Ancient China and Post Modern War (Cass Military Studies)

Ancient China on Postmodern War

Sun Tzu and other classical Chinese strategic thinkers wrote in an era of social, economic and military revolution, and hoped to identify enduring principles of war and statecraft. The twenty-first century is a time of similarly revolutionary change, and this makes their ideas of particular relevance for today’s strategic environment. Placing these theories in historical context, Dr Kane explores ancient Chinese reactions to such issues as advances in military technology and insurgency and terrorism, providing interesting comparisons between modern and ancient. The book explains the way prominent Chinese thinkers – such as Sun Tzu, Han Fei Tzu and Lao Tzu – treated critical strategic questions. It also compares their ideas to those of thinkers from other times and civilizations (e.g. Clausewitz) to illuminate particularly important points. In concluding, the book addresses the question of how ancient Chinese ideas might inform contemporary strategic debates. This book will be of much interest to students of Strategic Studies, Chinese Philosophy and Military History. Thomas M. Kane is Director of the Centre for Security Studies at the University of Hull. He is the author of three books, including Theoretical Roots of US Foreign Policy (Routledge 2006).

Cass Military Studies

Intelligence Activities in Ancient Rome Trust in the Gods, but verify Rose Mary Sheldon Clausewitz and African War Politics and strategy in Liberia and Somalia Isabelle Duyvesteyn Strategy and Politics in the Middle East, 1954–60 Defending the Northern Tier Michael Cohen The Cuban Intervention in Angola, 1965–1991 From Che Guevara to Cuito Cuanavale Edward George Military Leadership in the British Civil Wars, 1642–1651 ‘The genius of this age’ Stanley Carpenter Israel’s Reprisal Policy, 1953–1956 The dynamics of military retaliation Ze’ev Drory Bosnia and Herzegovina in the Second World War Enver Redzic Leaders in War: West Point Remembers the 1991 Gulf War Frederick Kagan and Christian Kubik (eds) Khedive Ismail’s Army John Dunn Yugoslav Military Industry 1918–1991 Amadeo Watkins Corporal Hitler and the Great War 1914–1918 The list regiment John Williams Rostóv in the Russian Civil War, 1917–1920 The key to victory Brian Murphy The Tet Effect, Intelligence and the Public Perception of War Jake Blood

The US Military Profession into the 21st Century War, peace and politics Sam C. Sarkesian and Robert E. Connor, Jr (eds) Civil–Military Relations in Europe Learning from crisis and institutional change Hans Born, Marina Caparini, Karl Haltiner and Jürgen Kuhlmann (eds) Strategic Culture and Ways of War Lawrence Sondhaus Military Unionism in the Post Cold War Era A future reality? Richard Bartle and Lindy Heinecken (eds) Warriors and Politicians: US Civil–Military Relations under Stress Charles A. Stevenson Military Honour and the Conduct of War From Ancient Greece to Iraq Paul Robinson Military Industry and Regional Defense Policy India, Iraq and Israel Timothy D. Hoyt Managing Defence in a Democracy Laura R. Cleary and Teri McConville (eds) Gender and the Military Women in the armed forces of Western democracies Helena Carreiras Social Sciences and the Military An interdisciplinary overview Giuseppe Caforio (ed.) Cultural Diversity in the Armed Forces An international comparison Joseph Soeters and Jan van der Meulen (eds) Railways and the Russo-Japanese War Transporting war Felix Patrikeeff and Harold Shukman War and Media Operations The US military and the press from Vietnam to Iraq Thomas Rid Ancient China on Postmodern War Enduring ideas from the Chinese strategic tradition Thomas Kane

Ancient China on Postmodern War Enduring ideas from the Chinese strategic tradition Thomas M. Kane

First published 2007 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business

This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2007. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” © 2007 Thomas M. Kane All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kane, Thomas M., 1969– p. cm. 1. Strategy. 2. Military art and science–China. 3. Military art and science. I. Title. U162.K26 2007 355.020931–dc22 2006034181

ISBN 0-203-08888-3 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN13: 978–0-415–38479–7 (hbk) ISBN13: 978–0-203–08888–3 (ebk)

To Matthew Agren and Martha Hilton Friends in Need

Contents

Acknowledgements 1 Introduction

x 1

2 Historical background

28

3 From modernism to postmodernism in contemporary strategic thought

76

4 The nature of war

111

5 Waging war

141

6 Conclusion: thinking about strategy

173

Bibliography Index

183 190

Acknowledgements

Thanks to Dr Xiudian Dai for suggestions and advice. Thanks also to the University of Hull’s Institute for Applied Ethics, for material support.

1

Introduction

‘[A]s water has no constant form,’ the Chinese strategist Sun Tzu noted, ‘there are in warfare no constant conditions’ (Tao 1986: 107). Just as Sun Tzu might have predicted, military thought and practice at the beginning of the twentyfirst century has been far from constant. Barely two decades earlier, the Cold War dominated world politics and strategic thought. Between 1989 and 1991, with relatively little warning, Moscow relinquished its European satellites, dissolved the Soviet Union and sought more cordial relations with the West. American president George H.W. Bush proclaimed a New World Order based upon the United Nations (UN). Simultaneously, the success of American information technology in the 1990–1 Gulf War encouraged many to foresee a Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA) that would make late twentieth-century armed forces – and even, perhaps, their nuclear arsenals – obsolete. Other journalists, historians and military officers predicted that ongoing social trends would prove even more revolutionary, possibly destroying the nation-state itself and ushering in a neo-medieval age of overlapping political systems or a neo-barbaric age of anarchy (Kaplan 1994: passim) From the late 1990s onwards, spectacular terrorist attacks and equally spectacular responses have lent credence to these hypotheses. Meanwhile, the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO)’s 1998/9 decision to attack Serbia without UN authorization challenged earlier concepts of world order and American President George Bush Jr’s 2003 decision to bypass the UN in invading Iraq undermined them even further. RMA technology helped Western coalitions overthrow the governments of Afghanistan and Iraq in short order. Since then, insurgents in both countries have plagued Western forces in ways that would have been familiar decades or even centuries earlier. In some circumstances, old principles remain lethally valid, and that may be what makes ongoing changes in military affairs most difficult to analyse. Those who wish to understand such periods of uncertainty in military affairs do well to revisit classic works on strategy. If these works deserve their reputation, they reveal fundamental principles that will remain useful even as superficial assumptions disintegrate. This is why Thucydides dared to present

2

Introduction

his history of the Peloponnesian War as a ‘possession for all time’ (Thucydides 1997: 14). Even when classic teachings seem elliptical or dated, earlier writings on military problems can provide a useful foil for contemporary consideration of similar issues. For those interested in contemporary war and statecraft, classic Chinese works on these topics are particularly relevant. China scholar John J. Fairbank made this point in the introductory chapter to a book on selected topics in Chinese military history. Fairbank begins by quoting from experts who hold that strategic studies must ‘become less military and more civilian … make greater use of political philosophy, economics and sociology, … [and] come to better terms with applied science’ (Fairbank 1974: 1). Fairbank goes on to state ‘In all these respects, the Chinese record offers opportunities unique in their possibilities of enlightenment because the Chinese historical record is unique’ (Fairbank 1974: 2). Every country’s history is unique in its own way. China’s military tradition, however, impresses Fairbank as being exceptionally ‘fertile’ (Fairbank 1974: 2). The inventors of the crossbow, cast iron, and gunpowder were also the inventors of paper and printing, civil service examinations, and bureaucracy. Among their many achievements, they early established the idea of civilian supremacy over the military, and China thereby acquired in Western folklore an undying reputation for pacifism. Yet no people before modern times has left so extensive a record of military institutions and exploits. (Fairbank 1974: 2) Fairbank adds that China’s classic works on strategy influence contemporary Chinese military thinkers. Therefore, ‘[s]tudy of the Chinese way in warfare can also ease the rest of the world’s necessary adjustment to China’s participation in the new transnational order’ (Fairbank 1974: 2). Sinologist Ralph Sawyer notes that Chinese strategic writings remain popular, not only in the contemporary Chinese military, but throughout the civilian world in China, Korea and Japan (Sawyer 1993: xii–xiii). Japanese writers, he notes, have shown a special penchant for applying Chinese strategic thought to such matters as business and personal relations (Sawyer 1993: xiii). What Fairbank noted in the late twentieth century is even clearer in the early twenty-first. The need for a fresh perspective on warfare that takes a broad range of factors into account, addresses the importance of contemporary China and offers a fertile field of ideas is as great as ever, and the direct parallels between ancient Chinese problems and contemporary global ones are multiplying. Sun Tzu, Lao Tzu, Han Fei-Tzu, Confucius, and many other influential thinkers from the Chinese tradition wrote during the interregnum between the decline of the Chou dynasty and the rise of the Ch’in Empire.

Introduction 3 Theirs’ was also an era of social, political and technological flux. Like the thinkers of the early twenty-first century, they doubted the future of their civilization, and like the strategic analysts of the current time, they were acutely interested in the problems political and military leaders would face in navigating such change. This book explores what classic Chinese writers contribute to twentyfirst century strategic debates. The remainder of this chapter discusses this book’s approach to the subject. First, the author explains how he plans to use a number of key terms. Then the author explains why he describes twenty-first century military problems as postmodern. The author notes that those who must grapple with postmodern problems are particularly likely to benefit from revisiting earlier works in their field. The section after that reviews existing literature on ancient Chinese strategic thought, noting that few authors have explored the contemporary relevance of Chinese writings. Those who have touched on this topic have interpreted Chinese thought narrowly, missing important points in the process. This book will explore the subject more thoroughly, in the hopes of providing a more useful and satisfying account. The next section discusses the problems of studying ancient Chinese works in English. A concluding section sums up the author’s approach, and presents an overview of the rest of the book.

