecting uneven performance. The U.K. 

1st Armoured Division meshed fairly seamlessly into the VII Corps. The 

elaboration of doctrine, planning, rehearsal, and execution necessary 

for interoperability had ample precedent in the nearly continuous combined NATO training the two nations had participated in since 1949. The 

Americans found the British accents, diet, and support vehicles curious 

without being problematic. Indeed, British battalions stationed in Germany had long-standing partnerships with American counterparts, making it almost inevitable that Tommy’s traditional irreverence for authority 

would slop over onto American soldiers. A case in point was a cheeky 

lance corporal returned from a forward reconnaissance who counseled an 

American battalion commander to make haste with debarkation because 

he was uncertain whether the Saudi Desert had room enough for the overbuilt American truck fleet and morale facilities.113

Integrating the French into the XVIII Airborne Corps was more difficult, with language being less of a problem than the lack of mutual training experience. France was a member of the NATO political structure 

without being a member of the NATO military structure. French soldiers 

had good reputations in combat and actual operations but were far less 

likely to have participated in the combined training NATO officers valued as a prelude. Doctrine, equipment, organization, and ways of doing 

business were different from that of other NATO allies. That having been 

said, American and French officers and soldiers nevertheless established 

a useful rapport at the working level, and the French emerged as valuable 

members of the XVIII Airborne Corps team.114

The Americans’ integration with their Arab allies was not possible 

to the degree achieved with the British and French. Of the Arabs, only 

the Egyptians had conducted serious ground tactical training with the 

Americans, and that in the tightly choreographed and highly photogenic 

Bright Star Exercises over a number of years in Egypt.115 Military-tomilitary relationships with other Arab nations had ranged from modest to 

hostile insofar as troop training was concerned, although there had been 

a considerable participation of Arab officers in American schools and of 

American officers in military assistance programs. The Syrians, Egyptians, and several others deployed Soviet-designed equipment that would 

have been virtually impossible to distinguish in combat from that of the 
470 historical perspectives of the operational art 

tion the physical fatigue of soldiers who had been rolling for four days 

and the encumbrance upon speedy engagement caused by hastily minted 

precautions against fratricide. Ironically, other traditional ingredients of 

a Clausewitzian culminating point—casualties, ammunition shortages, 

maintenance attrition, and dwindling water supplies and rations—did 

not apply at this point in the Gulf War. Indeed, these factors reflected 

hardly any degradation at all.112

The integration of allies into the overall operational scheme was another feature of the campaign reflecting uneven performance. The U.K. 

1st Armoured Division meshed fairly seamlessly into the VII Corps. The 

elaboration of doctrine, planning, rehearsal, and execution necessary 

for interoperability had ample precedent in the nearly continuous combined NATO training the two nations had participated in since 1949. The 

Americans found the British accents, diet, and support vehicles curious 

without being problematic. Indeed, British battalions stationed in Germany had long-standing partnerships with American counterparts, making it almost inevitable that Tommy’s traditional irreverence for authority 

would slop over onto American soldiers. A case in point was a cheeky 

lance corporal returned from a forward reconnaissance who counseled an 

American battalion commander to make haste with debarkation because 

he was uncertain whether the Saudi Desert had room enough for the overbuilt American truck fleet and morale facilities.113

Integrating the French into the XVIII Airborne Corps was more difficult, with language being less of a problem than the lack of mutual training experience. France was a member of the NATO political structure 

without being a member of the NATO military structure. French soldiers 

had good reputations in combat and actual operations but were far less 

likely to have participated in the combined training NATO officers valued as a prelude. Doctrine, equipment, organization, and ways of doing 

business were different from that of other NATO allies. That having been 

said, American and French officers and soldiers nevertheless established 

a useful rapport at the working level, and the French emerged as valuable 

members of the XVIII Airborne Corps team.114

The Americans’ integration with their Arab allies was not possible 

to the degree achieved with the British and French. Of the Arabs, only 

the Egyptians had conducted serious ground tactical training with the 

Americans, and that in the tightly choreographed and highly photogenic 

Bright Star Exercises over a number of years in Egypt.115 Military-tomilitary relationships with other Arab nations had ranged from modest to 

hostile insofar as troop training was concerned, although there had been 

a considerable participation of Arab officers in American schools and of 

American officers in military assistance programs. The Syrians, Egyptians, and several others deployed Soviet-designed equipment that would 

have been virtually impossible to distinguish in combat from that of the 
472 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ditionally the most appalling sources of fratricide, could become a thing 

of the past. However, visual tactical displays are of little use to the tank 

gunner or apache pilot sorting out intermingled friend and foe in directfire engagements. Only through-sight cues can prevent terrible mistakes 

on a messy battlefield wherein the separation of forces is measured in 

mils on an aiming reticle rather than in meters on a map. The fielded 

through-sight capability to separate friend from foe has not advanced 

since the Gulf War.118

The logistical tether—most specifically, the fuel tether—of American heavy forces has also received considerable attention since the Gulf 

War. The most promising advances have been with respect to the appetite of the fuel-guzzling M1A1 tank. Improvements include an auxiliary 

power unit that allows radios and turret to operate without the main engine running and externally mounted bladders that provide a supplemental fuel-carrying capability.119 Significant advances have also been made 

with respect to fuel standardization, tactical fuel-handling equipment, and 

transmodal movement of fuel supplies.120 Research initiatives that have 

not yet had practical effect stress the development of more fuel-efficient 

engines and the development of lighter, yet equally effective armor.121

The dramatic differences in off-road mobility between fuel HEMTTs 

accompanying battalion task forces and the higher-echelon vehicles intended to refuel them remain, virtually guaranteeing that the logistical 

tether may be improved but will not be abolished as long as tanks are the 

decisive instrument of ground combat.

With respect to training with allies and potential allies, progress has 

been made—albeit not as much as one might hope in the Middle East. 

The Kuwaitis train seriously and consistently with American units. A 

brigade set of equipment is permanently on hand in their desert nation, 

and American task forces rotate through to train on it—and with their 

Kuwaiti colleagues—on a near continuous basis.122 Similar brigade sets 

are now positioned in Qatar and Bahrain as well, albeit with less routine training. The Bright Star training with the Egyptians has evolved to 

yield considerably more promise of practical wartime combined operations, and arms sales to Saudi Arabia and other Arab nations guarantee a 

steady flow of American technical experts to them and of their students 

into American schools. Unfortunately, the Saudis and Jordanians are unreceptive to the idea of an American troop presence on their soil consistent enough to sustain effective combined training, and the Syrians have 

gravitated back into a posture of hostility toward such an idea.123 It seems 

feasible to suggest integrating Kuwaitis and Egyptians on a modest scale 

into an American-led operational force, but an operation on the scale of 

Desert Shield or Desert Storm would probably require a return to the 

bifurcated command arrangements of the Gulf War. The prospects for 

effective combined operations with the traditional NATO allies remain 
472 historical perspectives of the operational art 

ditionally the most appalling sources of fratricide, could become a thing 

of the past. However, visual tactical displays are of little use to the tank 

gunner or apache pilot sorting out intermingled friend and foe in directfire engagements. Only through-sight cues can prevent terrible mistakes 

on a messy battlefield wherein the separation of forces is measured in 

mils on an aiming reticle rather than in meters on a map. The fielded 

through-sight capability to separate friend from foe has not advanced 

since the Gulf War.118

The logistical tether—most specifically, the fuel tether—of American heavy forces has also received considerable attention since the Gulf 

War. The most promising advances have been with respect to the appetite of the fuel-guzzling M1A1 tank. Improvements include an auxiliary 

power unit that allows radios and turret to operate without the main engine running and externally mounted bladders that provide a supplemental fuel-carrying capability.119 Significant advances have also been made 

with respect to fuel standardization, tactical fuel-handling equipment, and 

transmodal movement of fuel supplies.120 Research initiatives that have 

not yet had practical effect stress the development of more fuel-efficient 

engines and the development of lighter, yet equally effective armor.121

The dramatic differences in off-road mobility between fuel HEMTTs 

accompanying battalion task forces and the higher-echelon vehicles intended to refuel them remain, virtually guaranteeing that the logistical 

tether may be improved but will not be abolished as long as tanks are the 

decisive instrument of ground combat.

With respect to training with allies and potential allies, progress has 

been made—albeit not as much as one might hope in the Middle East. 

The Kuwaitis train seriously and consistently with American units. A 

brigade set of equipment is permanently on hand in their desert nation, 

and American task forces rotate through to train on it—and with their 

Kuwaiti colleagues—on a near continuous basis.122 Similar brigade sets 

are now positioned in Qatar and Bahrain as well, albeit with less routine training. The Bright Star training with the Egyptians has evolved to 

yield considerably more promise of practical wartime combined operations, and arms sales to Saudi Arabia and other Arab nations guarantee a 

steady flow of American technical experts to them and of their students 

into American schools. Unfortunately, the Saudis and Jordanians are unreceptive to the idea of an American troop presence on their soil consistent enough to sustain effective combined training, and the Syrians have 

gravitated back into a posture of hostility toward such an idea.123 It seems 

feasible to suggest integrating Kuwaitis and Egyptians on a modest scale 

into an American-led operational force, but an operation on the scale of 

Desert Shield or Desert Storm would probably require a return to the 

bifurcated command arrangements of the Gulf War. The prospects for 

effective combined operations with the traditional NATO allies remain 
474 historical perspectives of the operational art 

imagine a more effective demonstration of joint and combined operations 

than that turned in to liberate Kuwait.

The above having been said, such proficiencies are perishable. Were 

we now presented with another opponent as formidable as Iraq was then, 

could we cope as handily? Post–Cold War downsizing has slashed American ground forces by a third. It would obviously be more problematic 

to field the seven active Army divisions of Desert Storm out of the year 

2002 inventory of ten than it was to field them out of the 1990 inventory 

of sixteen. Perhaps more important, focus has drifted away from warfare 

at the operational level, driven by the twin engines of operations other 

than war and year-2002-vintage defense transformation. Somalia, Haiti, 

Bosnia, Kosovo, Macedonia, and Afghanistan have all been important 

operations; they have also been operations wherein the smallness of scale 

on the ground and the fluidity between the tactical and the strategic have 

been so extreme that an operational level of activity has never emerged. 

Transformation as it seems to be playing out within the Department of 

Defense emphasizes technology and the tactical applications of technology with relatively less thought to maneuvering units in the mass. Force 

structure is understandably easier to justify with the operational tempo of 

present requirements than with the anticipated demands of future ones.

Historically, American officers have lagged in their appreciation of 

the operational art for at least three reasons. First, they were too busy with 

frontier, constabulary, and imperial police functions to give much thought 

to subjects they considered esoteric. Second, they never had a peacetime 

force structure large enough to experience practical training beyond the 

tactical level. Third, they thought they would have ample time to mobilize 

in the face of a truly formidable adversary—and would acquire the intellectual skills necessary to fight one while doing so. The 1970s and 1980s, 

following upon the operational myopia of the New Look and the paramilitary and tactical preoccupations of Vietnam, represented a unique 

departure from this pattern. Given our post–Desert Storm spate of constabulary responsibilities, radical armed forces downsizing, and cost cutting, as well as the reluctance to contemplate a near-peer adversary, are 

we reverting to our original habits? Where is the major headquarters that 

drives its officers to contemplate and rehearse an operational plan from 

the highest-ranking general through the lowest-ranking lieutenant—as 

did EUCOM and USAREUR at their Cold War pinnacles?

In fairness to our ancestors, it must be pointed out that after paying 

an initial price in blood, they became reasonably adept at the operational 

art—even if they never conceptualized it as such. The Vicksburg Campaign, the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, and the Normandy Breakout all 

offer useful lessons in campaign execution—as do many other battles 

Americans have fought on similar scale. American leaders proved creative enough to quickly overcome their shortcomings, in part because 
474 historical perspectives of the operational art 

imagine a more effective demonstration of joint and combined operations 

than that turned in to liberate Kuwait.

The above having been said, such proficiencies are perishable. Were 

we now presented with another opponent as formidable as Iraq was then, 

could we cope as handily? Post–Cold War downsizing has slashed American ground forces by a third. It would obviously be more problematic 

to field the seven active Army divisions of Desert Storm out of the year 

2002 inventory of ten than it was to field them out of the 1990 inventory 

of sixteen. Perhaps more important, focus has drifted away from warfare 

at the operational level, driven by the twin engines of operations other 

than war and year-2002-vintage defense transformation. Somalia, Haiti, 

Bosnia, Kosovo, Macedonia, and Afghanistan have all been important 

operations; they have also been operations wherein the smallness of scale 

on the ground and the fluidity between the tactical and the strategic have 

been so extreme that an operational level of activity has never emerged. 

Transformation as it seems to be playing out within the Department of 

Defense emphasizes technology and the tactical applications of technology with relatively less thought to maneuvering units in the mass. Force 

structure is understandably easier to justify with the operational tempo of 

present requirements than with the anticipated demands of future ones.

Historically, American officers have lagged in their appreciation of 

the operational art for at least three reasons. First, they were too busy with 

frontier, constabulary, and imperial police functions to give much thought 

to subjects they considered esoteric. Second, they never had a peacetime 

force structure large enough to experience practical training beyond the 

tactical level. Third, they thought they would have ample time to mobilize 

in the face of a truly formidable adversary—and would acquire the intellectual skills necessary to fight one while doing so. The 1970s and 1980s, 

following upon the operational myopia of the New Look and the paramilitary and tactical preoccupations of Vietnam, represented a unique 

departure from this pattern. Given our post–Desert Storm spate of constabulary responsibilities, radical armed forces downsizing, and cost cutting, as well as the reluctance to contemplate a near-peer adversary, are 

we reverting to our original habits? Where is the major headquarters that 

drives its officers to contemplate and rehearse an operational plan from 

the highest-ranking general through the lowest-ranking lieutenant—as 

did EUCOM and USAREUR at their Cold War pinnacles?

In fairness to our ancestors, it must be pointed out that after paying 

an initial price in blood, they became reasonably adept at the operational 

art—even if they never conceptualized it as such. The Vicksburg Campaign, the Meuse-Argonne Offensive, and the Normandy Breakout all 

offer useful lessons in campaign execution—as do many other battles 

Americans have fought on similar scale. American leaders proved creative enough to quickly overcome their shortcomings, in part because 
476 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. Notably Brig. Gen. Harold W. Nelson, “The Origins of Operational Art,” in this 

volume.

2. Clayton R. Newell, “On Operational Art,” in On Operational Art, ed. Clayton R. 

Newell and Michael D. Krause (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 

1994), pp. 9–14.

3. Harry G. Summers, Jr., On Strategy: A Cultural Analysis of the Vietnam War (Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1982), pp. 90–97.

4. Robert A. Doughty, The Evolution of U.S. Army Tactical Doctrine, 1946–1976

(Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 2001), pp. 12–18.

5. Ibid., pp. 25–40.

6. Fred Franks, Jr., and Tom Clancy, Into the Storm: A Study on Command (New York: 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1997), pp. 84–127; Robert H. Scales, Jr., Certain Victory: The United States Army in the Gulf War (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Chief of Staff, U.S. Army, 

1993), pp. 5–36.

7. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 93–94; Scales, Certain Victory, pp. 9–10; 

Ronnie L. Brownlee and William J. Mullen III, Changing an Army: An Oral History of 

General William E. DePuy, U.S.A. Retired (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1987).

8. David C. Glantz, “Soviet Operational Art Since 1936: The Triumph of Maneuver 

War,” in Part Three of this anthology.

9. Gordon Nathaniel Lederman, Reorganizing the Joint Chiefs of Staff: The Goldwater 

Nichols Act of 1986 (Westpoint, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1999), pp. 65–84.

10. John Romjue, From Active Defense to AirLand Battle: The Development of Army 

Doctrine, 1973–1982 (Fort Monroe, Va.: U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, 

1984). 

11. Emory Upton, The Military Policy of the United States (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1912), pp. iii–xv.

12. John A. Shaud, “The ‘Staff Experience’ and Leadership Development,” Airpower 

Journal (Spring 1993); see also William B. Skelton, An American Profession of Arms: 

The American Officer Corps, 1784–1861 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1992), 

pp. 221–37; Robert M. Utley, Frontier Regulars: The United States Army and the Indian, 

1886–1891 (New York: Macmillan, 1973), pp. 10–36.

13. Boyd L. Dastrup, The U.S. Army Command and General Staff College: A Centennial 

History (Leavenworth, Kans.: Sunflower University Press, 1982), pp. 78–105.

14. Ibid., p. 128.

15. Electronic Interv, author with Capt. John Townsend, Combat Studies Institute Faculty, 

Fort Leavenworth, Kans., 14 Nov 01.

16. Intervs, author with Marcus Erlandson, Friedburg, Germany, 17 Apr 86, and Joe 

Martz, Fort Stewart, Ga., 15 Oct 92. Both are SAMS graduates and familiar with their 

own thinking and that of their colleagues.

17. Department of the Army (DA), Field Manual (FM) 100–5, Operations (Washington, 

D.C.: Headquarters, Department of the Army, 1986), pp. 179–82. For the Air Force view, 

see John A. Warden III, The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat (Washington, D.C.: 
476 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Notes

1. Notably Brig. Gen. Harold W. Nelson, “The Origins of Operational Art,” in this 

volume.

2. Clayton R. Newell, “On Operational Art,” in On Operational Art, ed. Clayton R. 

Newell and Michael D. Krause (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 

1994), pp. 9–14.

3. Harry G. Summers, Jr., On Strategy: A Cultural Analysis of the Vietnam War (Novato, Calif.: Presidio Press, 1982), pp. 90–97.

4. Robert A. Doughty, The Evolution of U.S. Army Tactical Doctrine, 1946–1976

(Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 2001), pp. 12–18.

5. Ibid., pp. 25–40.

6. Fred Franks, Jr., and Tom Clancy, Into the Storm: A Study on Command (New York: 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1997), pp. 84–127; Robert H. Scales, Jr., Certain Victory: The United States Army in the Gulf War (Washington, D.C.: Office of the Chief of Staff, U.S. Army, 

1993), pp. 5–36.

7. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 93–94; Scales, Certain Victory, pp. 9–10; 

Ronnie L. Brownlee and William J. Mullen III, Changing an Army: An Oral History of 

General William E. DePuy, U.S.A. Retired (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Army Center of Military History, 1987).

8. David C. Glantz, “Soviet Operational Art Since 1936: The Triumph of Maneuver 

War,” in Part Three of this anthology.

9. Gordon Nathaniel Lederman, Reorganizing the Joint Chiefs of Staff: The Goldwater 

Nichols Act of 1986 (Westpoint, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1999), pp. 65–84.

10. John Romjue, From Active Defense to AirLand Battle: The Development of Army 

Doctrine, 1973–1982 (Fort Monroe, Va.: U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, 

1984). 

11. Emory Upton, The Military Policy of the United States (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1912), pp. iii–xv.

12. John A. Shaud, “The ‘Staff Experience’ and Leadership Development,” Airpower 

Journal (Spring 1993); see also William B. Skelton, An American Profession of Arms: 

The American Officer Corps, 1784–1861 (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1992), 

pp. 221–37; Robert M. Utley, Frontier Regulars: The United States Army and the Indian, 

1886–1891 (New York: Macmillan, 1973), pp. 10–36.

13. Boyd L. Dastrup, The U.S. Army Command and General Staff College: A Centennial 

History (Leavenworth, Kans.: Sunflower University Press, 1982), pp. 78–105.

14. Ibid., p. 128.

15. Electronic Interv, author with Capt. John Townsend, Combat Studies Institute Faculty, 

Fort Leavenworth, Kans., 14 Nov 01.

16. Intervs, author with Marcus Erlandson, Friedburg, Germany, 17 Apr 86, and Joe 

Martz, Fort Stewart, Ga., 15 Oct 92. Both are SAMS graduates and familiar with their 

own thinking and that of their colleagues.

17. Department of the Army (DA), Field Manual (FM) 100–5, Operations (Washington, 

D.C.: Headquarters, Department of the Army, 1986), pp. 179–82. For the Air Force view, 

see John A. Warden III, The Air Campaign: Planning for Combat (Washington, D.C.: 
478 historical perspectives of the operational art 

41. See note 34, above.

42. Bantz Craddock, ed., 24th Mechanized Infantry Division Combat Team Historical Reference Book: A Collection of Historical Letters, Briefings, Orders, and Other Miscellaneous 

Documents Pertaining to the Defense of Saudi Arabia and the Attacks To Free Kuwait (Fort 

Stewart, Ga.: Victory Division, 1992), docs. 1, 7, 8, 9.

43. Bo Eldridge, “Desert Storm, Mother of All Battles,” Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis (November–December 1991): 18.

44. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, pp. 65–87.

45. David A. Fastabend, “An Appraisal of ‘The Brigade Based New Army,’” Parameters (Autumn 1997): 73–81.

46. McGrath and Wright, “Gulf War Build-up.”

47. John S. Brown, Draftee Division: The 88th Infantry Division in World War II (Lexington: 

The University Press of Kentucky, 1986), pp. 70–83.

48. John S. Brown, Winning Teams: Correlates of Success in World War II Infantry Divisions

(Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Master of Military Arts and Sciences Program, 1985).

49. Author’s personal experience. See also Crosbie E. Saint, “War Adds New Dimensions to 

Europe’s Role,” Army (October 1991): 88–97.

50. Perhaps most notably in Trevor N. Dupuy et al., How To Defeat Saddam Hussein: Scenarios and Strategies for the Gulf War (New York: Warner Books, Inc., 1991).

51. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 388–89, 401–05. See also U.S. News 

and World Report, Triumph Without Victory: The Unreported History of the Persian Gulf War

(New York: Random House, 1992), pp. 173–83.

52. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 353–406. See also Rick Atkinson, 

Crusade: The Untold Story of the Gulf War (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1993), pp. 105–15.

53. Ibid.

54. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 406–50; Franks and Clancy, Into the 

Storm, pp. 171–245.

55. Esposito, West Point Atlas, sec. 1, pp. 9–12, sec. 2, p. 38.

56. Author’s personal experience as a tank battalion commander participating in the First 

Infantry Division breach. See also Jim Tice, “Coming Through: The Big Red One Raid,” 

Army Times, 26 Aug 91, pp. 12, 18–20.

57. Edward C. Mann III, Thunder and Lightning: Desert Storm and the Airpower Debates

(Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air University Press, 1995), pp. 145–59; Jerome V. Martin, 

Victory from Above: Air Power Theory and the Conduct of Operations Desert Shield and 

Desert Storm (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air University Press, 1994), pp. 66–67, 75, 

80.

58. Anne W. Chapman, The Army’s Training Revolution, 1973–1990: An Overview (Fort 

Monroe, Va.: U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, 1991), pp. 9–10, 19–20.

59. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 225–35; Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take 

a Hero, p. 383.

60. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, pp. 243–45.

61. Author’s personal experience as a tank battalion commander deploying from Germany; 

Interv, author with Lt. Col. Gregory Fontenot, then a tank battalion commander deploying 

from Fort Riley, Kansas, 12 Aug 93.

62. Ibid. See also Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 212–13.

63. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 236–38; DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, 

pp. 245–47.

64. Author’s personal experience; Scales, Certain Victory, pp. 254–56, 362; DOD, Conduct of 

the Persian Gulf War, pp. 565–70.
478 historical perspectives of the operational art 

41. See note 34, above.

42. Bantz Craddock, ed., 24th Mechanized Infantry Division Combat Team Historical Reference Book: A Collection of Historical Letters, Briefings, Orders, and Other Miscellaneous 

Documents Pertaining to the Defense of Saudi Arabia and the Attacks To Free Kuwait (Fort 

Stewart, Ga.: Victory Division, 1992), docs. 1, 7, 8, 9.

43. Bo Eldridge, “Desert Storm, Mother of All Battles,” Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis (November–December 1991): 18.

44. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, pp. 65–87.

45. David A. Fastabend, “An Appraisal of ‘The Brigade Based New Army,’” Parameters (Autumn 1997): 73–81.

46. McGrath and Wright, “Gulf War Build-up.”

47. John S. Brown, Draftee Division: The 88th Infantry Division in World War II (Lexington: 

The University Press of Kentucky, 1986), pp. 70–83.

48. John S. Brown, Winning Teams: Correlates of Success in World War II Infantry Divisions

(Fort Leavenworth, Kans.: Master of Military Arts and Sciences Program, 1985).

49. Author’s personal experience. See also Crosbie E. Saint, “War Adds New Dimensions to 

Europe’s Role,” Army (October 1991): 88–97.

50. Perhaps most notably in Trevor N. Dupuy et al., How To Defeat Saddam Hussein: Scenarios and Strategies for the Gulf War (New York: Warner Books, Inc., 1991).

51. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 388–89, 401–05. See also U.S. News 

and World Report, Triumph Without Victory: The Unreported History of the Persian Gulf War

(New York: Random House, 1992), pp. 173–83.

52. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 353–406. See also Rick Atkinson, 

Crusade: The Untold Story of the Gulf War (New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1993), pp. 105–15.

53. Ibid.

54. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 406–50; Franks and Clancy, Into the 

Storm, pp. 171–245.

55. Esposito, West Point Atlas, sec. 1, pp. 9–12, sec. 2, p. 38.

56. Author’s personal experience as a tank battalion commander participating in the First 

Infantry Division breach. See also Jim Tice, “Coming Through: The Big Red One Raid,” 

Army Times, 26 Aug 91, pp. 12, 18–20.

57. Edward C. Mann III, Thunder and Lightning: Desert Storm and the Airpower Debates

(Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air University Press, 1995), pp. 145–59; Jerome V. Martin, 

Victory from Above: Air Power Theory and the Conduct of Operations Desert Shield and 

Desert Storm (Maxwell Air Force Base, Ala.: Air University Press, 1994), pp. 66–67, 75, 

80.

58. Anne W. Chapman, The Army’s Training Revolution, 1973–1990: An Overview (Fort 

Monroe, Va.: U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, 1991), pp. 9–10, 19–20.

59. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 225–35; Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take 

a Hero, p. 383.

60. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, pp. 243–45.

61. Author’s personal experience as a tank battalion commander deploying from Germany; 

Interv, author with Lt. Col. Gregory Fontenot, then a tank battalion commander deploying 

from Fort Riley, Kansas, 12 Aug 93.

62. Ibid. See also Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 212–13.

63. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 236–38; DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, 

pp. 245–47.

64. Author’s personal experience; Scales, Certain Victory, pp. 254–56, 362; DOD, Conduct of 

the Persian Gulf War, pp. 565–70.
480 historical perspectives of the operational art 

91. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 286–362; Scales, Certain Victory, pp. 