Strategy defined Prussian military thinker Carl von Clausewitz defined strategy as ‘the use of engagements for the object of the war’ (Clausewitz 1976: 128). This book uses the word in the same spirit, but applies it in a broader context. Many ancient Chinese writers – notably Sun Tzu – treat the art of military campaigning as an inseparable part of the more general art of statecraft (Handel 1996: 31–3). Except where otherwise noted, the author uses the word strategy to mean what sticklers for linguistic precision might call ‘grand strategy’ – the art of using military, political and economic actions to support a political community’s goals in war and peace.

Rationality and rationalism This book deals extensively with the concepts of rationalism and rational thought. Since this book contrasts the work of numerous thinkers, it is inevitable that some of these thinkers will define these concepts differently from others. To complicate matters yet further, few of these thinkers explicitly state their definitions. Therefore, the author qualifies and clarifies terms relating to rationality where appropriate. Later in this chapter, for instance, the author introduces the term ‘modernist rationalism’ to refer to a specific strand of rationalist thought.

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Introduction

Where the author uses the word ‘rational’ without elaboration, he follows the approach of the Routledge Encyclopaedia of Philosophy, which defines irrationality as ‘inconsistent thought’ and rationality, presumably, as the opposite (Cherniak 1998: 61). For the purposes of this book ‘consistent thought’ means thought which is consistent with the thinker’s other thoughts, the thinker’s understanding of reality and, where appropriate, the thinker’s goals. Since perfect consistency is difficult, if not impossible, to achieve, one must understand rationality as an aspiration and a matter of degree, not as an absolute condition or ‘a Procrustean bed into which genuine cognitive differences must be forced’ (Cherniak 1998: 63). The author intends this definition to be inclusive and flexible enough to justify the Encyclopaedia of Philosophy’s assertion that ‘to the extent that a belief is rational, it ought to be held’ (Cherniak 1998: 61). The quest for greater rationality often leads to rationalism. ‘Rationalism’, the Encyclopaedia tells us, ‘is the view that reason, as opposed to, say, sense experience, divine revelation or reliance on institutional authority, plays a dominant role in our attempt to gain knowledge’ (Adler 1998: 75). This author adds that most of the rationalists he plans to discuss are also sceptical of emotion, intuition, judgement, common sense and all other intangible or non-systematic sources of ideas. The fact that rationalism depreciates ‘sense experience’ is significant, since it compels dedicated rationalists to address problems purely in terms of abstractions. Ironists will note that since ‘sense experience’ seems to be the most consistent technique we have for apprehending a physical world which consistently seems to affect us, the strict application of rationalism is, by the previous paragraph’s definition of rationality, irrational. In human affairs, ignoring emotion, intuition and judgement may prove equally so. Strategy and politics certainly count as human affairs. These ironies provoked many of the ideas which this book plans to discuss.

Postmodernism defined This book characterizes early twenty-first century military thought as postmodern. Postmodern thinkers have acquired – and even courted – a reputation for jargon and nonsense. This author hopes to break with that tradition. In order to use the concept of postmodernity more productively, the author will begin by explaining what he means by it. The term ‘postmodernism’ can sound like an oxymoron. Since we normally use the word ‘modern’ to mean ‘the present day’, it is difficult to see how anything that currently exists can be ‘postmodern’. This idea makes more sense once one establishes that modernism, in this context, refers not to a historical period, but to a way of thinking about an issue. People approached certain problems in modernist and postmodernist ways millennia ago. People

Introduction 5 continue to use pre-modern approaches today. A single person can take a modernist approach to some issues while simultaneously taking pre-modern and postmodern approaches to others. The first stage in thinking about an issue, according to this scheme, is what political theorist Leo Strauss described as the pre-philosophical approach (Strauss 1953: 82). Pre-philosophical thinkers accept the received wisdom of their own group without question (Strauss 1953: 82–3). The next stage of intellectual development comes when thinkers begin to probe their culture’s assumptions in order to distinguish the fundamental, the permanent and the objectively true from the superficial, the transient and the arbitrarily asserted. For the purposes of this study, we will also refer to this as the ancient philosophical form of thought. Ancient philosophical thought begins by looking for the essential nature of things (Strauss 1953: 82–3). This questioning approach, however, leads one to wonder whether things have any fixed nature at all (Strauss 1953: 92). This query becomes more urgent as people develop new technology and new ways of conducting their affairs that render previously cherished assumptions about nature obsolete. Where ancient thinkers sought to find their place in a natural universe that may ultimately lie beyond human understanding, their successors develop an increasing appreciation for people’s ability to re-order that universe to suit their own purposes. This confidence in human ingenuity leads thinkers to presume that since newer ideas and newer ways of doing things benefit from the most refinement, they will be the most reliable concepts and efficient procedures available. This is, in other words, a stage of intellectual development in which thinkers advocate modern approaches. That is why one refers to this stage of development as modernism. In this regard, a Roman consciously exploiting his people’s tactical and organizational improvements over the Greek phalanx is as much a modernist as a mid-twentieth-century commander consciously exploiting the improvements of armour, airpower and blitzkrieg doctrine over the methods of 1914. Since modernists advocate progress, they advocate the attitudes they presume will promote progress. Modernism is, in the terminology of its postmodern critics, logocentric – centred upon rationality (Rosenau 1990: 86). This means, not merely that modernists try to avoid nonsense, prejudice and mawkishness, but that they have adopted a particular vision of rational thought – a vision that inclines them, not only towards rational-ity, but towards rational-ism. Modernists are certainly not content to accept the ancient philosophical idea that nature sets inherent limits on what humans can know and do. Nor are modernists willing to rely on such uncertain tools as intuition, inchoate personal experience or allegedly innate knowledge. To the contrary, modernists seek to explain the phenomena that interest them in the comprehensive and objectively verifiable way that a mathematician

6

Introduction

might explain the relationship among factors in an equation or a mechanic might explain the relationship among gears in an engine. Modernists also tend to assume that their intellectual approach is superior to all others, and that those who fail to recognize its superiority will inevitably lose competitions with those who do. When the rich complexities of real life resist modernist dissection, modernists simplify their task by reducing the elements of those complexities to abstract and presumably universal concepts which they can manipulate more easily. Thomas Hobbes set a precedent for those who would follow this approach in political studies when he based his theory on a speculative account of how people might have behaved in a primeval world without government, even while acknowledging that ‘it may peradventure be thought, there was never such a time’ and admitting that, indeed, ‘it was never generally so’ (Hobbes 1946: 83). At a minimum, this approach gives modernists a common language for discussing the phenomena that interest them. More ambitious modernists hope to predict the appearance and development of such phenomena. Yet more ambitious thinkers hope to predict such things with mathematical certainty. Ideally, the modernist approach would reveal practical ways to re-engineer the mechanisms that produce the relevant phenomena, thus allowing people to produce whatever effects they choose. René Descartes, Francis Bacon, Immanuel Kant and Karl Popper rank prominently among the thinkers who have explored the broader implications of modernist rationalism. Readers seeking more extensive treatment of this theme may wish to begin with Fairlamb’s work Critical Conditions: Postmodernity and the Question of Foundations (Fairlamb: 1994). Students and practitioners of strategy may be particularly interested in the fact that modernists have enthusiastically applied their approach to the study of military and political decision making. Deborah Stone summarizes the modernist view of this topic in her work Policy Paradox and Political Reason: The rational decision model portrays a policy problem as a choice facing a political actor. The actor is someone – an individual, a firm, an organization, or any entity capable of making a decision – who must choose a course of action in order to attain a desired end. The actor then goes through a sequence of mental operations to arrive at a decision. These steps are (1) defining goals; (2) imagining alternative means for attaining them; (3) evaluating the consequences of taking each course of action; and (4) choosing the alternative most likely to attain the goal. (Stone 1988: 185) For this model to work, one must get each of the steps right. One must define the problem accurately, choose genuinely desirable goals, identify all options for attaining them, and anticipate the full and precise consequences of each

Introduction 7 action. The model does not explain how to accomplish these things. One might re-apply the model to each decision that arises as one attempts to apply the model, but this merely multiplies the problem. Therefore, the modernist approach proves most effective in situations in which at least some of the steps are obvious. If the steps actually are obvious, any sensible person will make the same decision every time s/he applies the model. Thus, if one assumes that most people will choose success rather than failure, one may use the model to predict other people’s behaviour. Taken to its extreme, logocentrism implies that all actions are pre-determined. In this spirit, the Jesuit Roger Boscovich and his intellectual successor Pierre Simon de Laplace suggested that we live in a ‘clockwork universe’ (Watts 1996: 109). People within this universe interact as mechanically and predictably as gears in a machine. The way of thinking that began by challenging what ancient philosophers saw as natural limits to human freedom ends up by denying that humans possess any meaningful freedom whatsoever. The ability to optimize one’s own decisions and predict the decisions of others is attractive. Moreover, it often appears to be within reach. The steps in the rational decision-making process may never be self-evident, but they are seldom completely mysterious either. Political leaders may be maddeningly vague about their goals, but they generally have at least a broad idea of the types of outcomes they would prefer to achieve and the types of outcomes they would prefer to avoid. Military commanders seldom have time to consider every possible course of action, but they typically know what their most promising options are, and what the main costs and benefits of each choice are likely to be. Therefore, much of the time, models of rational decision making work. The Research and Development (RAND) Corporation is well known for its use of such models to advise decision makers (Gray 1982: 129–30). Analysts from many other state-run and private agencies do the same. Many more tacitly operate on similar assumptions about logical decision making, whether or not they describe themselves as modellers. Not only is the modernist model of decision making directly relevant to strategy, it serves as an example of the way modernists approach other intellectual challenges. Modernists typically approach problems by trying to define them as narrowly as possible, break them down into a sequence of even more narrowly defined steps, and work through those steps to produce one unequivocal solution. Modernist physicians attempt to classify diseases, identify their causes, diagnose individual patients as suffering from one specific ailment, and prescribe a treatment that counters whatever happens to cause that particular illness – a process which proves less straightforward than one might think in such fields as psychiatry (Bental 2003: passim). Tacticians use Operational Research to specify military problems, identify alternative