261–86; Steve Vogel, “Metal Rain: Old Ironsides and the Iraqis Who Wouldn’t Back 

Down,” Army Times, 16 Sep 91, pp. 8–22, 61; Steve Vogel, “A Swift Kick: The 2nd 

ACR’s Taming of the Guard,” Army Times, 5 Aug 91, pp. 10–18, 28–30, 61; Steve Vogel, 

“The Tip of the Spear,” Army Times, 13 Jan 92, pp. 8–16, 54; Steve Vogel, “Hell Night: 

For the 2d Armored Division (Fwd) It Was No Clean War,” Army Times, 7 Oct 91.

92. Ibid.; also Tice, “Coming Through,” and author’s personal experience as a tank battalion commander participating in that attack. 

93. J. F. C. Fuller, The Generalship of Alexander the Great (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1960), pp. 163–80. J. F. C. Fuller, A Military History of the Western 

World, 3 vols. (New York: Minerva Press, 1967), II: 127–55. Douglas Southall Freeman, 

R. E. Lee: A Biography, 4 vols. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1934), II: 443–74.

94. Blackwell, Thunder in the Desert, pp. 29–73, 213–23; Bo Eldridge, “Desert Storm: 

Mother of All Battles,” Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis (November–

December 1991): 18, 33, 35; Richard Jupa and James Dingeman, “The Iraqi Republican 

Guards: Just How Elite Were They,” Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis

(November–December 1991): 44–50.

95. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 453–65; Franks and Clancy, Into 

the Storm, pp. 345–47.

96. Ibid.; also author’s personal experience as a field-grade commander in the face of 

such resistance. 

97. Ibid.

98. See note 68, above. See also Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 474–75.

99. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 474–78; Franks and Clancy, Into 

the Storm, pp. 454–57.

100. Geoffrey Regan, Blue on Blue: A History of Friendly Fire (New York: Avon Books, 

1995); Charles R. Shrader, Amicide: The Problem of Friendly Fire in Modern War (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: U.S. Army Command and General Staff College Press, 1982).

101. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, p. 591; David Bird, Combat Identification 

Program (Fort Meade, Md.: Combat Identification Division, 1991).

102. Memorandum, U.S. Army Center of Military History, Historical Resources Branch, 

25 Feb 00, sub: U.S. Army Deaths and Prisoners of War (POW) in the Persian Gulf War, 

1993–1991. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, p. 591.

103. Ibid. See also notes 90 and 91, above, and Sean D. Naylor, “Friendly Fire: The Reckoning,” Army Times, 21 Aug 91.

104. Bird, Combat Identification Program.

105. See note 100, above.

106. Vogel, “Metal Rain”; Vogel, “Hell Night”; Presentations, “Large Unit Maneuvers” 

and “Small Unit Maneuver,” USAREUR Desert Storm Training Conference, Grafenwöhr, Germany, 16 Jul 91.

107. U.S. Navy Military Database, “M1A1”; Andrew Leyden, Gulf War Debriefing Book: 

An After Action Report (Grants Pass, Oreg.: Hellgate Press, 1997), p. 46; author’s personal experience.

108. DA, FM 101–10–1, Staff Officers’ Field Manual: Organizational, Technical, and 

Logistical Planning Factors, 2 vols. (Washington, D.C.: Headquarters, Department of the 

Army, 1986), 2: Table 2–15.

109. Interv, author with Lt. Col. Steve Marshman, Commander of the 498th Support Battalion, Garlstadt, Germany (and Desert Storm) from May 1989 to May 1991, 11 October 

1991; U.S. Naval Institute (USNI), “Weapons/System/Platform (Menu)—Ground Com480 historical perspectives of the operational art 

91. Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 286–362; Scales, Certain Victory, pp. 

261–86; Steve Vogel, “Metal Rain: Old Ironsides and the Iraqis Who Wouldn’t Back 

Down,” Army Times, 16 Sep 91, pp. 8–22, 61; Steve Vogel, “A Swift Kick: The 2nd 

ACR’s Taming of the Guard,” Army Times, 5 Aug 91, pp. 10–18, 28–30, 61; Steve Vogel, 

“The Tip of the Spear,” Army Times, 13 Jan 92, pp. 8–16, 54; Steve Vogel, “Hell Night: 

For the 2d Armored Division (Fwd) It Was No Clean War,” Army Times, 7 Oct 91.

92. Ibid.; also Tice, “Coming Through,” and author’s personal experience as a tank battalion commander participating in that attack. 

93. J. F. C. Fuller, The Generalship of Alexander the Great (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1960), pp. 163–80. J. F. C. Fuller, A Military History of the Western 

World, 3 vols. (New York: Minerva Press, 1967), II: 127–55. Douglas Southall Freeman, 

R. E. Lee: A Biography, 4 vols. (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1934), II: 443–74.

94. Blackwell, Thunder in the Desert, pp. 29–73, 213–23; Bo Eldridge, “Desert Storm: 

Mother of All Battles,” Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis (November–

December 1991): 18, 33, 35; Richard Jupa and James Dingeman, “The Iraqi Republican 

Guards: Just How Elite Were They,” Command: Military History, Strategy and Analysis

(November–December 1991): 44–50.

95. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 453–65; Franks and Clancy, Into 

the Storm, pp. 345–47.

96. Ibid.; also author’s personal experience as a field-grade commander in the face of 

such resistance. 

97. Ibid.

98. See note 68, above. See also Franks and Clancy, Into the Storm, pp. 474–75.

99. Schwarzkopf and Petre, It Doesn’t Take a Hero, pp. 474–78; Franks and Clancy, Into 

the Storm, pp. 454–57.

100. Geoffrey Regan, Blue on Blue: A History of Friendly Fire (New York: Avon Books, 

1995); Charles R. Shrader, Amicide: The Problem of Friendly Fire in Modern War (Fort 

Leavenworth, Kans.: U.S. Army Command and General Staff College Press, 1982).

101. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, p. 591; David Bird, Combat Identification 

Program (Fort Meade, Md.: Combat Identification Division, 1991).

102. Memorandum, U.S. Army Center of Military History, Historical Resources Branch, 

25 Feb 00, sub: U.S. Army Deaths and Prisoners of War (POW) in the Persian Gulf War, 

1993–1991. DOD, Conduct of the Persian Gulf War, p. 591.

103. Ibid. See also notes 90 and 91, above, and Sean D. Naylor, “Friendly Fire: The Reckoning,” Army Times, 21 Aug 91.

104. Bird, Combat Identification Program.

105. See note 100, above.

106. Vogel, “Metal Rain”; Vogel, “Hell Night”; Presentations, “Large Unit Maneuvers” 

and “Small Unit Maneuver,” USAREUR Desert Storm Training Conference, Grafenwöhr, Germany, 16 Jul 91.

107. U.S. Navy Military Database, “M1A1”; Andrew Leyden, Gulf War Debriefing Book: 

An After Action Report (Grants Pass, Oreg.: Hellgate Press, 1997), p. 46; author’s personal experience.

108. DA, FM 101–10–1, Staff Officers’ Field Manual: Organizational, Technical, and 

Logistical Planning Factors, 2 vols. (Washington, D.C.: Headquarters, Department of the 

Army, 1986), 2: Table 2–15.

109. Interv, author with Lt. Col. Steve Marshman, Commander of the 498th Support Battalion, Garlstadt, Germany (and Desert Storm) from May 1989 to May 1991, 11 October 

1991; U.S. Naval Institute (USNI), “Weapons/System/Platform (Menu)—Ground Com
484 historical perspectives of the operational art

The Russians learned from these predecessors (and from their own 

mistakes as well) and eventually adapted a highly sophisticated operational art of war. The latter half of World War II demonstrated their masterful grasp of welding a series of tactical decisions together to form operational objectives that met the strategic goals of the Soviet Union—the 

defeat of Nazi Germany. In the years following World War II, the operational art of the Soviet military was refined to meet changing technology 

and national goals. Today, with the dissolution of the Soviet Empire, the 

Russian Army appears to be adjusting its military doctrine, and particularly its scope of the operational art, to a less grandiose scale.

In the United States, these doctrinal developments progressed more 

slowly. As one contributor already suggested in his discussion of the Gettysburg campaign, the concept was evident as early as the Civil War. 

Sadly, however, even by the time of the war in Korea nearly one hundred 

years later, American military leadership was still grasping to understand 

and implement the military connection that tied national strategy and 

battlefield tactics together. Poor intelligence and an awkward command 

and organizational structure—critical components of the operational art 

of war—clearly contributed to the American and United Nations reversals on the Korean Peninsula in November 1950. Those associated with 

the war in Vietnam are even more well known. One of the most obvious 

and successful demonstrations of the operational art was seen in the first 

Persian Gulf War (1991–1992).

The scope of this study was to introduce the origins of the operational 

art of war, and more importantly, highlight both the practice and the impact 

that it has had in modern military history. Now, over a decade after Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm, the U.S. Army must be careful not 

to become enamored with sophisticated technology and limited (albeit 

successful) small-scale incursions that are designed to achieve short-term 

political solutions. Operational art is a proven and critical component of 

military doctrine, and it should not be sacrificed or forgotten in the wake 

of changing technology and political environments.

Words move people, but examples draw them on. In this anthology, 

the reader has encountered a variety of examples that may provide some 

additional perspective of how wars have been fought and won—or lost. 

Why did Napoleon and Moltke succeed, while defeat met the French at 

Sedan in May 1940 and the Americans were forced to retreat in Korea 

in November 1950? Operationally, what could have been done differently during the Gettysburg campaign, and what should have been done 

better during the contest in Normandy? With these historical examples 

and at least an introduction to the evolution of this concept, perhaps the 

reader may develop a clearer understanding of the operational level of 

war, particularly as it may be applied in current doctrine and practiced 

in future conflicts.
484 historical perspectives of the operational art

The Russians learned from these predecessors (and from their own 

mistakes as well) and eventually adapted a highly sophisticated operational art of war. The latter half of World War II demonstrated their masterful grasp of welding a series of tactical decisions together to form operational objectives that met the strategic goals of the Soviet Union—the 

defeat of Nazi Germany. In the years following World War II, the operational art of the Soviet military was refined to meet changing technology 

and national goals. Today, with the dissolution of the Soviet Empire, the 

Russian Army appears to be adjusting its military doctrine, and particularly its scope of the operational art, to a less grandiose scale.

In the United States, these doctrinal developments progressed more 

slowly. As one contributor already suggested in his discussion of the Gettysburg campaign, the concept was evident as early as the Civil War. 

Sadly, however, even by the time of the war in Korea nearly one hundred 

years later, American military leadership was still grasping to understand 

and implement the military connection that tied national strategy and 

battlefield tactics together. Poor intelligence and an awkward command 

and organizational structure—critical components of the operational art 

of war—clearly contributed to the American and United Nations reversals on the Korean Peninsula in November 1950. Those associated with 

the war in Vietnam are even more well known. One of the most obvious 

and successful demonstrations of the operational art was seen in the first 

Persian Gulf War (1991–1992).

The scope of this study was to introduce the origins of the operational 

art of war, and more importantly, highlight both the practice and the impact 

that it has had in modern military history. Now, over a decade after Operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm, the U.S. Army must be careful not 

to become enamored with sophisticated technology and limited (albeit 

successful) small-scale incursions that are designed to achieve short-term 

political solutions. Operational art is a proven and critical component of 

military doctrine, and it should not be sacrificed or forgotten in the wake 

of changing technology and political environments.

Words move people, but examples draw them on. In this anthology, 

the reader has encountered a variety of examples that may provide some 

additional perspective of how wars have been fought and won—or lost. 

Why did Napoleon and Moltke succeed, while defeat met the French at 

Sedan in May 1940 and the Americans were forced to retreat in Korea 

in November 1950? Operationally, what could have been done differently during the Gettysburg campaign, and what should have been done 

better during the contest in Normandy? With these historical examples 

and at least an introduction to the evolution of this concept, perhaps the 

reader may develop a clearer understanding of the operational level of 

war, particularly as it may be applied in current doctrine and practiced 

in future conflicts.
486 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Arthur V. Grant, formerly the minority staff director for the U.S. Senate 

Select Committee on Intelligence, is currently with the Raytheon Company. A retired colonel, U.S. Army, he was an instructor at the U.S. Military Academy and the National War College. Colonel Grant contributed 

to the revised edition of the West Point Campaign Atlas to the American 

Civil War.

Jacob W. Kipp received his Ph.D. in history in 1970 from Pennsylvania 

State University. He is the director of the U.S. Army Foreign Military 

Studies Office/Joint Reserve Intelligence Center at Fort Leavenworth, 

Kansas. He contributes frequently to various scholarly and military 

journals concerning Russian military history and military affairs in 

Eastern Europe.

Michael D. Krause is a former deputy commander of the U.S. Army Center of Military History and instructor at the National War College. He 

retired as a colonel from the Ordnance Corps. Colonel Krause received 

his Ph.D. in modern European history from Georgetown University in 

1968. He coauthored Theater Logistics and the Gulf War and coedited 

On Operational Art.

Bruce W. Menning has written extensively on the formative period of the 

Soviet Red Army and is the author of Bayonets Before Bullets: The Imperial Russian Army, 1861–1914. Dr. Menning received his Ph.D. in history 

from Duke University. He is a former associate professor of History from 

the University of Miami, Ohio, and he currently serves as an instructor of 

strategy in the Department of Joint and Multinational Operations of the 

U.S. Army Command and General Staff College.

Stanlis David Milkowski recently retired from the U.S. Army as a colonel, after serving several tours of duty in a variety of intelligence assignments. A graduate of the National War College, he is the author of several 

articles dealing with military intelligence.

Harold W. Nelson, a retired brigadier general, U.S. Army, is a former 

chief of Military History and commander of the Center of Military History. Dr. Nelson also taught military history and operational art at the 

Army War College. He coauthored the U.S. Army War College Guide to 

the Battle of Gettysburg and similar studies on the Battles of Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, and Antietam.

Gunter R. Roth is a brigadier general in the German Army and head of 

the German Military History Institute. Dr. Roth has written extensively 

on German military history and the operational art of war.
486 historical perspectives of the operational art 

Arthur V. Grant, formerly the minority staff director for the U.S. Senate 

Select Committee on Intelligence, is currently with the Raytheon Company. A retired colonel, U.S. Army, he was an instructor at the U.S. Military Academy and the National War College. Colonel Grant contributed 

to the revised edition of the West Point Campaign Atlas to the American 

Civil War.

Jacob W. Kipp received his Ph.D. in history in 1970 from Pennsylvania 

State University. He is the director of the U.S. Army Foreign Military 

Studies Office/Joint Reserve Intelligence Center at Fort Leavenworth, 

Kansas. He contributes frequently to various scholarly and military 

journals concerning Russian military history and military affairs in 

Eastern Europe.

Michael D. Krause is a former deputy commander of the U.S. Army Center of Military History and instructor at the National War College. He 

retired as a colonel from the Ordnance Corps. Colonel Krause received 

his Ph.D. in modern European history from Georgetown University in 

1968. He coauthored Theater Logistics and the Gulf War and coedited 

On Operational Art.

Bruce W. Menning has written extensively on the formative period of the 

Soviet Red Army and is the author of Bayonets Before Bullets: The Imperial Russian Army, 1861–1914. Dr. Menning received his Ph.D. in history 

from Duke University. He is a former associate professor of History from 

the University of Miami, Ohio, and he currently serves as an instructor of 

strategy in the Department of Joint and Multinational Operations of the 

U.S. Army Command and General Staff College.

Stanlis David Milkowski recently retired from the U.S. Army as a colonel, after serving several tours of duty in a variety of intelligence assignments. A graduate of the National War College, he is the author of several 

articles dealing with military intelligence.

Harold W. Nelson, a retired brigadier general, U.S. Army, is a former 

chief of Military History and commander of the Center of Military History. Dr. Nelson also taught military history and operational art at the 

Army War College. He coauthored the U.S. Army War College Guide to 

the Battle of Gettysburg and similar studies on the Battles of Chancellorsville, Fredericksburg, and Antietam.

Gunter R. Roth is a brigadier general in the German Army and head of 

the German Military History Institute. Dr. Roth has written extensively 

on German military history and the operational art of war.

489

Index

Agapeyev, A. P.: 195–96

Air forces: 99, 172–73, 178

Air offensive operations: 172–73, 174

Aircraft: 80, 93

AirLand Battle doctrine: 15, 16, 333, 439

Al-Saud, King Fahd bin Abdul Azziz: 445

Albe, Bacler d’: 29, 30

Almond, Maj. Gen. Edward M.: 419, 

 422, 426, 427, 428, 429, 434n, 

 436n

Alsace-Lorraine: 76–77, 78–79, 155, 

 156–57

Amphibious operations

Korean War: 420, 421, 422, 434n

World War II: 393, 396–97

Antinuclear maneuver, Soviet: 271–74,

 276

Applied strategy: 199–200

Ardennes: 94, 96, 159, 160, 161, 171–72,

 174

Argentan-Falaise pocket: 403, 405–10. 

 See also Germany; World War II.

Army of Northern Virginia. See Civil 

 War, U.S.

Army of the Potomac. See Civil War, U.S.

Artillery

centralized control in the French 

 Army: 90–92, 96

French failure to coordinate with 

 infantry: 77, 78

French use of: 80, 83–86, 106n

massed batteries of: 56

Moltke’s use of: 124, 125, 126

Napoleon’s use of: 29, 52, 56

offensive use of: 98

operational planning for the use of: 

 83–86, 90–92, 96, 102

Pétain’s use of: 86–87

Prussian Army use of: 36, 38

as strategic reserve: 90–91, 96

World War I use of: 80, 82, 83–86, 

 88, 106n

World War II use of: 96, 97–98

Auerstädt, Germany: 48, 57–60, 64

Auftragstaktik: 164, 175–76, 178–79, 

 442 

Augereau, Marshal: 37, 40, 42, 46–47, 

 48, 51, 53, 60–61, 64

Austria: 40, 41, 43, 120–21, 123–24, 127

Babakov, A.: 291n

Babel, Isaac: 226

Bagramian, Marshal I. Kh.: 309–10, 

 323n

Battle Command Training Program 

 (BCTP): 440, 442

Battlefield Operating System: 442

Bavaria, Germany: 120

Beauharnais, Eugène: 33, 43

Beauregard, General P. G. T.: 356–57

Belgium: 127, 150

in World War I: 76–77, 78, 151, 155

in World War II: 94, 96, 158–59, 

 160–61, 169–70, 171, 175, 176

Belorussia: 257–58, 260–63, 264, 287n

Berlin, Germany: 265–66, 289n

Bernadotte, Marshal: 37, 42, 44, 45, 46–

 47, 48, 49, 51–52, 57–61, 62–63, 64,

 65

Berthier, Marshal: 28–29, 30–31, 37, 

 39–40, 42, 43, 49, 50–51, 58, 59, 

 61, 64

Beskrovnyi, Liubomir G.: 211n

Billotte, General Gaston: 96

Bismarck, Otto von: 120, 123, 131, 

 141–43, 144, 150

Blitzkrieg: 10–11, 14, 27, 158, 161, 170, 

 172, 175, 178–79, 247, 283n

Bloch, Jan S.: 195–96, 203

Blücher, General: 37, 38, 61, 62

Bogdanov, A. A.: 241n

Bolsheviks: 218–21, 222, 224

Bonnal, Henri: 74–75

Bourcet, General Pierre de: 70

Bradley, Lt. Gen. Omar N.: 400–401, 

 402, 405–07, 408

Breakthrough, as operational objective: 

 207, 232, 233, 244n

British Bomber Command: 99

British Expeditionary Forces: 78, 79, 

 80–81, 88, 94, 151, 152, 155, 166

Brittany, France: 401–02, 405, 409

Broglie, Marshal Victor de: 69

Brown, Brig. Gen. John S.: 331

Brunswick, Duke of: 36, 37, 38, 39, 45, 

 46, 48, 53, 58, 60
490 

Budennyî, General S. M.: 225–28, 243n

Buford, Brig. Gen. John: 361, 365, 366

Bush, George H. W.: 445, 448

Butterfield, Maj. Gen. Daniel: 358, 361, 

 378

Cable News Network (CNN): 460

Caemmerer, Rudolf von: 337

Campaign planning

for coalition warfare: 453–54

as a field of military specialization 

 in Germany: 136

by Lee: 350–53, 369–70, 371–72, 

 374, 376, 378–79, 380, 382–83

by Manstein: 158–60

by Meade: 378, 379–80, 383, 384

by Moltke: 118–19, 120–21, 123–

 24, 127, 130, 136–37, 138, 139,

 140, 144–45

by Napoleon: 31, 34, 39–44, 49–52

 for the Persian Gulf War: 453–55, 

 459, 464

by Schlieffen: 150–51, 165

Soviet: 219–20

U.S. Army: 15–16

Cannae, Battle of: 150, 151, 155–56, 

 157, 158, 165, 166, 179, 483

Capable Corps: 440, 444, 448, 452, 465

Case Red: 159

Case Yellow: 158, 159, 164

Casualties

Gettysburg: 370–71, 387

Napoleonic wars: 53, 58, 61

Operation Overlord: 396

Russian in World War II: 251, 253, 

 254, 263, 288n

World War I: 77, 78, 80, 82, 86, 87, 89

Cavalry units

in the French Army: 95, 100, 101

Lee’s use of: 363, 365, 382, 390n

Moltke’s use of: 124, 125, 126

Napoleon’s use of: 32, 53

in the Prussian Army: 36, 124

used for intelligence gathering: 32, 

 44, 46, 47, 124, 125

used for security of forces: 124, 125

Cemetery Hill: 367, 369–71, 372, 373, 

 374, 390n. See also Civil War, 

 U.S.; Gettysburg, battle of.

Cemetery Ridge: 373, 374, 376. See also

 Civil War, U.S.; Gettysburg, battle of.

Center of Higher Military Studies: 92

Chancellorsville, Virginia: 350, 352, 353, 

 359, 360, 386

Chandler, David: 25

Charles, Archduke: 134

Chemin des Dames, France: 84, 85, 87

Cherbourg, France: 397–98

China, People’s Republic of: 416, 419, 

 421, 424, 426, 427, 430, 434n, 435n

Churchill, Winston: 169, 177, 178, 396

Civil War, Soviet: 185–86, 218, 221, 222, 

 223–28, 232, 233, 244n

Civil War, Spanish: 11

Civil War, U.S. See also Campaign

 planning, by Lee; Casualties, 

 Gettysburg; Cavalry units, Lee’s 

 use of; Deception, Lee’s use of:

 Gettysburg, battle of; Gettysburg 

 campaign.

Army of Northern Virginia: 349, 

 350–51, 352, 379–80

 invasion of the North by: 354–65

 objectives in the Gettysburg 

 campaign: 381

 organization of: 352–53, 361

 role of mutual support in the 

 battle of Gettysburg: 366–

 67, 370, 372–73

 supplies for: 351, 365, 379, 

 381, 382, 386–87

 use of cavalry: 363–64, 365–66

Army of the Potomac: 349, 350, 351, 

 352, 353, 357, 363–65, 379–80, 

 382, 386–87

Pennsylvania, Confederate invasion 

 of: 349, 350–53, 354–65, 379–80, 

 382

Civilian Reserve Air Fleet, U.S.: 446

Clausewitz, Carl von: 10, 13, 15–16, 36, 

 74, 115, 119–20, 126, 134, 139,

 144, 145, 149, 150, 154, 158, 

 159, 161, 163, 165–66, 192–93, 

 198–99, 205, 333, 334, 388n, 430

Cobra. See Operations, military.

Cold War: 12–13, 16–17

Collins, Maj. Gen. J. Lawton: 400, 401, 

 407

Colmater (filling), failure of the concept 

 of: 93, 96–101

Combined arms

German concept of: 10–11
490 

Budennyî, General S. M.: 225–28, 243n

Buford, Brig. Gen. John: 361, 365, 366

Bush, George H. W.: 445, 448

Butterfield, Maj. Gen. Daniel: 358, 361, 

 378

Cable News Network (CNN): 460

Caemmerer, Rudolf von: 337

Campaign planning

for coalition warfare: 453–54

as a field of military specialization 

 in Germany: 136

by Lee: 350–53, 369–70, 371–72, 

 374, 376, 378–79, 380, 382–83

by Manstein: 158–60

by Meade: 378, 379–80, 383, 384

by Moltke: 118–19, 120–21, 123–

 24, 127, 130, 136–37, 138, 139,

 140, 144–45

by Napoleon: 31, 34, 39–44, 49–52

 for the Persian Gulf War: 453–55, 

 459, 464

by Schlieffen: 150–51, 165

Soviet: 219–20

U.S. Army: 15–16

Cannae, Battle of: 150, 151, 155–56, 

 157, 158, 165, 166, 179, 483

Capable Corps: 440, 444, 448, 452, 465

Case Red: 159

Case Yellow: 158, 159, 164

Casualties

Gettysburg: 370–71, 387

Napoleonic wars: 53, 58, 61

Operation Overlord: 396

Russian in World War II: 251, 253, 

 254, 263, 288n

World War I: 77, 78, 80, 82, 86, 87, 89

Cavalry units

in the French Army: 95, 100, 101

Lee’s use of: 363, 365, 382, 390n

Moltke’s use of: 124, 125, 126

Napoleon’s use of: 32, 53

in the Prussian Army: 36, 124

used for intelligence gathering: 32, 

 44, 46, 47, 124, 125

used for security of forces: 124, 125

Cemetery Hill: 367, 369–71, 372, 373, 

 374, 390n. See also Civil War, 

 U.S.; Gettysburg, battle of.

Cemetery Ridge: 373, 374, 376. See also

 Civil War, U.S.; Gettysburg, battle of.

Center of Higher Military Studies: 92

Chancellorsville, Virginia: 350, 352, 353, 

 359, 360, 386

Chandler, David: 25

Charles, Archduke: 134

Chemin des Dames, France: 84, 85, 87

Cherbourg, France: 397–98

China, People’s Republic of: 416, 419, 

 421, 424, 426, 427, 430, 434n, 435n

Churchill, Winston: 169, 177, 178, 396

Civil War, Soviet: 185–86, 218, 221, 222, 

 223–28, 232, 233, 244n

Civil War, Spanish: 11

Civil War, U.S. See also Campaign

 planning, by Lee; Casualties, 

 Gettysburg; Cavalry units, Lee’s 

 use of; Deception, Lee’s use of:

 Gettysburg, battle of; Gettysburg 

 campaign.