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Introduction

ways of using various weapons to overcome those problems, measure the results of these alternative techniques, and use those measurements to find the optimum tactics for each battlefield situation. (Those seeking an introduction to military and civilian applications of Operational Research may review the literature of the OR Society, http://www.orsoc.org.uk/orshop/ (fcuhkv55e2iczx45on05kly4)/orhomepage2.aspx.) This way of approaching problems inevitably over-simplifies the complexities of real life, but it offers one a way to navigate those complexities in the short term while holding out the ultimate promise of infallibility. So far, the modernist approach has always fallen short of this promise. Its failures, when they come, have often been spectacular. Political scientists of the 1970s and 1980s used modernist concepts to forecast the future direction of the Cold War, but practically none of them anticipated the events of 1989 (Gaddis 1992: passim; Gaddis and Hopf 1993: passim). Colonel Harry Summers recalls an anecdote concerning analysts who attempted to use such models to improve America’s strategy in the Vietnam War. In 1969, the story goes, a group of American analysts developed a computer program to determine how long it would take to beat the Vietnamese Communists. After they had provided the computer with the data it needed to make its calculation, it printed out the answer ‘you won the war in 1964’ (Summers 1981: 11). Experiences such as this force us to reconsider assumptions about particular steps in the model, the model as a whole, and, indeed, progress itself. This is the stage in our thought processes at which simple modernism yields to postmodernism. Postmodernism does not necessarily mean rejecting modernism in its entirety. Where precise measurement is possible, it is useful, and where problems are susceptible to logical analysis, such analysis will, by definition, produce more certain solutions. Modernism’s successes in the field of applied science are staggering. Postmodernism need not mean a return to the idea of a timeless nature which places absolute limits on human action either, although it often includes renewed appreciation for factors which remain forever unquantifiable. Rather, postmodernism means returning to issues that modernism assumed away. Postmodernists reconsider ideas modernists took for granted and reopen debates which modernists declared closed. The postmodern approach often includes developing a fresh appreciation for intangible personal qualities such as will, intuition and creativity, the difficulties of reconciling such characteristics with abstract logic notwithstanding. In the process, postmodernist thinkers pay particular attention to the intellectual history of ideas, including their own. Since postmodernist thinkers wish to re-examine old assumptions, they wish to know why people made those assumptions in the first place.

Introduction 9 This book suggests that the discipline of strategic studies has reached a postmodern moment in its consideration of the nature of war, the execution of military operations and the extent to which strategic planning can improve the chances of meaningful victory. The author also attempts to reflect on the evolution of ideas in his own discussions, making this book itself a postmodern work. This book will, however, differ significantly from most works of selfdescribed postmodernism. Those interested in a fuller description of how postmodernism and an assortment of kindred intellectual movements have affected academic work in politics and security studies may consult Rosenau (1990), George (1994), Klein (1994), Wyn Jones (1995) and Williams (1993), to name five prominent sources. As these works note, postmodern scholars have focused on the problem of defining words. They have also devoted much of their time to debating what many perceive as esoteric points. This book will take a more practical approach. More traditional postmodern thinkers would counter by asking whether any particular interpretation of reality is inherently more practical than any other. David Campbell, for instance, has written a work suggesting that mainstream understandings of supposedly practical issues such as terrorism and aggressive war are no more than politically inspired fictions (Campbell 1992: passim). Jean Baudrillard went so far as to title a book The Gulf War Did Not Take Place and the fact that many have taken his claim more literally than he intended it need not obscure the fact that even a more sophisticated reading is unlikely to address the interests of those concerned with the direct consequences of events like those which apparently are taking place in Iraq at the time of this writing (Baudrillard 1995: passim). Campbell and Baudrillard notwithstanding, the author retains his faith in the idea that the world which most of us believe we inhabit is, in fact, real. As Deborah Stone put it, despite all the problems of describing objective reality in words ‘if we witnessed guards beating a prisoner, we would probably agree that “torture” comes closer to describing the event than “tickling” ’ (Stone 1988: 254). Nevertheless, the author suggests that the early twenty-first century is a period in which such problems as terrorism, insurgency and economics force us to reconsider our assumptions about technological trends and political/ strategic decision making in a postmodern way. Revisiting earlier works – such as ancient Chinese writings on war – is a typically postmodern method of looking beyond the over-simplifications of pure modernism.

Rediscovering Chinese thought Those who seek to revisit Chinese thought for these purposes will find little to guide them. Although numerous translations of Sun Tzu’s Art of War are on the market, detailed and contemporaneously relevant analysis of this work is rare. In the words of China scholar Alistair Iain Johnston:

10

Introduction [T]here is little direct debate over the Sun Zi text because there has been so little written on the topic in the Sinological community. The research in the 1980s through 1990s has generally not focused on the intellectual or philosophical content of ancient Chinese military thought … The underdeveloped nature of Sun Zi studies in the scholarly community is underscored by the fact that there have been no major scholarly conferences in the US focused on Sun Zi’s text in the 1980s or 1990s. (Johnston 1995: 9–10)

Johnston notes that business writers have attempted to adapt Sun Tzu to contemporary purposes, but goes on to note that these attempts lack substance. There has been an increase in the popular attention paid to Sun Zi and business over the 1980s and 1990s. Mostly Sun Zi is treated as a source of ideas about how to understand market opportunities. One author, Bernard Boar, models his book, The Art of Strategic Planning for Information Technology on the Sun Zi text … In most cases, however, the application of Sun Zi to business tends to be somewhat faddish and shallow, the reduction of the text to easy-to-remember aphorisms and platitudes. While many business people have read the text, it is not the subject of studies in major US business schools. (Johnston 1999: 10–11) Johnston documents his final point with numerous references to business school curricula (Johnston 1999: 11). Military academies frequently include Sun Tzu on reading lists (Johnston 1999: 14–24). Nevertheless, military users of Sun Tzu are also guilty of over-simplification. ‘For most ordinary American soldiers exposure to Sun Zi comes from the short axioms, aphorisms and platitudes that often head a chapter in the US military field manuals’ (Johnston 1999: 24). Johnston finds little evidence that these axioms actually inform US Army, Navy or Air Force doctrine (Johnston 1999: 25–6). Indeed, the primary document on Army Doctrine in the post-cold war period, FM 100-5, doesn’t refer to Sun Zi at all in its chapters on the fundamentals of offense. Neither does the key Army follow-on document on future warfare, Force 21 Operations. Nor does a key document on Operational Art produced as part of the Joint Chief’s Joint Doctrine project. (Johnston 1999: 25) The concepts in Army and Air Force documents recall Clausewitz, not Sun Tzu (Johnston 1999: 25–6). US Marine Corps (USMC) manuals appear to

Introduction

11

use Sun Tzu in a more sophisticated fashion, largely due to the influence of General Alfred Gray (Johnston 1999: 26). Gray ‘directed the writing of two key manuals, one on “Warfighting” (FMFM 1) and one on “Campaigning” (FMFM 1-1)’ (Johnston 1999: 26). In Johnston’s judgement, these manuals use Sun Tzu’s ideas as well as his pithy quotations (Johnston 1999: 26). Even USMC documents, however, treat Clausewitz as the more reliable authority. When Clausewitz and Sun Tzu appear to disagree, the USMC manuals simply quote the Prussian. Not only are in-depth studies of Sun Tzu in short supply, works that put his work in intellectual context are even more so. Samuel Griffiths’s widely-used translation of The Art of War reviews the historical origins of Sun Tzu’s text (Sun Tzu 1963: 1–62). Griffiths also includes early Chinese commentary on The Art of War (Sun Tzu 1963: passim). Later scholars, however, warn that Griffiths relies on outdated sources (Johnston 1999: 3). These critics add that Griffiths seems to have allowed his concerns about Asian Communist movements of the twentieth century to bias his interpretation of the ancient Chinese classic (Johnston 1999: 3). Moreover, Griffiths limits himself to Sun Tzu and works related to Sun Tzu. Thomas Cleary continues in Griffiths’s pattern by comparing Sun Tzu’s The Art of War to the metaphysical text known as the Book of Changes, but more comparisons remain to be made (Zhuge 1989: 10–29). Many other Chinese thinkers from the same historical period wrote about strategy and state politics. Ralph Sawyer notes the absence of any ‘truly comprehensive introduction to the entire military enterprise in Ancient China’ (Sawyer 1993: xiii). Sawyer helped fill this gap by translating seven classic Chinese writings on military affairs into English, but limited his comments on historical matters and refrained almost entirely from ‘sketching comprehensive intellectual issues’ (Sawyer 1993: xiii). [A]lthough we have outlined the essentials of various concepts, such as unorthodox/orthodox, we have not analyzed them in depth, nor have we discussed the details of technology; concrete tactics of deployment; or the overall implementation of strategy beyond the discussions found in the Seven Military Classics. Furthermore, except in an occasional note, we have not explored the relationship of these texts to the Kuan-tzu, the Book of Lord Shang or other Warring States philosophical writings that prominently espouse military policies, administrative measures and strategic concepts. (Sawyer 1993: xiv) Sawyer notes that each of these topics would ‘require extensive studies in themselves’, making his ‘already massive book more unwieldy’ (Sawyer 1993: xiv). Moreover, one might note, such studies would have only diverted