Army of Northern Virginia: 349, 

 350–51, 352, 379–80

 invasion of the North by: 354–65

 objectives in the Gettysburg 

 campaign: 381

 organization of: 352–53, 361

 role of mutual support in the 

 battle of Gettysburg: 366–

 67, 370, 372–73

 supplies for: 351, 365, 379, 

 381, 382, 386–87

 use of cavalry: 363–64, 365–66

Army of the Potomac: 349, 350, 351, 

 352, 353, 357, 363–65, 379–80, 

 382, 386–87

Pennsylvania, Confederate invasion 

 of: 349, 350–53, 354–65, 379–80, 

 382

Civilian Reserve Air Fleet, U.S.: 446

Clausewitz, Carl von: 10, 13, 15–16, 36, 

 74, 115, 119–20, 126, 134, 139,

 144, 145, 149, 150, 154, 158, 

 159, 161, 163, 165–66, 192–93, 

 198–99, 205, 333, 334, 388n, 430

Cobra. See Operations, military.

Cold War: 12–13, 16–17

Collins, Maj. Gen. J. Lawton: 400, 401, 

 407

Colmater (filling), failure of the concept 

 of: 93, 96–101

Combined arms

German concept of: 10–11
492 

Delbrueck, Hans: 230, 236

Denmark: 118–19

Desert Shield. See Operations, military.

Desert Storm. See Operations, military.

Deterrence as a defense strategy: 114

Dix, Maj. Gen. John A.: 354, 356, 358, 

 389n

Doctrine

French: 25, 74–76, 90–94, 96, 102, 

 103

Soviet: 222–23, 228, 242n, 270–71, 

 276

and technological change: 114

U.S.: 13, 15–18, 336–42, 343–44, 345

Doctrine for Joint Operations: 16

Doctrine for Planning Joint Operations: 

 16

Doughty, Robert: 25

Dragomirov, M. I.: 185, 191, 193, 197, 

 199, 210n

Dragoons, Napoleon’s use of: 32, 46

Drum, Hugh: 339

East Prussia: 262–64, 265

École Supérieure de Guerre: 74

Economic infrastructure and the ability 

 to conduct war: 195, 196, 205

Economy of force. See War, principles of.

Egypt: 470, 472

Eisenhower, General Dwight D.: 12, 402, 

 406–07

Elbe River: 40, 41, 45, 60–61

Engineer units, battle use of: 124, 125

English Channel: 94, 98, 101

Envelopment

counterattacks against: 162–64, 

 173–74, 178

of German forces in World War II: 

 405–10

German use of: 150–51, 155–56, 

 157–58, 160, 161–62, 163, 170, 174

in the Korean War: 420–21, 422, 424, 

 428, 429–30, 436n

Manstein’s use of: 160

Napoleon’s use of: 34, 47, 51–52, 71

as operational objective: 207

in the Persian Gulf War: 453–54, 463

Schlieffen’s emphasis on: 150–51, 

 155–56, 157–58, 165, 166

Soviet use of in World War II: 11, 

 259–61, 262, 263, 264, 265–66, 

 267, 285n, 288n

Espèrey, General Louis Franchet d’: 80, 81

Essai général de tactique, by General 

 Jacques Guibert: 70

“Essay on Strategy,” by Moltke: 131, 

 134, 136

Ewell, Lt. Gen. Richard: 354, 356, 363, 

 364, 365–66, 367, 369–70, 373–

 74, 376, 381, 383, 385–86, 390n

Far East Command (U.S.): 418, 419–20, 

 421–22, 423, 426, 427, 428, 429, 

 430–31, 433n, 434n, 435n, 436n, 

 437n

Field Manual 100–5: 12, 14, 15, 442. See 

 also Doctrine, U.S.

Field manuals, French: 73–74. See also 

 Doctrine, French.

Field Service Regulations: 336–39. See 

 also Doctrine, U.S.

Finland: 294

First Italian Campaign (1796): 32–33

Flavigny, General J. A. L. R.: 97, 99–100, 

 173–74

Flexibility of response: 136–38, 141, 143

Foch, Marshal Ferdinand: 80, 91, 154–55

Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, schools: 

 339–40

France. See also French Army; World 

 War I.

military doctrine, development of: 25,

 75–76

and the Persian Gulf War: 453, 462, 

 470

and World War I: 76–89, 151–58

and World War II: 94–101, 158, 

 169–79, 393

Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871): 25,

 127–31, 136–37, 142–43, 144–45,

 189–90, 191, 192, 197. See also 

 Germany.

Franco-Russian Alliance: 76–77

Franks, Lt. Gen. Frederick M., Jr.: 454, 

 466–67

Fratricide: 467–68, 470, 471–72, 473

Frederick, Crown Prince of Prussia: 121, 

 123, 127

Frederick Charles, Prince: 121, 123, 127

Frederick Karl, Prince: 119, 147n

Frederick-Wilhelm, King of Prussia: 118, 

 123, 124

Frederick-William III: 36, 37, 38, 40, 42, 

 44, 48, 58, 61, 63

Fredericksburg, Virginia: 354–55, 356, 

 360
492 

Delbrueck, Hans: 230, 236

Denmark: 118–19

Desert Shield. See Operations, military.

Desert Storm. See Operations, military.

Deterrence as a defense strategy: 114

Dix, Maj. Gen. John A.: 354, 356, 358, 

 389n

Doctrine

French: 25, 74–76, 90–94, 96, 102, 

 103

Soviet: 222–23, 228, 242n, 270–71, 

 276

and technological change: 114

U.S.: 13, 15–18, 336–42, 343–44, 345

Doctrine for Joint Operations: 16

Doctrine for Planning Joint Operations: 

 16

Doughty, Robert: 25

Dragomirov, M. I.: 185, 191, 193, 197, 

 199, 210n

Dragoons, Napoleon’s use of: 32, 46

Drum, Hugh: 339

East Prussia: 262–64, 265

École Supérieure de Guerre: 74

Economic infrastructure and the ability 

 to conduct war: 195, 196, 205

Economy of force. See War, principles of.

Egypt: 470, 472

Eisenhower, General Dwight D.: 12, 402, 

 406–07

Elbe River: 40, 41, 45, 60–61

Engineer units, battle use of: 124, 125

English Channel: 94, 98, 101

Envelopment

counterattacks against: 162–64, 

 173–74, 178

of German forces in World War II: 

 405–10

German use of: 150–51, 155–56, 

 157–58, 160, 161–62, 163, 170, 174

in the Korean War: 420–21, 422, 424, 

 428, 429–30, 436n

Manstein’s use of: 160

Napoleon’s use of: 34, 47, 51–52, 71

as operational objective: 207

in the Persian Gulf War: 453–54, 463

Schlieffen’s emphasis on: 150–51, 

 155–56, 157–58, 165, 166

Soviet use of in World War II: 11, 

 259–61, 262, 263, 264, 265–66, 

 267, 285n, 288n

Espèrey, General Louis Franchet d’: 80, 81

Essai général de tactique, by General 

 Jacques Guibert: 70

“Essay on Strategy,” by Moltke: 131, 

 134, 136

Ewell, Lt. Gen. Richard: 354, 356, 363, 

 364, 365–66, 367, 369–70, 373–

 74, 376, 381, 383, 385–86, 390n

Far East Command (U.S.): 418, 419–20, 

 421–22, 423, 426, 427, 428, 429, 

 430–31, 433n, 434n, 435n, 436n, 

 437n

Field Manual 100–5: 12, 14, 15, 442. See 

 also Doctrine, U.S.

Field manuals, French: 73–74. See also 

 Doctrine, French.

Field Service Regulations: 336–39. See 

 also Doctrine, U.S.

Finland: 294

First Italian Campaign (1796): 32–33

Flavigny, General J. A. L. R.: 97, 99–100, 

 173–74

Flexibility of response: 136–38, 141, 143

Foch, Marshal Ferdinand: 80, 91, 154–55

Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, schools: 

 339–40

France. See also French Army; World 

 War I.

military doctrine, development of: 25,

 75–76

and the Persian Gulf War: 453, 462, 

 470

and World War I: 76–89, 151–58

and World War II: 94–101, 158, 

 169–79, 393

Franco-Prussian War (1870–1871): 25,

 127–31, 136–37, 142–43, 144–45,

 189–90, 191, 192, 197. See also 

 Germany.

Franco-Russian Alliance: 76–77

Franks, Lt. Gen. Frederick M., Jr.: 454, 

 466–67

Fratricide: 467–68, 470, 471–72, 473

Frederick, Crown Prince of Prussia: 121, 

 123, 127

Frederick Charles, Prince: 121, 123, 127

Frederick Karl, Prince: 119, 147n

Frederick-Wilhelm, King of Prussia: 118, 

 123, 124

Frederick-William III: 36, 37, 38, 40, 42, 

 44, 48, 58, 61, 63

Fredericksburg, Virginia: 354–55, 356, 

 360
494 

Guderian, General Heinz: 98, 100, 171, 

 172, 173, 175, 178, 179

Guibert, General Jacques: 70

Gulevich, Lt. Col. A. A.: 196, 203

Haig, Douglas: 465

Haislip, Maj. Gen. Wade H.: 405, 406, 

 407, 408

Halder, General Franz: 174, 176–77

Halleck, General Henry W.: 353, 355, 

 358–59, 360, 364–65, 371, 381, 

 386, 389n

Hancock, Maj. Gen. Winfield S.: 367,

 386, 390n

Hardie, Col. James A.: 359, 360

Harpers Ferry, West Virginia: 358–59

Henry, Prince of Prussia: 118

Herr, General Frédéric G.: 90

Heth, Maj. Gen. Henry: 365, 366, 376, 

 383

Hill, Lt. Gen. A. P.: 354, 356, 364, 365–66, 

 367, 369, 370, 374, 376, 378, 383

Hindenburg Line: 84, 85. See also World

 War I.

Hitler, Adolf: 10, 11, 158, 162–63, 164–65,

166, 168n, 176–77, 178–79, 403. 

 See also German Army; World 

 War I; World War II.

Hoetzendorf, Conrad von: 230

Hohenlohe, Prince: 36, 37, 38, 39, 45,

 46, 47–48, 52, 53, 56, 60, 61, 62, 64

Holland: 42–43, 161

Hood, Maj. Gen. John B.: 371, 373, 376,

 379, 390n

Hooker, Maj. Gen. Joseph: 350, 353, 

 354, 355–59, 360, 361, 383, 386

Howard, Maj. Gen. Oliver O.: 366, 371

Hungary: 263, 303

Huntziger, General Charles: 94, 96, 97,

 98, 100, 171–72

Hussein, Saddam: 444, 448, 452, 458,

 459, 464, 473. See also Persian 

 Gulf War.

Imperial Russian Army

and concept of a unified supreme

 headquarters: 216

failure to critically assess military 

 history: 191–92

and intermediary command to control

 operations of a group of armies: 216

officers of in the Red Army: 218–19, 

 220–23, 225–26, 232–33

Imperial Russian Army—Continued

and planning for future wars: 204–05

and the Russo-Turkish War: 189–90

Inch’on, Korea: 418, 419, 420, 421, 422, 

 423, 430–31, 434n

Industrial revolution, effects on warfare: 

 4–5, 8–9, 111

Instruction on the Offensive Action of 

 Large Units in Battle: 338. See 

 also Doctrine, French; French Army.

Instructions of the Tactical Employment 

 of Large Units: 92. See also

 Doctrine, French; French Army.

Internal Look 90: 443, 445, 452

Iraq: 444–45, 447–53, 454. See also 

 Operations, military, Desert

 Storm; Persian Gulf War.

Iraqi forces: 444–45, 452–53, 454, 455, 

 456, 457, 458, 459, 460, 461, 

 462–65, 467, 469. See also Persian 

 Gulf War; Republican Guard units.

Israel: 458, 470–71

Isserson, Georgiy S.: 8–9, 12, 17, 234–35,

 245n

Italy: 32–33, 43, 120, 123

Ivanov, I.: 244n

Izmest’ev, P. I.: 219–20

Japan

war with Russia in 1904–1905: 197–201

and World War II: 266–67

Japan Logistics Command (U.S.): 423

Jena-Auerstädt campaign (1806): 25, 34,

 45, 48–57, 64–65, 149. See also

 Napoleon Bonaparte; Napoleonic

 wars.

Joffre, General Joseph: 76–80, 81–82,

102–03, 151–52, 156, 160

Joint Chiefs of Staff (U.S.): 416, 418,

 419–20, 424, 433n, 435n

Joint operations, U.S.: 16–18

Joint Strategic Plans and Operations 

 Group: 418, 419, 420, 428–29

Jomini, Henri: 4, 15–16, 192–93, 198–99,

333, 334, 335

Joy, Vice Adm. C. Turner: 433n

Kamenev, S. S.: 221, 227–28

Kersnovskiy, Anton A.: 210n

Khar’kov, battle for: 250–51, 254–55,

 256, 286n. See also World War II.

Khrulev, A. V.: 294, 295, 296, 297, 298,

 299, 301, 317n, 318n, 319n, 323n
494 

Guderian, General Heinz: 98, 100, 171, 

 172, 173, 175, 178, 179

Guibert, General Jacques: 70

Gulevich, Lt. Col. A. A.: 196, 203

Haig, Douglas: 465

Haislip, Maj. Gen. Wade H.: 405, 406, 

 407, 408

Halder, General Franz: 174, 176–77

Halleck, General Henry W.: 353, 355, 

 358–59, 360, 364–65, 371, 381, 

 386, 389n

Hancock, Maj. Gen. Winfield S.: 367,

 386, 390n

Hardie, Col. James A.: 359, 360

Harpers Ferry, West Virginia: 358–59

Henry, Prince of Prussia: 118

Herr, General Frédéric G.: 90

Heth, Maj. Gen. Henry: 365, 366, 376, 

 383

Hill, Lt. Gen. A. P.: 354, 356, 364, 365–66, 

 367, 369, 370, 374, 376, 378, 383

Hindenburg Line: 84, 85. See also World

 War I.

Hitler, Adolf: 10, 11, 158, 162–63, 164–65,

166, 168n, 176–77, 178–79, 403. 

 See also German Army; World 

 War I; World War II.

Hoetzendorf, Conrad von: 230

Hohenlohe, Prince: 36, 37, 38, 39, 45,

 46, 47–48, 52, 53, 56, 60, 61, 62, 64

Holland: 42–43, 161

Hood, Maj. Gen. John B.: 371, 373, 376,

 379, 390n

Hooker, Maj. Gen. Joseph: 350, 353, 

 354, 355–59, 360, 361, 383, 386

Howard, Maj. Gen. Oliver O.: 366, 371

Hungary: 263, 303

Huntziger, General Charles: 94, 96, 97,

 98, 100, 171–72

Hussein, Saddam: 444, 448, 452, 458,

 459, 464, 473. See also Persian 

 Gulf War.

Imperial Russian Army

and concept of a unified supreme

 headquarters: 216

failure to critically assess military 

 history: 191–92

and intermediary command to control

 operations of a group of armies: 216

officers of in the Red Army: 218–19, 

 220–23, 225–26, 232–33

Imperial Russian Army—Continued

and planning for future wars: 204–05

and the Russo-Turkish War: 189–90

Inch’on, Korea: 418, 419, 420, 421, 422, 

 423, 430–31, 434n

Industrial revolution, effects on warfare: 

 4–5, 8–9, 111

Instruction on the Offensive Action of 

 Large Units in Battle: 338. See 

 also Doctrine, French; French Army.

Instructions of the Tactical Employment 

 of Large Units: 92. See also

 Doctrine, French; French Army.

Internal Look 90: 443, 445, 452

Iraq: 444–45, 447–53, 454. See also 

 Operations, military, Desert

 Storm; Persian Gulf War.

Iraqi forces: 444–45, 452–53, 454, 455, 

 456, 457, 458, 459, 460, 461, 

 462–65, 467, 469. See also Persian 

 Gulf War; Republican Guard units.

Israel: 458, 470–71

Isserson, Georgiy S.: 8–9, 12, 17, 234–35,

 245n

Italy: 32–33, 43, 120, 123

Ivanov, I.: 244n

Izmest’ev, P. I.: 219–20

Japan

war with Russia in 1904–1905: 197–201

and World War II: 266–67

Japan Logistics Command (U.S.): 423

Jena-Auerstädt campaign (1806): 25, 34,

 45, 48–57, 64–65, 149. See also

 Napoleon Bonaparte; Napoleonic

 wars.

Joffre, General Joseph: 76–80, 81–82,

102–03, 151–52, 156, 160

Joint Chiefs of Staff (U.S.): 416, 418,

 419–20, 424, 433n, 435n

Joint operations, U.S.: 16–18

Joint Strategic Plans and Operations 

 Group: 418, 419, 420, 428–29

Jomini, Henri: 4, 15–16, 192–93, 198–99,

333, 334, 335

Joy, Vice Adm. C. Turner: 433n

Kamenev, S. S.: 221, 227–28

Kersnovskiy, Anton A.: 210n

Khar’kov, battle for: 250–51, 254–55,

 256, 286n. See also World War II.

Khrulev, A. V.: 294, 295, 296, 297, 298,

 299, 301, 317n, 318n, 319n, 323n
496 

Logistical support—Continued 

and Panzer Group Kleist: 170, 176

and the Persian Gulf War: 446–47, 

 448–49, 453, 455, 465, 468–69,

 472, 473

planning for in the Soviet Army: 295, 

 297–98, 300, 302, 303, 305–06, 

 307–08, 310–14, 318n, 324n, 325n

rear service establishment in the 

 Soviet Army: 294–95, 296–97, 

 299, 300–303, 304, 305, 306, 

 307–08, 309, 311, 313–14, 315,

 317n, 318n, 321n, 324n, 325n

role in modern military operations: 

 8–9

and the Russian Army in World War I: 

 216, 217

and the Russo-Japanese War: 197–98

self-sufficiency of corps in 

 Napoleon’s army: 35

in the Soviet Army: 186–87, 227, 230, 

 231, 233, 253, 254, 256–57, 260, 

 263, 273, 282n, 285n, 293–316

and Soviet planning for nuclear 

 warfare: 310–11

Soviet in World War II: 294–308, 

 317n, 318n, 322n, 324n

and World War II: 11

Longstreet, Lt. Gen. James: 350, 354,

 356, 361, 364, 365–66, 367, 369, 

 370, 371, 372, 373–74, 376, 378–

 79, 381, 385, 390n, 391n

Louis Bonaparte: 42–43

Louis Ferdinand, Prince: 39, 45, 46

Louise, Queen of Prussia: 36, 63

Ludendorff, General: 87

Luxembourg: 77, 78, 81, 127, 160, 169, 171

Lykke, Col. Arthur F., Jr.: 7

MacArthur, General Douglas: 12, 13,

 330–31, 415–16, 418–32, 433n, 

 434n, 435n, 436n. See also Korean

 War; World War II.

concept of operations: 420–22, 424,

 427, 428, 429–30

and logistics responsibilities in the 

 Korean War: 422–23

McClellan, Maj. Gen. George B.: 349, 

 354, 382

McLaws, Maj. Gen. Lafayette: 371, 372, 

 376, 379

Magdeburg, East Germany: 45, 49, 61, 

 62, 63

Maginot Line: 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 160, 

 175. See also World War I; World 

 War II.

Malinovsky, R. Y.: 268

Mamontov, General K. K.: 225

Manchuria: 266–67, 304–07, 324n, 419,

 426, 429

Manstein, Field Marshal Erich von: 112,

 152, 155, 156, 158–65, 166, 168n,

 170, 171, 174, 179, 254. See also

 Sickle Cut Plan.

Manual for Commanders of Large Units 

 (Provisional): 340

Marbot, Baron M. de: 52, 59

Marne Campaign (1914): 151–54. See 

 also World War I.

Marne River: 79, 80–82, 151–54

Maunoury, General Michel J.: 80, 81

Meade, General George G.: 329, 330, 

 359, 360–61, 391n

concept of operations at Gettysburg:

 378, 379–80, 383, 384

and development of the battle of 

 Gettysburg: 364, 367

failure of subordinates to coordinate 

 with at Gettysburg: 373

objectives in the Gettysburg 

 campaign: 381–82, 386

relationship with national command:

 364–65

relationship with subordinates: 374, 

 376, 378, 386

use of operational reserves: 384–85

use of the principle of concentration

 of forces: 367, 371, 383, 384. See 

 also War, principles of.

 use of terrain: 372. See also Terrain.

Media, U.S. military use of: 460

Mekhlis, I.: 318n

Menning, Bruce W.: 185, 215

Methodical battle: 92–94, 102

Meuse River: 94, 95–96, 98, 99, 100–101,

 159, 160, 169–70, 171–74, 175

Middle East War (1973) 13–14

Middleton, Maj. Gen. Troy H.: 401–02

Mikhnevich, General Nikolay Petrovich: 

 89, 194, 196–97, 201–04, 216

Military Academy of Rear and Supply 

 (Soviet): 309, 322n, 323n

Military Dictionary, by Henry L. Scott: 

 334

Military Encyclopedia, by Joachim

 Stocqueler: 333
496 

Logistical support—Continued 

and Panzer Group Kleist: 170, 176

and the Persian Gulf War: 446–47, 

 448–49, 453, 455, 465, 468–69,

 472, 473

planning for in the Soviet Army: 295, 

 297–98, 300, 302, 303, 305–06, 

 307–08, 310–14, 318n, 324n, 325n

rear service establishment in the 

 Soviet Army: 294–95, 296–97, 

 299, 300–303, 304, 305, 306, 

 307–08, 309, 311, 313–14, 315,

 317n, 318n, 321n, 324n, 325n

role in modern military operations: 

 8–9

and the Russian Army in World War I: 

 216, 217

and the Russo-Japanese War: 197–98

self-sufficiency of corps in 

 Napoleon’s army: 35

in the Soviet Army: 186–87, 227, 230, 

 231, 233, 253, 254, 256–57, 260, 

 263, 273, 282n, 285n, 293–316

and Soviet planning for nuclear 

 warfare: 310–11

Soviet in World War II: 294–308, 

 317n, 318n, 322n, 324n

and World War II: 11

Longstreet, Lt. Gen. James: 350, 354,

 356, 361, 364, 365–66, 367, 369, 

 370, 371, 372, 373–74, 376, 378–

 79, 381, 385, 390n, 391n

Louis Bonaparte: 42–43

Louis Ferdinand, Prince: 39, 45, 46

Louise, Queen of Prussia: 36, 63

Ludendorff, General: 87

Luxembourg: 77, 78, 81, 127, 160, 169, 171

Lykke, Col. Arthur F., Jr.: 7

MacArthur, General Douglas: 12, 13,

 330–31, 415–16, 418–32, 433n, 

 434n, 435n, 436n. See also Korean

 War; World War II.

concept of operations: 420–22, 424,

 427, 428, 429–30

and logistics responsibilities in the 

 Korean War: 422–23

McClellan, Maj. Gen. George B.: 349, 

 354, 382

McLaws, Maj. Gen. Lafayette: 371, 372, 

 376, 379

Magdeburg, East Germany: 45, 49, 61, 

 62, 63

Maginot Line: 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 160, 

 175. See also World War I; World 

 War II.

Malinovsky, R. Y.: 268

Mamontov, General K. K.: 225

Manchuria: 266–67, 304–07, 324n, 419,

 426, 429

Manstein, Field Marshal Erich von: 112,

 152, 155, 156, 158–65, 166, 168n,

 170, 171, 174, 179, 254. See also

 Sickle Cut Plan.

Manual for Commanders of Large Units 

 (Provisional): 340

Marbot, Baron M. de: 52, 59

Marne Campaign (1914): 151–54. See 

 also World War I.

Marne River: 79, 80–82, 151–54

Maunoury, General Michel J.: 80, 81

Meade, General George G.: 329, 330, 

 359, 360–61, 391n

concept of operations at Gettysburg:

 378, 379–80, 383, 384

and development of the battle of 

 Gettysburg: 364, 367

failure of subordinates to coordinate 

 with at Gettysburg: 373

objectives in the Gettysburg 

 campaign: 381–82, 386

relationship with national command:

 364–65

relationship with subordinates: 374, 

 376, 378, 386

use of operational reserves: 384–85

use of the principle of concentration

 of forces: 367, 371, 383, 384. See 

 also War, principles of.

 use of terrain: 372. See also Terrain.

Media, U.S. military use of: 460

Mekhlis, I.: 318n

Menning, Bruce W.: 185, 215

Methodical battle: 92–94, 102

Meuse River: 94, 95–96, 98, 99, 100–101,

 159, 160, 169–70, 171–74, 175

Middle East War (1973) 13–14

Middleton, Maj. Gen. Troy H.: 401–02

Mikhnevich, General Nikolay Petrovich: 

 89, 194, 196–97, 201–04, 216

Military Academy of Rear and Supply 

 (Soviet): 309, 322n, 323n

Military Dictionary, by Henry L. Scott: 

 334

Military Encyclopedia, by Joachim

 Stocqueler: 333
498 

Napoleon Bonaparte—Continued 

relationship with subordinates: 28, 

 49–51, 56, 58–60, 71, 74–75

Russian emphasis on the ideas of: 

 192, 193, 195, 198

staff: 28–31, 33, 50–51

use of deception and surprise: 32–

 33, 34, 41, 42. See also War, 

 principles of, surprise.

use of mass: 33–34, 50–51. See also

 War, principles of, concentration.

use of mutually supporting 

 formations: 34–35, 43–48, 51–52, 53

use of reserve forces above the 

 tactical level: 60–63

Napoleonic wars. See also Military 

 strategy; Napoleon Bonaparte; 

 Operational formations of military

 units; Prussian Army.

casualties: 53, 58, 61

disposition of Prussian Army: 44–46

 and Great Britain: 40, 41, 43

prisoners of war: 46, 53, 56, 58, 61, 62–

 63

and Russia: 40–41, 62, 63

and Saxony: 41, 42, 44, 63

Nation in Arms, The, by Colmar von der 

 Goltz: 144

National Command Authority: 419–20,

 433n, 448

National Training Center: 455

Nelson, Harold W.: 329

Neptune: 393, 396–97

Ney, Marshal: 40, 42, 44, 46–47, 48, 49–50, 

 51, 53, 56, 60–61, 62, 63, 65

Neznamov, Lt. Col. Aleksandr 

 Aleksandrovich: 185, 189, 200–201, 

 204–08, 211n, 216, 219, 221, 222, 

 228

Nicholas Academy of the General Staff: 

 191–92, 193, 196–97, 200, 214, 

 216–17, 218, 219

Nimitz, Admiral Chester W.: 12

Nivelle, General Robert G.: 83–86, 102

Normandy, France, invasion of: 330, 

 393–98, 403. See also World War II.