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Introduction

Sawyer from his primary purpose of making previously untranslated Chinese writings available to English speakers. Sawyer did, however, indicate his interest in writing a future book analysing ‘the interactive development of military technology and tactical thought’ (Sawyer 1993: xiv). Those with an interest in twenty-first century affairs may be interested in the interactive development of strategic and political ideas in ancient China as well. That is what this book aims to provide. Adda Bozeman explores the contemporary strategic significance of certain ancient Chinese writers. In Strategic Intelligence and Statecraft, Bozeman notes a direct connection between Leninism, Maoism and the Chinese school of thought known as Legalism (Bozeman 1992: 70–1). Even Bozeman, however, focuses on a relatively narrow group of thinkers. Bozeman devotes little space to Confucius and Lao Tzu, for instance, despite their role in shaping Chinese thought, and despite the fact that they lived in the same period as the Legalists. Bozeman might justly respond that Confucius and Lao Tzu were not strategic thinkers. Although both refer to military and political affairs, neither emphasize them. Therefore, their works were not particularly useful for her study of political warfare. Those using ancient Chinese thought to develop a new perspective on the strategic problems of the twenty-first century, however, may find Confucius, Lao Tzu and many of their compatriots interesting. Although relatively few of the thinkers who founded ancient China’s ‘Hundred Schools of Thought’ dwelled on military problems to the same extent as Sun Tzu or the Legalists, practically all of them were concerned with similar problems – the collapse of the old social order, the bankruptcy of traditional assumptions and the epidemic of war. Lao Tzu’s ideas tend to be more abstract than those of purely military thinkers such as Sun Tzu, but they appear to inform each other. Later generations of Chinese thinkers portrayed the Confucian emphasis on benevolence as a corrective to the allegedly self-destructive brutality of the Legalists, and those who wish to understand the legacy of Legalism do well to explore this line of argument (de Bary et al. 1960: 149–56). For these reasons, this book raises ideas from a wide range of thinkers, holding that a more complete examination of ancient Chinese thought will support a fuller re-appraisal of contemporary strategic issues. Robert B. Kaplan takes a similar approach to ancient Chinese thought in Warrior Politics: Why Leadership Demands a Pagan Ethos. Not only does Kaplan consider a range of Chinese thinkers, he explicitly touches upon the issues of modernity and postmodernity. Since Kaplan’s approach resembles this author’s in so many ways, his work demands a detailed response. Kaplan sets out his overall argument in his first chapter, titled ‘There is no “modern” world’ (Kaplan 2002: 3):

Introduction 13 ‘Modern’ ideas, politics, architecture, music, and so on imply not an extension of the past or even a reaction against it, but a rejection of it. The term ‘modern’ is a celebration of Progress [emphasis and capitalization in original]. Yet the more ‘modern’ we and our technology become – the more our lives become mechanized and abstract – the more our instincts are likely to rebel, and the more cunning and perverse we are likely to become, however subtly. (Kaplan 2002: 12) Here and elsewhere, Kaplan develops the idea that the rebellions of the twenty-first century are likely to be exceptionally bloody and widespread (Kaplan 2002: 12; Kaplan 1994: passim). Accordingly, he warns against the naïve tendency to assume that our age is, or even can be, different from those that have gone before. In this spirit, he rejects the postmodern approach: As future crises arrive in steep waves, our leaders will realize that the world is not ‘modern’ or ‘postmodern’ but only a continuation of the ‘ancient’: a world that, despite its technologies, the best Chinese, Greek and Roman philosophers might have been able to cope with. So, too, would those like General Marshall, who manifest the ancient tradition of skepticism and constructive realism. (Kaplan 2002: 15) One notes that Kaplan uses the word ‘ancient’ in much the same sense as Strauss. Both agree that ancient thought is sceptical of conventional assumptions, and both agree that ancient thinkers believe that there are natural and insuperable limits to what human beings can accomplish. As a self-proclaimed ancient, Kaplan admires the austere virtue of ‘pagans’ who do their best in the face of such limits (Kaplan 2002: 29). Kaplan visits the writings of Winston Churchill and Livy before turning to ancient China in his fourth chapter, ‘Sun Tzu and Thucydides’. Kaplan sums up Sun Tzu’s work as ‘not a military textbook so much as a work of philosophy’ (Kaplan 2002: 41). Three pages later, he concludes his discussion of this philosophy as follows: Sun Tzu and [the ancient Chinese historian] Sima Qian write as if they have experienced large-scale physical suffering firsthand, and will go to almost any length to prevent its recurrence. Theirs is a morality of consequence that finds echoes in the ancient Greeks and Romans, as well as in Machiavelli and Churchill. (Kaplan 2002: 44)

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Given that Emperor Wu of the Han Dynasty had this historian castrated for sedition, his familiarity with physical suffering is not in doubt (Szuma Chien 1979: ii). Kaplan observes that Sun Tzu admired those who could win victories without ‘having to fight’, and that both Sun Tzu and Qian advocate underhanded tactics when such methods can serve as a substitute for bloody battle (Kaplan 2002: 41–4). This book will suggest that both authors had considerably more to say than that, but Kaplan has correctly identified one of Sun Tzu and Sima Qian’s most important themes. Warrior Politics returns to ancient China in Chapter 10, ‘Warring States China and Global Governance’ (Kaplan 2002: 134–49). Here, Kaplan states that ‘[t]he emergence of some kind of loose world governance is probably inevitable,’ and suggests that ‘the most intriguing case of an ancient system of government that allowed the territories within it to be at once independent and interdependent is China’ (Kaplan, 2002: 141; Kaplan 2002: 144). After five pages summarizing Chinese history up to the third century BC, Kaplan concludes: [T]he Ch’in (Qin) emperor united China for the first time ever, but his adoption of legalism – a doctrine advocating inflexible bureaucratic regimentation – led to the dynasty’s collapse after less than two decades. Conversely, the Han dynasty that followed lasted over four hundred years because it mixed the best of legalism with Confucianism, which taught tradition and moderation. (Kaplan 2002: 145) Kaplan goes on to suggest that the European Union would do better to emulate Han rather than Ch’in (Kaplan 2002: 145). Elsewhere, Kaplan elaborates on the Han dynasty’s strengths: The Han empire was no monochromic dictatorship ruled exclusively from an imperial capital. Rather, it represented a grand harmony of diverse peoples and systems – kingships, warlordships, and so on. Despite all their power struggles the individual Warring States had evolved through centuries of cultural and bureaucratic consolidation into the diverse elements of a system greater than themselves. If one looks at ancient China as a microcosm of the whole world, then the twenty-first century may witness the rough equivalent of the early Han empire: a global system emerging out of the great conflicts and anarchy of the Warring States period. (Kaplan 2002: 143) Since the Han dynasty lasted for centuries, it is inevitable that Kaplan’s generalizations will describe some periods more accurately than others. This

Introduction 15 author suggests that the diverse kingships and warlordships that Kaplan seems to admire were most prominent at times when the central government that ruled from the imperial capital in Changan (later relocated to Loyang) lacked the strength to suppress them. Given the fact that Confucius wished to base government on the benevolent sentiments of educated gentlemen while the Legalists mistrusted benevolence, derided sentiment and slated both scholars and the hereditary aristocracy for extermination, it is difficult to see how one can describe any hypothetical Chinese federal system as a mixture of Legalism and Confucianism. Nevertheless, Kaplan identifies important points at which ancient Chinese ideas may inform twenty-first century thought. This book will consider these points, along with many more like them. Since this book focuses on China, it will be able to consider specifically Chinese themes in more detail. Not only is this author in a position to provide more information than Kaplan, the greater volume of information leads him to question Kaplan’s conclusions. Although Kaplan’s interpretations of ancient Chinese thought are generally plausible, he seems to miss some of the most interesting points. Kaplan himself acknowledges that writers approaching his subject matter from different angles may draw different conclusions. ‘The original sin of any writer’ Kaplan tells us, ‘is to see the world only from his or her point of view. Objectivity is illusory. As Don Quixote tells Sancho Panza, “This that appears to you as a barber’s basin is for me Mambrino’s helmet, and something else again to another person” ’ (Kaplan 2002: xix). Kaplan’s own adherence to the ancient method of thought gives his work focus and allows him to warn his readers against the dangers of ‘disastrous utopian hopes’ (Kaplan 2002: 147). Nevertheless, there is more to modernism and postmodernism than naïve hoping. This author recognizes that he suffers from his own biases, but he attempts to consider ancient, modern and postmodern perspectives on ancient Chinese thought, and thus to produce a wider range of useful insights than one can develop by focusing on one of those approaches alone. Those who wish to determine whether his author has succeeded must read the rest of this book. For an immediate example of how this book’s detailed and reflective approach can improve on Kaplan’s focused search for eternal truths, one may consider Kaplan’s treatment of the Legalists. Kaplan is right to state that the Legalists advocated inflexible bureaucratic regimentation (Kaplan 2002: 145). Given Kaplan’s ancient scepticism of the modernist conceit that government can abolish deep-rooted problems with reforming decrees, it is easy to see why he associates this aspect of Legalism with the fall of the overtly Legalist Ch’in empire. There is, however, more to the story. Whatever their drawbacks, Legalist methods were an improvement upon earlier practice. The Legalist approach to administration helped curb corruption, mobilize state resources and extirpate