North Atlantic Treaty Organization 

 (NATO): 14–15, 470, 472–73

Novikov, Lt. Gen. M.: 310–11

Nuclear weapons

effect on theories regarding possible

 military operations: 12–13, 14–15, 

 17, 269–74

Nuclear weapons—Continued

Soviet military reliance on: 13, 

 269–74

Nuclear warfare, Soviet planning for 

 logistical support of: 310–11, 312

Offensive à outrance: 75, 77

Ogarkov, Marshal N. V.: 311–12

Operational art

definitions of: 6, 7–8

 French: 70

 German: 8

 Soviet: 8, 342–44

 Svechin: 214, 230

 U.S. Army: 15–16, 333

 Varfolomeev: 214–15

development of French thinking on: 

 69–71, 73–76, 87–89, 90–92, 101–03

early Russian thoughts on: 200–201

effect of theories of nuclear war on:

 269–70

effects of technology on: 443–44

Gerua’s early ideas on: 199–200

Soviet development of theories 

 regarding: 7–10, 185–86, 213, 

 214, 228–34, 238–39, 247, 

 342–44, 484

U.S. Army development of vocabulary 

 relating to: 441–42, 444, 447, 452, 

 473

as U.S. military doctrinal concept: 13,

 15–18, 484

U.S. military training in: 440–42, 444, 

 447, 452, 473, 474–75

U.S. study of Soviet theorists: 442

Operational commanders, Moltke’s 

definition of the role of: 125–26, 127, 

140–42

Operational formations of military units

French development of: 69–71, 74–76, 

 90, 91, 95

Napoleonic: 33–35, 44, 45–48, 57, 

 58, 65, 70–71

Soviet: 255

square battalion: 33–35, 44, 45–48, 65

Operational level of war: 483–84

American development of the concept 

 of: 333–45

definition of: 333–35

French Army publications regarding: 

 73–74

French misunderstandings of: 69, 75, 

 91–92, 101–03
498 

Napoleon Bonaparte—Continued 

relationship with subordinates: 28, 

 49–51, 56, 58–60, 71, 74–75

Russian emphasis on the ideas of: 

 192, 193, 195, 198

staff: 28–31, 33, 50–51

use of deception and surprise: 32–

 33, 34, 41, 42. See also War, 

 principles of, surprise.

use of mass: 33–34, 50–51. See also

 War, principles of, concentration.

use of mutually supporting 

 formations: 34–35, 43–48, 51–52, 53

use of reserve forces above the 

 tactical level: 60–63

Napoleonic wars. See also Military 

 strategy; Napoleon Bonaparte; 

 Operational formations of military

 units; Prussian Army.

casualties: 53, 58, 61

disposition of Prussian Army: 44–46

 and Great Britain: 40, 41, 43

prisoners of war: 46, 53, 56, 58, 61, 62–

 63

and Russia: 40–41, 62, 63

and Saxony: 41, 42, 44, 63

Nation in Arms, The, by Colmar von der 

 Goltz: 144

National Command Authority: 419–20,

 433n, 448

National Training Center: 455

Nelson, Harold W.: 329

Neptune: 393, 396–97

Ney, Marshal: 40, 42, 44, 46–47, 48, 49–50, 

 51, 53, 56, 60–61, 62, 63, 65

Neznamov, Lt. Col. Aleksandr 

 Aleksandrovich: 185, 189, 200–201, 

 204–08, 211n, 216, 219, 221, 222, 

 228

Nicholas Academy of the General Staff: 

 191–92, 193, 196–97, 200, 214, 

 216–17, 218, 219

Nimitz, Admiral Chester W.: 12

Nivelle, General Robert G.: 83–86, 102

Normandy, France, invasion of: 330, 

 393–98, 403. See also World War II.

North Atlantic Treaty Organization 

 (NATO): 14–15, 470, 472–73

Novikov, Lt. Gen. M.: 310–11

Nuclear weapons

effect on theories regarding possible

 military operations: 12–13, 14–15, 

 17, 269–74

Nuclear weapons—Continued

Soviet military reliance on: 13, 

 269–74

Nuclear warfare, Soviet planning for 

 logistical support of: 310–11, 312

Offensive à outrance: 75, 77

Ogarkov, Marshal N. V.: 311–12

Operational art

definitions of: 6, 7–8

 French: 70

 German: 8

 Soviet: 8, 342–44

 Svechin: 214, 230

 U.S. Army: 15–16, 333

 Varfolomeev: 214–15

development of French thinking on: 

 69–71, 73–76, 87–89, 90–92, 101–03

early Russian thoughts on: 200–201

effect of theories of nuclear war on:

 269–70

effects of technology on: 443–44

Gerua’s early ideas on: 199–200

Soviet development of theories 

 regarding: 7–10, 185–86, 213, 

 214, 228–34, 238–39, 247, 

 342–44, 484

U.S. Army development of vocabulary 

 relating to: 441–42, 444, 447, 452, 

 473

as U.S. military doctrinal concept: 13,

 15–18, 484

U.S. military training in: 440–42, 444, 

 447, 452, 473, 474–75

U.S. study of Soviet theorists: 442

Operational commanders, Moltke’s 

definition of the role of: 125–26, 127, 

140–42

Operational formations of military units

French development of: 69–71, 74–76, 

 90, 91, 95

Napoleonic: 33–35, 44, 45–48, 57, 

 58, 65, 70–71

Soviet: 255

square battalion: 33–35, 44, 45–48, 65

Operational level of war: 483–84

American development of the concept 

 of: 333–45

definition of: 333–35

French Army publications regarding: 

 73–74

French misunderstandings of: 69, 75, 

 91–92, 101–03
500 

Persian Gulf War—Continued

coalition warfare: 453–54, 461–62, 

 463, 464–65, 470–71

implementation of the campaign plan 

 for: 459–65

Pétain, General: 84, 86–87, 90–91, 92, 102

Petrovsky, D.: 222–23

Pettigrew, Brig. Gen. James: 365

Pickett, Maj. Gen. George E.: 371, 373, 

 376, 378, 385, 389n

Pickett’s Charge: 376, 378. See also Civil

 War, U.S.; Gettysburg, battle of.

Pilsudski, Marshal: 227, 228

Pleasonton, Brig. Gen. Alfred: 355, 

 357–58, 361

Poland: 158

and the Soviet Civil War: 226–28, 

 231, 232

and World War II: 260, 261, 262, 

 264, 265, 303

Ponte Corvo, Duke of: 37, 42, 44, 45, 

 46–47, 48, 49, 51–52, 57–61, 62–63, 

 64, 65

Potomac River: 361, 363, 364, 380

Powell, General Colin: 467

Principes de la guerre de montagnes, by 

 General Pierre de Bourcet: 70

Provisional Instructions for the Tactical 

 Employment of Large Units 

 (1921): 88

Provisional Use of Armored Divisions, 

 The: 93. See also Doctrine, 

 French; French Army.

Prussia: 35–36, 118–19, 121, 123

Prussian Army

and the battle at Jena: 34

and cult of the past: 36–37

disposition in the Napoleonic wars: 

 44–46

and incorporation of the Saxon Army: 

 37, 38, 42, 45, 47

lack of planning for war with France: 

 37–39, 40

leadership problems: 36–39

lines of communication: 46, 47–48, 51

Moltke as chief of the general staff: 

 118–19, 120–21

Puzyrevskii, A. K.: 195, 196

P’yongyang, Korea: 420, 422, 424

Radzievskii, Alekseî Ivanovich: 324n

Railroads

French Army use of: 79, 85, 151

Railroads—Continued

and mobility of armies: 111, 113, 121, 

 145, 190

Moltke’s use of: 113, 116–17, 121, 

 127, 140, 145, 147n, 190

in Russia: 196

and the Russo-Japanese War: 198

Soviet use of in World War II: 294–

 95, 299, 301, 302, 303, 305, 306

Rappahannock River: 350–51, 352, 353, 

 355, 356, 357, 360

Rawlinson, General Henry: 88

Rear Services, Soviet Armed Forces: 

 295, 297

Red Army of Workers and Peasants: 218. 

 See also Soviet Army.

Regulation on Maneuver of Artillery: 90, 

 91. See also Doctrine, French; 

 French Army.

Regulation on the Conduct of Large 

 Units: 73–74, 92. See also

 Doctrine, French; French Army.

Regulations on the Service of Armies in 

 the Field: 73. See also Doctrine,

 French; French Army.

Republican Guard units: 444–45, 452–

 53, 454, 457, 462–65, 467, 469. See 

 also Iraqi forces; Operation Desert

 Storm; Persian Gulf War.

Reserve forces. See also Operational 

 reserves.

artillery as: 90–91, 96, 102

efforts to prevent effective use of in 

 World War I: 82–83

French lack of in World War I: 79

French lack of in World War II: 177–78

French use of: 93, 96, 97, 98, 102

German lack of in battle for Moscow: 

 161–62

German use of in World War I: 82–83, 

 85–86, 87, 88

Moltke’s reasons for not having: 137

Napoleon’s use of: 34–35, 43, 44, 

 46–47, 51, 53, 56, 60–63

in the Prussian Army: 39, 47, 48

Soviet Army use of in World War II:

 165

Reynolds, Maj. Gen. John: 361, 365, 

 366, 367, 386

Reznichenko, V. G.: 273–74, 275, 291n

Rhine, Confederation of the: 35–36

Rice, Condoleeza: 213

Ritter, Gerhard: 150, 157
500 

Persian Gulf War—Continued

coalition warfare: 453–54, 461–62, 

 463, 464–65, 470–71

implementation of the campaign plan 

 for: 459–65

Pétain, General: 84, 86–87, 90–91, 92, 102

Petrovsky, D.: 222–23

Pettigrew, Brig. Gen. James: 365

Pickett, Maj. Gen. George E.: 371, 373, 

 376, 378, 385, 389n

Pickett’s Charge: 376, 378. See also Civil

 War, U.S.; Gettysburg, battle of.

Pilsudski, Marshal: 227, 228

Pleasonton, Brig. Gen. Alfred: 355, 

 357–58, 361

Poland: 158

and the Soviet Civil War: 226–28, 

 231, 232

and World War II: 260, 261, 262, 

 264, 265, 303

Ponte Corvo, Duke of: 37, 42, 44, 45, 

 46–47, 48, 49, 51–52, 57–61, 62–63, 

 64, 65

Potomac River: 361, 363, 364, 380

Powell, General Colin: 467

Principes de la guerre de montagnes, by 

 General Pierre de Bourcet: 70

Provisional Instructions for the Tactical 

 Employment of Large Units 

 (1921): 88

Provisional Use of Armored Divisions, 

 The: 93. See also Doctrine, 

 French; French Army.

Prussia: 35–36, 118–19, 121, 123

Prussian Army

and the battle at Jena: 34

and cult of the past: 36–37

disposition in the Napoleonic wars: 

 44–46

and incorporation of the Saxon Army: 

 37, 38, 42, 45, 47

lack of planning for war with France: 

 37–39, 40

leadership problems: 36–39

lines of communication: 46, 47–48, 51

Moltke as chief of the general staff: 

 118–19, 120–21

Puzyrevskii, A. K.: 195, 196

P’yongyang, Korea: 420, 422, 424

Radzievskii, Alekseî Ivanovich: 324n

Railroads

French Army use of: 79, 85, 151

Railroads—Continued

and mobility of armies: 111, 113, 121, 

 145, 190

Moltke’s use of: 113, 116–17, 121, 

 127, 140, 145, 147n, 190

in Russia: 196

and the Russo-Japanese War: 198

Soviet use of in World War II: 294–

 95, 299, 301, 302, 303, 305, 306

Rappahannock River: 350–51, 352, 353, 

 355, 356, 357, 360

Rawlinson, General Henry: 88

Rear Services, Soviet Armed Forces: 

 295, 297

Red Army of Workers and Peasants: 218. 

 See also Soviet Army.

Regulation on Maneuver of Artillery: 90, 

 91. See also Doctrine, French; 

 French Army.

Regulation on the Conduct of Large 

 Units: 73–74, 92. See also

 Doctrine, French; French Army.

Regulations on the Service of Armies in 

 the Field: 73. See also Doctrine,

 French; French Army.

Republican Guard units: 444–45, 452–

 53, 454, 457, 462–65, 467, 469. See 

 also Iraqi forces; Operation Desert

 Storm; Persian Gulf War.

Reserve forces. See also Operational 

 reserves.

artillery as: 90–91, 96, 102

efforts to prevent effective use of in 

 World War I: 82–83

French lack of in World War I: 79

French lack of in World War II: 177–78

French use of: 93, 96, 97, 98, 102

German lack of in battle for Moscow: 

 161–62

German use of in World War I: 82–83, 

 85–86, 87, 88

Moltke’s reasons for not having: 137

Napoleon’s use of: 34–35, 43, 44, 

 46–47, 51, 53, 56, 60–63

in the Prussian Army: 39, 47, 48

Soviet Army use of in World War II:

 165

Reynolds, Maj. Gen. John: 361, 365, 

 366, 367, 386

Reznichenko, V. G.: 273–74, 275, 291n

Rhine, Confederation of the: 35–36

Rice, Condoleeza: 213

Ritter, Gerhard: 150, 157
502 

Soviet Army—Continued

combined-arms emphasis: 233–34, 

 35, 237–39, 244n, 247, 251, 257, 

 260–61, 267–68, 269, 272–73, 275, 

 277, 290n, 300–301, 305, 307, 310, 

 312, 314

command and control issues: 274, 

 275, 282n, 284n

Communist Party relationship: 222, 

 229, 230–31, 235

doctrine: 186–87, 222–23, 228, 242n, 

 270–71, 276–77

effect of nuclear war theories on: 

 269–70

field regulations: 233–34, 238, 288n

force structure: 224–28, 248–53, 255, 

 266, 267–68, 269–70, 272–73, 

 274, 275, 276–77, 283n, 286n, 290n

logistics: 186–87, 227, 230, 231, 233, 

 253, 254, 256–57, 260, 263, 273, 

 282n, 285n, 293–316, 324n

mechanization of: 213–14, 234–39, 

 269, 273

mechanized units: 247, 249, 251, 253, 

 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260–

 63, 267–68, 282n, 285n, 287n, 289n

military operations theory: 7–10, 11, 

 14–15

mobile units in World War II: 253–55, 

 256–57, 258–59, 260–63, 264–66, 

 267, 289n, 290n, 303–04, 325n

modernization after World War II: 13

and national preparation for war: 

 230–31

operational maneuver forces: 8, 249–51

organization of: 186, 224–28, 248–49

purges of officers: 11, 238, 239, 

 247–48, 282n

reorganized for the atomic age: 13, 

 268–69

role of the tsarist general staff in: 

 218–19, 220–23, 225–26, 232–33, 

 318n

ski units: 249, 250, 254, 284n

and the Soviet Civil War: 223–28, 

 233–34

and study of military history: 3, 7, 

 229–30, 233

tank units: 249, 250–53, 254, 255, 

 56–63, 264–66, 267, 268, 269, 270, 

 272–73, 277, 282n, 284n, 285n, 

 286n, 287n, 288n, 289n, 290n. See 

 also Tank units.

Soviet Army—Continued

and the technological revolution in 

 weaponry: 273–76

training of officers: 221–22, 231–32

in World War II: 161–62, 238–39, 

 247–48, 283n, 319n

Soviet General Staff

and logistical support: 295, 296–97, 

 318n

and logistical support for nuclear 

 warfare: 310

Soviet High Command

and conceptualization of future battle:

 274, 276–77

failure to achieve strategic ends in 

 World War II: 253–55, 257–58

and logistical support: 303, 305

and the Manchurian offensive: 266–67

and offensives against the Germans: 

 253–66

and organization of forces at the 

 beginning of World War II:

 249–53, 254, 255

planning for the 1944–1945 winter 

 offensive: 263–64

and restructuring of forces after 

 World War II: 267–68

use of deception and surprise: 259, 

 260–63, 264, 274–75, 276, 287n. 

 See also War, principles of.

Soviet Navy: 299, 319n

Soviet Staff Academy, Conduct of 

 Operations Department: 8, 186

Soviet Union. See Union of Soviet 

 Socialist Republics.

Staff rides: 135, 139, 140, 145, 157

Staff system

Moltke’s use of: 140–41

in Napoleon’s army: 29–31, 33

in the Prussian Army: 36–37

Stalin, Joseph: 10, 226, 228, 236, 237, 

 243n

and logistical support for the Soviet 

 Army: 297, 298, 318n, 319n, 320n

and military forces after World War II: 

 13

and plan for mechanization of the 

 Soviet Army: 235

and purges of military officers: 11, 

 238, 239, 247–48, 282n

and Soviet Army leadership: 238
502 

Soviet Army—Continued

combined-arms emphasis: 233–34, 

 35, 237–39, 244n, 247, 251, 257, 

 260–61, 267–68, 269, 272–73, 275, 

 277, 290n, 300–301, 305, 307, 310, 

 312, 314

command and control issues: 274, 

 275, 282n, 284n

Communist Party relationship: 222, 

 229, 230–31, 235

doctrine: 186–87, 222–23, 228, 242n, 

 270–71, 276–77

effect of nuclear war theories on: 

 269–70

field regulations: 233–34, 238, 288n

force structure: 224–28, 248–53, 255, 

 266, 267–68, 269–70, 272–73, 

 274, 275, 276–77, 283n, 286n, 290n

logistics: 186–87, 227, 230, 231, 233, 

 253, 254, 256–57, 260, 263, 273, 

 282n, 285n, 293–316, 324n

mechanization of: 213–14, 234–39, 

 269, 273

mechanized units: 247, 249, 251, 253, 

 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260–

 63, 267–68, 282n, 285n, 287n, 289n

military operations theory: 7–10, 11, 

 14–15

mobile units in World War II: 253–55, 

 256–57, 258–59, 260–63, 264–66, 

 267, 289n, 290n, 303–04, 325n

modernization after World War II: 13

and national preparation for war: 

 230–31

operational maneuver forces: 8, 249–51

organization of: 186, 224–28, 248–49

purges of officers: 11, 238, 239, 

 247–48, 282n

reorganized for the atomic age: 13, 

 268–69

role of the tsarist general staff in: 

 218–19, 220–23, 225–26, 232–33, 

 318n

ski units: 249, 250, 254, 284n

and the Soviet Civil War: 223–28, 

 233–34

and study of military history: 3, 7, 

 229–30, 233

tank units: 249, 250–53, 254, 255, 

 56–63, 264–66, 267, 268, 269, 270, 

 272–73, 277, 282n, 284n, 285n, 

 286n, 287n, 288n, 289n, 290n. See 

 also Tank units.

Soviet Army—Continued

and the technological revolution in 

 weaponry: 273–76

training of officers: 221–22, 231–32

in World War II: 161–62, 238–39, 

 247–48, 283n, 319n

Soviet General Staff

and logistical support: 295, 296–97, 

 318n

and logistical support for nuclear 

 warfare: 310

Soviet High Command

and conceptualization of future battle:

 274, 276–77

failure to achieve strategic ends in 

 World War II: 253–55, 257–58

and logistical support: 303, 305

and the Manchurian offensive: 266–67

and offensives against the Germans: 

 253–66

and organization of forces at the 

 beginning of World War II:

 249–53, 254, 255

planning for the 1944–1945 winter 

 offensive: 263–64

and restructuring of forces after 

 World War II: 267–68

use of deception and surprise: 259, 

 260–63, 264, 274–75, 276, 287n. 

 See also War, principles of.

Soviet Navy: 299, 319n

Soviet Staff Academy, Conduct of 

 Operations Department: 8, 186

Soviet Union. See Union of Soviet 

 Socialist Republics.

Staff rides: 135, 139, 140, 145, 157

Staff system

Moltke’s use of: 140–41

in Napoleon’s army: 29–31, 33

in the Prussian Army: 36–37

Stalin, Joseph: 10, 226, 228, 236, 237, 

 243n

and logistical support for the Soviet 

 Army: 297, 298, 318n, 319n, 320n

and military forces after World War II: 

 13

and plan for mechanization of the 

 Soviet Army: 235

and purges of military officers: 11, 

 238, 239, 247–48, 282n

and Soviet Army leadership: 238
504 

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—

 Continued

economic effects on military doctrine: 

 276, 277

infrastructure: 10

and the Korean War: 419, 421, 424, 

 426, 434n, 435n

and militarization of the national 

 economy: 10, 230–31, 234–35, 

 236–37, 313, 317n, 321n

military purges: 282n. See also

 Soviet Army, purges of officers.

and relationship between civilian and 

 military leadership: 230–31

revolution in military affairs (1960–

 1970): 17, 269–70, 291n, 309

and war of annihilation: 230, 231, 

 234–39

and World War II: 161–64, 248–67

United Nations Command: 415–16, 418, 

 419–20, 422, 424, 427, 429, 430, 

 431, 437n. See also Korean War.

United Nations Command, Commander in 

 Chief: 418–20, 421–22, 423–24, 

 426, 427, 429–30, 431, 433n, 434n,

 435n

Unity of command. See War, principles of.

U.S. Air Force: 15, 16

U.S. Army. See also Korean War; 

 Operations, military; Persian Gulf 

 War; World War I; World War II.

campaign planning: 15–17, 453–55,

 459, 464

doctrinal evolution in the post–World 

 War II period: 13–14

doctrine for large units: 338–42, 

 343–44, 345

and planning for Operation Overlord: 

 393, 396

U.S. Army Command and General Staff 

 College: 441, 447

U.S. Army Command and General Staff 

 School: 12, 16

U.S. Army Training and Doctrine 

 Command: 13–14

U.S. Army War College: 16, 339, 341–42

U.S. Central Command: 445, 447, 449

U.S. Eighth Army: 418–19, 420, 421, 

 422–23, 424, 426, 427–28, 429, 

 431, 433n, 434n, 435n, 436n, 437n

U.S. Military Academy: 335

U.S. Navy: 12, 16, 460

U.S. X Corps: 419, 420, 421, 422–24, 

 426, 427–30, 431, 434n, 435n, 

 436n

Varfolomeev, N. E.: 214–15, 229, 231, 

 232, 238, 244n

Vasilevskiî, Marshal A. M.: 305, 323n

Verdun, France: 83, 87

Verkhovsky, Aleksandr I.: 213–14, 228, 

 236

Vietnam War: 13, 439

Vinogradov, General V. I.: 186–87, 305, 

 309, 323n

Vistula Campaign: 227–28, 231, 232,

 243n. See also World War II.

Voroshilov, Marshal K. E.: 226, 228, 235,

 236, 243n, 295

Wagner, Arthur: 337–38

Walker, Lt. Gen. Walton: 418, 419, 420, 

 421, 422–23, 424, 426, 429, 431, 

 434n

Wallach, Jehuda: 157–58

War, industrialization of: 203–04, 205–

 06, 215

War, principles of

concentration

 German use of in World War II: 

 164

 German violations of in World 

 War I: 154–55

 Lee’s use of at Gettysburg: 370,

 383–84

 Meade’s use of at Gettysburg: 

 367, 383

 Moltke’s understanding of the 

 role of: 120, 121, 123, 125, 

 139–40

 Napoleon’s use of: 33–35, 

 42–44, 50–51, 119, 120

 Red Army failure to practice in

 World War II: 163

 U.S. failure to use in the 

 Korean War: 427–28, 429

 U.S. use of in the breakout 

 from St. Lô: 400–401

 U.S. use of in the Persian Gulf 

 War: 462–65

economy of force

 Moltke’s use of: 131
504 

Union of Soviet Socialist Republics—

 Continued

economic effects on military doctrine: 

 276, 277

infrastructure: 10

and the Korean War: 419, 421, 424, 

 426, 434n, 435n

and militarization of the national 

 economy: 10, 230–31, 234–35, 

 236–37, 313, 317n, 321n

military purges: 282n. See also

 Soviet Army, purges of officers.

and relationship between civilian and 

 military leadership: 230–31

revolution in military affairs (1960–

 1970): 17, 269–70, 291n, 309

and war of annihilation: 230, 231, 

 234–39

and World War II: 161–64, 248–67

United Nations Command: 415–16, 418, 

 419–20, 422, 424, 427, 429, 430, 

 431, 437n. See also Korean War.

United Nations Command, Commander in 

 Chief: 418–20, 421–22, 423–24, 

 426, 427, 429–30, 431, 433n, 434n,

 435n

Unity of command. See War, principles of.

U.S. Air Force: 15, 16

U.S. Army. See also Korean War; 

 Operations, military; Persian Gulf 

 War; World War I; World War II.

campaign planning: 15–17, 453–55,

 459, 464

doctrinal evolution in the post–World 

 War II period: 13–14

doctrine for large units: 338–42, 

 343–44, 345

and planning for Operation Overlord: 

 393, 396

U.S. Army Command and General Staff 

 College: 441, 447

U.S. Army Command and General Staff 

 School: 12, 16

U.S. Army Training and Doctrine 

 Command: 13–14

U.S. Army War College: 16, 339, 341–42

U.S. Central Command: 445, 447, 449

U.S. Eighth Army: 418–19, 420, 421, 

 422–23, 424, 426, 427–28, 429, 

 431, 433n, 434n, 435n, 436n, 437n

U.S. Military Academy: 335

U.S. Navy: 12, 16, 460

U.S. X Corps: 419, 420, 421, 422–24, 

 426, 427–30, 431, 434n, 435n, 

 436n

Varfolomeev, N. E.: 214–15, 229, 231, 

 232, 238, 244n

Vasilevskiî, Marshal A. M.: 305, 323n

Verdun, France: 83, 87

Verkhovsky, Aleksandr I.: 213–14, 228, 

 236

Vietnam War: 13, 439

Vinogradov, General V. I.: 186–87, 305, 

 309, 323n

Vistula Campaign: 227–28, 231, 232,

 243n. See also World War II.

Voroshilov, Marshal K. E.: 226, 228, 235,

 236, 243n, 295

Wagner, Arthur: 337–38

Walker, Lt. Gen. Walton: 418, 419, 420, 

 421, 422–23, 424, 426, 429, 431, 

 434n

Wallach, Jehuda: 157–58

War, industrialization of: 203–04, 205–

 06, 215

War, principles of

concentration

 German use of in World War II: 

 164

 German violations of in World 

 War I: 154–55

 Lee’s use of at Gettysburg: 370,

 383–84

 Meade’s use of at Gettysburg: 

 367, 383

 Moltke’s understanding of the 

 role of: 120, 121, 123, 125, 

 139–40

 Napoleon’s use of: 33–35, 

 42–44, 50–51, 119, 120

 Red Army failure to practice in

 World War II: 163

 U.S. failure to use in the 

 Korean War: 427–28, 429

 U.S. use of in the breakout 

 from St. Lô: 400–401

 U.S. use of in the Persian Gulf 

 War: 462–65

economy of force

 Moltke’s use of: 131