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Introduction

pernicious customs. Thus, these methods allowed the originally backward state of Ch’in to increase its power consistently over the course of 129 years. In 221 BC, the Ch’in ruler conquered the last of his rivals and united the Chinese world under his rule. No one who is interested in military strategy should ignore the fact that Legalist policies made his victory possible. Nevertheless, the simple modernist observation that Legalism proved superior to earlier systems of government also misses important points. Kaplan’s implied suggestion that Ch’in failed due to mere inefficiency is incomplete as well. As the next chapter will detail, Ch’in’s empire collapsed for a number of reasons. These include court intrigue, economic exhaustion, the new social phenomenon of mass peasant uprisings and the tendency of certain state officials to push Legalist ideas to the point of absurdity. Moreover, the Legalists had greater faults than stodginess. The Ch’in rulers were tyrants and mass murderers, even by the harsh standards of Warring States China. Although one should not overlook the fact that the Han emperors continued many Legalist practices, one should also recall that the rebel leader who founded the Han dynasty inaugurated his reign by condemning Legalist Ch’in in terms reminiscent of those twenty-first century people might use to condemn National Socialist Germany (de Bary et al. 1960: 150–2). Domestic political infighting, budgetary over-extension, revolutionary social change and inhuman systems of government all play prominent roles in twenty-first century strategy. States that wish to win wars still find it necessary to impose organization upon their inhabitants. This process continues to raise moral questions as well as practical ones. Thus, twenty-first century strategists can expect to find a wider range of interesting points in a study of ancient Chinese strategic thought that takes these themes into account than in one that does not. This author also hopes that his more detailed account presents a more accurate picture of what happened, and that this will help readers identify critical issues in twenty-first century strategy more accurately as well. Another book that examines the contemporary significance of early Chinese strategic thought is Michael I. Handel’s Masters of War. Handel’s approach differs from this author’s and Kaplan’s. Masters of War does not explicitly discuss the differences among ancient, modern and postmodern modes of thought, although it implicitly touches upon these issues. Handel refers to Confucius, Tu Yu, Wang Hsi and an assortment of other thinkers where their work touches on his primary areas of interest, but the sections of his work that deal with China focus almost exclusively on Sun Tzu. Moreover, Handel wrote before the wars and terrorist incidents of the twenty-first century. Nevertheless, Masters of War contributes to our understanding of how early Chinese thought might apply to our own age. Handel’s references to Vietnam and the 1990–91 Gulf War remain provocative when applied to the Gulf War

Introduction 17 of 2003. Handel also investigates Sun Tzu in more detail than Kaplan. The US Naval War College uses Handel’s work as a key secondary source in one of its core courses (Johnston 199: 19). For these reasons, this author will clarify the ways in which he has built on Masters of War and the points at which he differs with Handel. Handel establishes Sun Tzu’s relevance by comparing the Chinese thinker’s Art of War to other widely respected works on the topic, particularly Clausewitz’s On War. Although Handel initially expected to find distinctive ‘Eastern and Western approaches to the art of war’, he ‘concluded that the basic logic of strategy, like that of political behavior, is universal’ (Handel 1996: xiii). Handel’s study identified so many common points in the works of Sun Tzu, Clausewitz, Thucydides, Niccolo Machiavelli and Antoine Jomini that he came to see all of them as having contributed to a ‘traditional strategic paradigm for the understanding and direction of war’ (Handel 1996: xiv). This traditional paradigm remains the best available concept for these purposes. Handel recognizes that this paradigm ‘has become the target of increasing criticism’, but notes that ‘none of its detractors has proposed a convincing alternative’ (Handel 1996: xv). Handel’s initial description of this paradigm fills two pages, and he continues to develop it throughout the course of his book. This work will return to the paradigm in later chapters, but at this point, one may simply note that the paradigm mixes what this book describes as modernistic and ancientphilosophical systems of thought. The paradigm presumes that war should serve rational purposes, thus implying the modernistic corollary that people can use rationality (and perhaps rationalism) to wage war more effectively (Handel 1996: xiv–xv). At the same time, the paradigm makes the ancient philosophical assumption that there are clear natural limits to what strategists can accomplish (Handel 1996: xiv–xv). Thus, Masters of War makes a persuasive argument that twenty-first century strategic thinkers should read Sun Tzu. Handel goes on to identify many of the themes that such thinkers may find most interesting. As an added contribution, Masters of War rebuts a number of less helpful works on early Chinese military thought. Handel’s comparison of different strategic thinkers allows him to point out that B.H. Liddell Hart’s earlier work on Sun Tzu and Clausewitz is misguided, not only because Hart idealized the Chinese thinker, but because he completely misunderstood the Prussian (Handel 1996: 17–18). Nevertheless, this book challenges several of Handel’s most provocative conclusions. Masters of War accuses Sun Tzu of treating war as a tidy mental exercise in which a skilled strategist can guarantee an economical, if not literally cost-free, victory (Handel 1996: 88). Even more damningly, Handel accuses Sun Tzu of ignoring the fact that strategists must compete against opposing strategists who may well use their own techniques against them (Handel 1996: 220). This author suggests that Handel reached these conclusions largely

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Introduction

due to the peculiarities of his research method, and that a more reflective approach not only vindicates Sun Tzu of the charges but highlights important observations about strategy which Handel’s analysis overlooks. Readers of Masters of War are entitled to wonder why Sun Tzu made such obvious mistakes. Since Handel acknowledges that Sun Tzu almost certainly had enough experience of war to know better, he suggests that the Chinese strategist may have been indulging in a cultural weakness for wishful thinking. Having discussed Confucius’ distaste for violence and preference for intellectual pursuits, Handel quotes the scholar Frank Kierman: This exaltation of the extraordinary stratagem may be a reflection of the Chinese scholar’s (and historian’s) repugnance of brute force. However sanguinary, warfare may have been more acceptable to the Chinese literati if it could somehow be represented as a kind of intellectual hand-wrestling, with the harsh facts of discipline, organization, armament, endurance and bloodshed somehow minimized by that stress upon trickiness. It is only a short step from this to the idea that unusually successful generals are wizards possessed of a magical power to control nature and circumstance. This removes warfare still more from the everyday, accepted realm of experience, leaving that sphere to the rationalistic Confucian literati … [omission in Handel’s original] And relegating the military enterprise to the sphere of fantasy encourages the sort of dreamlike armchair strategy which has marked Chinese military thinking so deeply down the centuries, into our own day. (Handel 1996: 80) The tough-minded Clausewitz, Handel tells us, ‘is not guilty of any of the above’ (Handel 1996: 80). Appendix C of Masters of War explores ways in which Sun Tzu might have improved his work by emulating Clausewitz (Handel 1996: 205–25). This author intends no slight to Clausewitz when he responds that his research suggests that Sun Tzu’s work can stand on its own merits, not as a flawed precursor to the Prussian’s On War but as a compatible and yet different masterpiece on the same general subject. One can find responses to Handel and Kierman in Sun Tzu’s own work. Other Chinese thinkers may have relegated ‘the military enterprise to the realm of fantasy’ (Handel 1996: 80). Sun Tzu, however, does not seem to be among them. The Art of War opens with a warning that those who misunderstand war will perish, and continues in that starkly realistic vein (Tao 1986: 94). Sun Tzu also discussed ‘discipline, organization, armament, endurance and bloodshed’ in detail (Tao 1986: passim). Kierman’s suggestion that early Chinese strategists sought to present themselves as ‘wizards’ is particularly unfortunate when applied to Sun Tzu (Handel 1996: 80). Sun Tzu advised rulers to rely on observed facts and

Introduction 19 logically explicable calculation rather than superstition (Tao 1986: 76–9; Tao 1986: 126). Twentieth-century Chinese military officers see that as one of his most important contributions (Tao 1986: 76–9; Tao 1986: 126). Handel is on stronger ground when he accuses Sun Tzu of the opposite vice, alleging that the Chinese thinker overrates the utility of rational planning in war. The conclusion to this book will explore Sun Tzu’s treatment of rational planning in detail. Handel is also right to note that Sun Tzu expresses certainty on many issues in which someone familiar with the vicissitudes of war would admit doubt (Handel 1996: 211). Technically, Handel is wrong to suggest that Sun Tzu ignores the fact that military commanders must pit their skills against intelligent opponents – much of Sun Tzu’s work consists of advice about how to match wits with enemy strategists – but Handel makes a more telling point when he observes that Sun Tzu seems unduly confident that he can do better than his opponents (Handel 1996: 211). At this point, however, one might return to the point that since Sun Tzu opened his book by emphasizing the importance of understanding war realistically, it would be peculiar if he went on to portray warfare in an obviously unrealistic way. One of the reasons why Sun Tzu’s sayings seem unrealistic in Masters of War is that Handel separates them from their original context and interprets them in a rigidly literalistic fashion. Handel does not take this approach out of ignorance. Indeed, Handel is admirably sensitive to the nuances of language and theoretical concepts. Not only does he consider the problems of translating Sun Tzu into English, he devotes an entire chapter to correcting oversimplifications of Sun Tzu’s ideas (Handel 1996: 2–3, 31–7, 241–2). ‘Perhaps the greatest source of confusion in comparisons of On War and The Art of War’, he notes, ‘has been the failure to recognize that their authors use different analytical frameworks and definitions’ (Handel 1996: 31). The reason why Handel knowingly omits ‘a more general historical, philosophical, cultural, or linguistic study’ is that he believes that the universal logic of strategy stands apart from such context (Handel 1996: 17). Although Handel’s conclusions may include elements of ancient philosophical thinking, his methods are relentlessly modernist: In political history or international politics, certain fundamental principles and insights into human behavior are generally held to be universally applicable. In the theory of international relations, for example, the assumption that all [emphasis in original] nations need to protect and promote their ‘vital interests’ – and therefore strive to maximize their power vis-à-vis potential adversaries – is the type of broadly applicable insight that enables international politics to exist as an autonomous discipline. All foreign policy decision-makers face common problems

20

Introduction in assessing their own relative power as well as the intentions and policies of other nations; to implement their policies, all must learn how to manipulate public opinion and how to function within complex bureaucratic and organizational milieux. In short, the discipline assumes that despite the multiplicity of approaches to the formulation of foreign policy throughout the world, many aspects of national behavior can be reduced to a common denominator. A similar assumption can be made in the study of strategy. (Handel 1996: 17)

Just as the modernist concept of decision making assumes that all rational people make decisions the same way, Handel’s concept of strategy assumes: Ultimately, the logic and rational direction of war are universal, and there is no such thing as an exclusively ‘Western’ or ‘Eastern’ approach to politics and strategy [emphasis in original]; there is only an effective or ineffective, rational or non-rational manifestation of politics or strategy. (Handel 1996: 3) All competent strategic theorists, Handel would have us believe, are really talking about the same thing. When we read books on strategy, we need not let peculiarities of historical setting or philosophical subtext complicate our interpretation. We can rely entirely on the authors’ powers of logical construction, and on our own. In this spirit, Handel examines Sun Tzu, Clausewitz and others using a technique he calls ‘content analysis’ [emphasis in original] (Handel 1996: 3). Content analysis consists of quoting the two texts ‘extensively in the interest of allowing their authors to speak for themselves’ (Handel 1996: 3). In some cases, Handel takes this approach to the point, not merely of quoting passages verbatim, but of summarizing various authors’ positions on selected issues and arranging those summaries as cells in a table (Handel 1996: ix). When discussing particularly critical ideas, he takes these summaries to an even greater level of abstraction by rendering them in the form of diagrams. According to figure 4.1, for instance, Clausewitz defines war as three solid, concentric circles (Handel 1996: 32). Sun Tzu defines war as a circle of dashes inside a solid circle (Handel 1996: 32). Elsewhere, Handel reduces strategic ideas to the stylized language of mathematical game theory (Handel 1996: 174–6). Whether Clausewitz or Sun Tzu would have presented their thoughts this way is presumably irrelevant, since the rationale of war is presumably the same in any format. Modernism has advantages, and Handel benefits from them. As he notes, ‘few scholars are equally accomplished in the fields of Chinese history, culture, and language as well as European history at the turn of the nineteenth

Introduction 21 century’ (Handel 1996: 2). If we were to assume that only a scholar with this combination of credentials is qualified to compare Sun Tzu to Clausewitz, we would probably never see such a comparison. As noted above, Masters of War advances our understanding of strategic theory in important and thoughtprovoking ways. Handel confesses that he is ‘neither a sinologist nor an expert in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European history’, but anyone with an interest in military affairs should be grateful that he did not let these facts stop him from writing this book (Handel 1996: 2–3). Where Handel relies on direct quotations from Sun Tzu and Clausewitz’s writings, he gives others the opportunity to consult the original works and verify his statements. This minimizes the degree to which one can accuse him of letting his own biases influence his interpretations. Handel asks readers to place more faith in his interpretive skill when he condenses other authors’ work for use in tables. These tables, however, are certainly convenient for anybody who wants to grasp the various authors’ key points quickly. More significantly, Handel’s argument that there is a universal logic of war is, itself, logical. Bullets and crossbow bolts are no respecters of culture. Those who use such weapons effectively have the opportunity to perpetuate themselves. Those who do not, do not. Such principles as these set the parameters for war at any time and in any place. Nevertheless, Clausewitz, Sun Tzu and Handel himself concur that one cannot reduce war to a logical formula (Handel 1996: 165–71). Handel allows that war takes place in a realm of ‘paradox’, that waging war is an art rather than a science, and that the rational principles of strategy do not prevent strategists from acting irrationally (Handel 1996: 181–3). These admissions, however, miss the very points that give Handel’s other arguments their strength. If, as Handel put it, ‘there is only an effective or ineffective, rational or non-rational manifestation of politics or strategy’, then irrationality is merely a form of weakness. Under such circumstances, the art of war should give way to science at least as readily as the art of treating illnesses with folk remedies has given way to scientific medicine. Neither Handel nor historical experience would endorse either of these conclusions (Handel 1996: xiii). A theory that dismisses the very problems it seeks to address as inexplicable paradoxes is neither satisfying nor useful. This is why Clausewitz, having tried to explain war in terms of what Handel called a common denominator and encountered many of the same paradoxes as Handel, went on to reject that approach: ‘War is more than a true chameleon that slightly adapts its characteristics to the given case’ (Clausewitz 1976: 89). Rather, war adapts completely to the given case. Physics, biology, and other predictable factors affect warfare, but the significance of their effects depends entirely upon the context in which the war is fought. Therefore, the historical details that Handel seeks to avoid are the only possible building blocks for an intelligent strategy. One can study these details,

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Introduction

but no one can fully explain how they will interact in any real situation. This is not merely an acknowledgement of human limits, it is a certainty. The things that affect war also affect each other, and it is mathematically impossible to predict the behaviour of multiple, mutually interacting factors (Watts 1996: 111–13). None of this implies that strategy is irrational in the sense of being nonsensical. In any particular context, some actions are more likely to produce desirable results than others. Often, however, there will not be any single optimum strategy. Even when there is, there will be no certain way to identify it. There is, to use Handel’s expression, no common denominator. Life is full of such situations. Although the modernist system of analysis cannot cope with them, we may all be grateful for the fact that the human mind can. Military officer and economic analyst Barry Watts explains the situation as follows: [T]he dynamical systems of physics, whether linear or non-linear, process information strictly through mechanical iteration, whereas complexadaptive systems such as humans and stock markets look for regularities or patterns that can be condensed into schemata describing aspects of reality and then act on those schemata, a radically different way of processing information. (Watts 2005: 109) Watts goes on to suggest, if only tacitly, that actions in such complex-adaptive systems often have ‘non-linear’ effects that produce ‘radical discontinuities’ (Watts 2005: 109). For want of a nail, the battle was lost. Sun Tzu, to adopt Watts’s terminology, devotes much of his book to the problems of condensing schemata and using those schemata to achieve non-linear results. Handel shows little patience for Sun Tzu’s musings on these subjects. ‘In principle, many nations are aware that “to know the enemy and to know oneself” or to use the enemy’s own weight against him, makes eminent sense, but putting this into practice is a more challenging proposition’ (Handel 1996: 211). If one adopts Handel’s method of taking strategic writings strictly at face value, Sun Tzu’s most memorable sayings become platitudes. The same applies to most other writers on strategy. The historian Jon Tetsuro Sumida notes similar points about the works of the nineteenth-century theorist of sea power, Alfred Thayer Mahan (Sumida 1997: passim). Much of Mahan’s advice appears simplistic or worse. This leaves one to wonder how a man with Mahan’s evident abilities could have made so many mistakes, and why so many well-informed readers have taken him so seriously for so long. The reason, Sumida suggests, is that Mahan wrote to provoke, rather than to describe. Although Mahan’s comments appear banal on the surface, they raise issues chosen to help readers develop

Introduction 23 insights of their own – insights that a simple verbal explanation could not convey. Sumida quotes the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein on this topic: Corrector prognoses will generally issue from the judgments of those with better knowledge of mankind. Can one learn this knowledge? Yes; some can. Not, however, by taking a course in it, but through ‘experience’. Can someone else be a man’s teacher in this? Certainly. From time to time he gives him the right tip. This is what ‘learning’ and ‘teaching’ are like here. What one acquires here is not a technique; one learns correct judgments. (Sumida 1997: 99) Authors may impart what Wittgenstein calls ‘tips’ even if they have never thought about Wittgensteinian philosophy. Thinking and writing themselves are surely among the activities that depend on experience and correct judgement, rather than consciously applied systems. Furthermore, Sun Tzu may have deliberately followed something akin to Wittgenstein’s approach. Similar ideas about the nature of knowledge are fundamental to the ancient Chinese school of thought known as Taoism. ‘The Tao [way] that can be told is not the eternal Tao’, Taoist thinker Lao Tzu informs us (Lao 1972: 1). Thus, Lao Tzu discusses the art of ‘[t]eaching without words’ (Lao 1972: 43). Such teaching is ‘understood by very few’ (Lao 1972: 43). Although ‘[t]he wise student hears of the Tao and practices it diligently’, ‘[t]he average student hears of the Tao and gives it thought now and again’ and ‘[t]he foolish student hears of the Tao and laughs aloud. If there were no laughter, the Tao would not be what it is’ (Lao 1972: 41). Since we have little reliable biographical information about either Lao Tzu or Sun Tzu, we cannot know whether they read each other’s works, but later chapters will observe numerous parallels between their writings, and Taoist ideas about knowledge were widespread in ancient China. Handel lets texts speak for themselves, assuming that the only alternative would be to cultivate specialist knowledge about all the texts one wishes to examine. Sumida, Lao Tzu and Wittgenstein suggest that there is middle ground between these approaches. One may hope that some of a writer’s Wittgensteinian tips are indeed apparent within the text. Those who explore the writer’s influences and concerns, however, may notice subtler suggestions. A study that investigates the way one writer’s work fits into larger intellectual movements may uncover yet more tips of this nature. (Handel, one notes, offers just such a study when he compares Sun Tzu to Western strategists, whether or not he was aware that he was doing so.) Whereas it would be ideal to study Clausewitz and Sun Tzu as a ‘sinologist [and] an expert in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European history’, a student of

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Introduction

strategy who makes a serious attempt to investigate China and early modern Europe can achieve many of the same results (Handel 1996: 2–3). Ancient China on Postmodern War examines Sun Tzu, along with other early Chinese thinkers, in this spirit. In the process, the author finds value in passages that Handel dismisses.

Translating ancient Chinese works A book like this one must rely extensively upon ancient manuscripts. Experts differ about the most accurate way to render classical Chinese military concepts into modern English. These differences lead different translators to find significantly different meanings in Chinese works. Arthur Waldron of the US Naval War College notes that one such difference: [B]rings us to one of the fundamental questions about Chinese ‘strategic culture’. Some interpreters are impressed by the differences between Western and Chinese ways of thinking about war. They note that the lack of attention to force (li a character that occurs only nine times in the thirteen chapters of the book [Sun Tzu’s Art of War] emphasizes the extent to which Sun Tzu makes warfare a matter of psychology. Broadly, they place him in the world of Taoist philosophy, with its conviction that only by moving with ‘the way’ can human success, including military success, be secured. More narrowly, they look at his emphasis on intelligence, assessments and deception (gui), based on psychological insight. (Waldron 1994: 113–14) Many, however, find that approach unsatisfactory. Handel, for instance, insists that Chinese strategic theory and Western strategic theory are the same. ‘To say otherwise would be akin to asserting that Russia, China, Japan, and the United States each follow distinct theories of physics or chemistry’ (Handel 1996: xiii). J.H. Huang’s 1993 translation of Sun Tzu implicitly supports Handel’s point by translating the Chinese character shih as ‘combat power’ (Waldron 1994: 113). This allows Huang to make Sun Tzu seem less like an esoteric philosopher advocating psychological tricks and more like a hardheaded soldier man whose thoughts are compatible with Western works on war (Waldron 1994: 113). Huang’s scholarly reputation is impeccable. Others, however, translate shih differently, and there is no way to tell which meaning Sun Tzu himself intended (Waldron 1994: 113). Moreover, even when translators agree about the literal meaning of classical Chinese characters, readers may still differ about what authors using those characters actually meant to imply. This problem arises whenever one translates work from one language into another. The fact that

Introduction 25 many ancient Chinese writers liked to make their points subtly makes the difficulty particularly acute when one studies China. One example of the difficulty in interpreting the actual implications in ancient Chinese military writings appears in a work by the scholar Thomas Cleary. Cleary explores parallels between Sun Tzu’s work and the ancient Chinese metaphysical text known as the I Ching. In a section headed ‘contention’, the I Ching warns ‘it is not beneficial to cross great rivers’ (Zhuge 1989: 14). According to the Chinese moralist Cheng Yi, this saying indicates the importance of caution and preparation (Zhuge 1989: 11, 14). On this basis, Cleary draws connections between I Ching’s injunction and Sun Tzu’s comments on sieges, intelligence and logistics (Zhuge 1989: 14). Cleary concludes ‘the remark that “it is not beneficial to cross great rivers” in contention can also be read as a restatement of the basic principle of ethical contention that distinguishes it from invasive and aggressive action’ (Zhuge 1989: 14). In other words, Cleary reads the remark about crossing rivers as a metaphorical comment upon impulsiveness and aggression. On this basis, Cleary concludes that a considerable portion of Sun Tzu is equally metaphorical. Cleary presents Sun Tzu as an abstract thinker, more concerned with personal conduct and attitudes towards life than with the practical business of waging war. Cleary has considerable evidence for his position. Sun Tzu directly warns his readers against both haste and excessive reliance upon violence (Tao 1986: 125). Although Cheng Yi lived more than a thousand years later than either Sun Tzu or the unknown authors of the I Ching, one may speculate that a twelfth-century Chinese moral theorist would have been more sensitive to the nuances of the I Ching and Art of War than a twenty-first century Westerner (de Bary et al. 1960: 395). Nevertheless, those with a background in military history might wonder whether the passages in question have a more prosaic interpretation. Crossing rivers in a literal sense is difficult and dangerous for any army in any historical era. Ancient Chinese military thinkers would have been acquainted with this point. From approximately 600 BC to approximately 450 BC, the Chinese kingdom of Ch’u struggled with the so-called barbarians of Wu (Needham et al. 1971: 440–1). The Wu people lived on the lived on the southern side of the Yangtze delta. Both sides attempted numerous campaigns across the Yangtze, and the armed forces of Ch’u found themselves forced to develop elaborate new types of naval vessels in order to cope with the problems of cross-river operations (Needham et al. 1971: 440–1). Cleary’s interpretation may interest contemporary strategists. Indeed, since the technology of river crossings has changed considerably since the days of Ch’u and Wu, some might find the metaphorical account more useful than the literal one. Nevertheless, those who are specifically interested in strategy may find it easier to identify useful points within Chinese military thought if they

26

Introduction

interpret texts such as The Art of War in military terms. The works of Cheng Yi provide a precedent for ingeniously metaphorical interpretations, but Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching provides a precedent for the more literal approach ‘Look at the village as village’ (Lao 1972: 54). Not only did Lao Tzu’s work allegedly appear in the same historical epoch as Sun Tzu’s Art of War, but Cleary himself subscribes to the opinion that Lao Tzu directly influenced Sun Tzu’s work (Zhuge 1989: 5). This author does not claim to have solved the problems of translating and interpreting ancient Chinese writings. Dr Xiudian Dai of the University of Hull has assisted the author by offering a native Mandarin speaker’s perspective of controversial topics. Still, the Chinese language has changed over the past two millennia, and Dr Dai cannot claim that his readings are definitive either. The author does, however, maintain that his method of comparing multiple works in historical context will improve readers’ chances of understanding subtle passages accurately. Ancient Chinese writers frequently and deliberately allude to one another’s work. Therefore, a work that compares the way in which different thinkers treated similar concepts may help readers approximate what those concepts meant through a process of triangulation (Zhuge 1989: 3). The ancient Chinese also viewed history as a source of moral and practical insight. Classical Chinese writers commonly alluded to historical events, and those who pay attention to such events improve their chances of catching such references.

Romanization system The author has followed sinologist Ralph Sawyer’s lead in rendering Chinese words in the Roman alphabet: Unfortunately neither of the two commonly employed orthographies makes the pronunciation of romanized Chinese characters easy. Each system has its stumbling blocks and we remain unconvinced that the Pinyin qi is inherently more comprehensible than the Wade-Giles ch’i … as many of the important terms may already be familiar to Western readers and previous translations have employed Wade-Giles, we have opted to use that system throughout our work. (Sawyer 1993: xviii)

Conclusion To recapitulate, the social, political and technological developments of the 1990s and 2000s impel military thinkers to reconsider basic principles of their discipline. Ancient Chinese military thinkers faced a similar intellectual challenge, and their responses offer an interesting perspective on the problems

Introduction 27 of today. Existing studies of Chinese military thought are valuable, but most are relatively narrow in scope. In some cases, this narrowness leads their authors to dubious conclusions, and in all cases, twenty-first century strategic thinkers would benefit from an interpretation that explored ancient Chinese ideas about strategy in a more comprehensive fashion. This book provides such a comprehensive interpretation. Although the author recognizes the obstacles that have deterred other authors from writing such a book, he hopes to avoid them through his attention to context, his awareness of the differences among ancient philosophical, modernist and postmodernist perspectives, and through his suggestion that ancient Chinese works contain Wittgensteinian ‘tips’. Since this author emphasizes the importance of understanding ancient Chinese works in context, the next chapter of the book will discuss the historical events likely to have affected ancient Chinese military thinkers. Chapter 3 will discuss nineteenth-, twentieth- and twenty-first century debates about the nature of war, noting instances where recent military thinkers have developed similar ideas – and experienced similar intellectual setbacks – to their ancient Chinese counterparts. Chapter 4 will explore ancient Chinese thought on the general nature of war while Chapter 5 goes on to examine the same thinkers’ conclusions on specific practical problems. A final chapter summarizes key themes which have emerged in the course of the study and considers the way in which the ancient Chinese thinkers appear to have intended readers to apply their ideas.

2

Historical background

Ancient Chinese discourse on the art of war mounted to a crescendo in the period between the decline of the Chou Dynasty and the rise of the Ch’in. Although this era spans more than six centuries, strategic thinkers throughout the epoch grappled with the same problems, engaged each other’s ideas and participated in the actual political struggles that were going on around them. This is the period which contemporary strategists are likely to find most interesting, and the strategic thought of this period constitutes a coherent intellectual tradition. The following chapter will provide context for later discussions of Chinese strategic ideas by narrating the developments of this era. This chapter will highlight, not only the developments that appear to have shaped Chinese military history from a twenty-first century academic perspective, but the events the Chinese themselves considered particularly important. Where possible, it will explore the ways in which the ancient Chinese put strategic ideas into practice, in order to illuminate what these ideas actually meant to them. This chapter will also note the outcome of these attempts. Although this chapter will not explore the writings of the various strategists in as much detail as later portions of this book, it will introduce the broad themes that ancient Chinese strategic thinkers appear to have been responding to.

War in Chinese antiquity In Chinese mythic tradition, the first rulers of China were the thirteen Sovereigns of Heaven and the eleven Sovereigns of the Earth, each of whom ruled for 18,000 years (Rodzinski 1979: 6). These divine monarchs invented such conveniences as hunting, fishing, agriculture, medicine and writing (Rodzinski 1979: 6). By the time of the first human emperor, who reputedly reigned from 2486 to 2402 BC, China was already at war with external barbarians (Rodzinski 1979: 6). This ruler, known as the Yellow Emperor, supposedly fought 100 battles without suffering a single defeat (Sawyer 1993: 242). Legend also credits the Yellow Emperor with inventing historical writing, thus providing future rulers with a source of guidance (Rodzinski 1979: 6).

Historical background 29 Chinese legends refer to the first human realm as the Hsia Empire. Although this country was to become the kernel of Sinitic civilization, it was much smaller than later Chinese states, occupying only a teardrop-shaped patch of land centred in modern Henan (Rodzinski 1979: 9). The borders of the early Chinese empire fluctuated continually. As a result, peoples whose cultural practices and level of technological development were practically identical to those of the Hsia people first appear in orthodox Chinese accounts as outsiders and barbarians. Later Hsia rulers reputedly succumbed to corruption, moving the virtuous nobleman T’ang to seize power and establish a new imperial dynasty known as the Shang (Sawyer 1993: 390, n. 6). Traditional accounts claim that this coup took place in 1766 BC, although it is impossible to verify the dates of any events from this period (Latourette 1934: 31). Accounts of this power struggle provide little political or military detail, suggesting that the mythmakers were more interested in T’ang’s moral worth than in his strategic cunning (Sawyer 1993: 390). Contemporary studies indicate that the Chinese of this era had no organized armed forces. ‘[A]rmed conflict essentially consisted of raids by and engagements between Neolithic villages, although certain clan chiefs apparently developed local power bases and some regional strongmen emerged’ (Sawyer 1993: 3–4). The Shang Dynasty is the first period of Chinese history for which we have material evidence. Archaeologists have discovered numerous relics of the Shang period, including the ruins of the imperial capital (Wilhelm 1929: 81). Legend and contemporary scholarship agree that the Shang empire was sufficiently well-organized to conscript commoners for civil engineering projects and distribute grain through a centrally administered system of state granaries (Sawyer 1993: 3). The elite wore silk, lived in stone palaces and used bronze implements (Rodzinski 1979: 11–12). Most of the population, however, lived in earthen huts and relied on tools made from stone, wood and bone (Sawyer 1993: 3). Although the Shang Chinese recognized a supreme emperor, local noblemen exercised direct political authority. The emperor managed the empire by persuading – or forcing – these nobles to pledge fealty to him. Historians in the People’s Republic of China have attempted to fit this period into the Marxist system of historical epochs by describing Shang China as a slaveowning society (Bai 1982: 17–18). The Shang Chinese practised slavery, but Western historians note that the majority of the population were free peasant farmers (Rodzinski 1979: 11). For this reason, these historians classify Shang China as a feudal society (Rodzinski 1979: 11). Like Chinese rulers in later eras, Shang-era nobles relied on a class of ministers for advice. Even the legendary T’ang reputedly received invaluable guidance from the sage I Yin (Sawyer 1993: 390, n. 6). In this phase of Chinese history, royal advisers were, in the words of sinologist J.I. Crump, ‘properly

30

Historical background

the king’s conscience. Their virtue was to remind him where the older paths of rectitude lay’ (Crump 1964: 1). This emphasis on tradition led ministers to discourage innovative policies of any kind, particularly those that threatened to change relations among social classes. Crump goes on to note that such advisers were typically ‘in favor of keeping power in the court and among the noble families of the state’ (Crump 1964: 1). The reasons for this conservatism went beyond class interest and personal disposition. To the Shang Chinese, government policy overlapped with rituals that kept the land fertile and the mystical energies of the universe in balance. Rulers doubled as priests, and viewed their ceremonial functions as a fundamental part of their role (Rodzinski 1979: 11–12). ‘When a Prince endangers the altars of the spirits of land and grain’, Confucius noted, ‘he is changed and another is appointed in his place’ (Needham and Bray 1984: 1). Accordingly, ministers advised rulers, not merely on how to solve their problems effectively, but on how to do so in a traditionally approved and spiritually appropriate fashion. States undertook major policy decisions for religious reasons. The Shang Chinese fought wars, for instance, in order to capture victims for ceremonial human sacrifice (Sawyer 1993: 4). An anecdote from slightly later in Chinese history dramatizes the supposed consequences of ignoring the spiritual side of state policy. The following account comes from the works of the Han Dynasty historian Ssu-ma Chien. In 209 BC, Meng T’ien, the general who supervised construction of China’s Great Wall, fell foul of a court intrigue. Meng T’ien’s enemies forced him to drink poison. In his last moments, the general reflected that his fate might, after all, be just. Indeed I have a crime for which I merit death. Beginning at Lin-thao, and extending to Liao-tung, I made ramparts and ditches over more than 10,000 li, and in that distance it is impossible that I did not cut through the veins of the earth … this is my crime. (Needham et al. 1971: 53) Not only did rulers have to take care to avoid upsetting the subtle harmonies of the supernatural world, they looked to unseen forces for guidance. Royal advisers had responsibility for obtaining such guidance through divination (Latourette 1934: 32). Numerous legends emphasized that rulers should not question divinatory results, or even attempt to verify them. ‘In the Classic of Documents (Shu-ching), the legendary emperor Shun declared ‘In divining, do not repeat an auspicious augury’. Rulers relied on fortune-telling when making decisions on matters including war, religious practice, appointments to official positions, construction of towns and agriculture (Gernet 1972: 46). Shang dynasty rulers also attended to more materialistic political concerns. The state leaders of that period pursued long-term diplomatic strategies to

Historical background 31 preserve and extend their territory, negotiating with the so-called barbarians of the outside world and attempting to play the various barbarian tribes off against each other (Sawyer 1993: 379 n. 6). For direct confrontations, the Shang emperor typically maintained a standing army of roughly 1,000 men (Sawyer 1993: 4). Sinologist Ralph Sawyer elaborates: The number could be expanded as needed: The subservient lineage chiefs and state rulers would be ordered to furnish supporting armies. Although the king normally commanded in person, a rudimentary military bureaucracy with specialized officials already existed. A royal campaign against border enemies might require three to five thousand men, and a campaign directed toward an insolent [Chinese] state as many as thirteen thousand. Military activities required from a few days to perhaps three months; the actual battles generally were settled in a single confrontation, although engagements lasting several days have also been recorded. (Sawyer 1993: 4) Warriors in this period used bows, spears and bronze-headed halberds, relying on shields and leather armour for protection (Sawyer 1993: 4). Armies used co-ordinated tactics on the battlefield (Sawyer 1993: 4). This implies that troops practised their skills in peacetime. Traditional Chinese histories claim that Shang-era warriors fought from chariots, although twentieth-century archaeology suggests that the Chinese did not possess these vehicles until the middle of the dynastic period, and did not adapt them to warfare until nearly the end (Sawyer 1993: 4). Despite the sophistication of armed forces in this period, the Shang Dynasty’s social structure limited the scope of warfare. Peasants played little part in fighting. Even conscript infantry normally came from the elite class (Sawyer 1993: 4). Rulers probably preferred to keep commoners unarmed as a way of keeping them docile. Historian Witold Rodzinski confirms that the Shang aristocrats used military force to control their subjects, and they would undoubtedly have resisted measures that might have permitted rebellious peasants to respond in kind (Rodzinski 1979: 11). Moreover, Shang noblemen took pride in their identity as warriors. Such aristocrats may have considered it disgraceful to let commoners share in martial glory. Shang warriors certainly appreciated the opportunity to enrich themselves through plunder. Some may have feared that including commoners in military campaigns would permit peasant troops to demand or steal some of the booty (Rodzinski 1979: 11). The fact that common people lived in primitive conditions served as a final obstacle to any ruler who might have thought to mobilize them. Peasants wielding stone tools could not stand against skilled warriors armed with bronze. Even had some ruler wished to train and equip commoners to

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Historical background

aristocratic standards, he would have been unable to spare them from the fields. Archaeological evidence suggests that the inefficiency of Shang-era farming curtailed the growth of cities (Gernet 1972: 67). A lack of surplus food would have limited the size of armies even more sharply. Archaeologists and historians differ about the precise state of agricultural technology in Shang China. Some maintain that Chinese farmers of this period lacked techniques for keeping agricultural land fertile (Needham and Bray 1984: 94). This would have forced them to migrate to new fields each year, wasting effort clearing new land each time. Others believe that the Chinese developed methods of continuous cropping relatively early, although Shang-era farmers apparently continued to practise migratory agriculture in areas where sufficient land remained available (Needham and Bray 1984: 94). Whether this was due to preference, ignorance or religious belief is unknown. Historians have also suggested that Chinese farmers of this period lacked basic tools, notably ploughs, and that they had yet to domesticate animals for farm labour (Needham and Bray 1984: 141). Chinese myth contradicts that position, claiming that the legendary Prince Millet invented the ox-drawn plough in prehistoric times (Needham and Bray 1984: 141). Chinese historians of the Yuan Dynasty (AD 1280 to AD 1368) doubted that the Shang possessed such technology (Needham and Bray 1984: 141). Contemporary archaeologists, on the other hand, have found some evidence to suggest that the Chinese developed ploughs relatively early in their history (Needham and Bray 1984: 150–5). The fact that no historical individual claimed credit for inventing such a valuable instrument suggests that it had existed since the earliest times (Needham and Bray 1984: 154). Whether or not Shang dynasty farmers knew about ploughs and methods of continuous cropping, they do not appear to have used them systematically. China’s population density remained low, and since people could feed themselves using primitive techniques, they may have lacked sufficient incentives to innovate (Gernet 1972: 67). This meant, however, that there was little surplus food to support a non-farming population. Until the entire population gained access to up-to-date technology, war would remain an affair for the nobility.

The revolution that dared not speak its name The Shang emperors reputedly succumbed to the same fate as the Hsia. Chou Hsin, the last Shang emperor, was allegedly strong, perceptive and brilliantly intelligent, but he was also an aesthete who ‘loved wine, debauched himself in music and was enamored of his consorts’ (Sawyer 1993: 25). As his reign went on, he indulged himself more and more extravagantly, hosting orgies in gardens featuring lakes of wine and forests of hanging meat (Sawyer 1993:

Historical background 33 25–6). Chou Hsin paid for these excesses by continually raising taxes (Sawyer 1993: 25). He treated his priestly duties with the same contempt as his earthly ones, and ‘was disrespectful to ghosts and spirits’ (Sawyer 1993: 25). One of Chou Hsin’s vassals, a nobleman named Wen, advised the tyrannical emperor to reform (Sawyer 1993: 26). The emperor imprisoned Wen for this impertinence, but Wen’s relatives bought his freedom with lavish gifts (Sawyer 1993: 26). Wen then returned to his own fiefdom, a small frontier province known as Chou, ostensibly to defend the empire’s borders against barbarians (Sawyer 1993: 26–7). While there, he met T’ai Kung, a wandering mystic who had once ruled the eastern province of Ch’i (Sawyer 1993: 27). Wen treated T’ai Kung with the respect due a sage, and the elderly mystic consented to share his wisdom (Sawyer 1993: 27). T’ai Kung’s teachings began with a discourse on fishing. Wen proved to be an apt pupil, and the sage disclosed that he had been using the art of the fisherman as a metaphor for the art of government. In this fashion, T’ai Kung both convinced Wen of his duty to overthrow the tyrannical emperor and laid out a strategy for doing so. Under T’ai Kung’s guidance, Wen prepared his state for war. T’ai Kung’s military preparations took 17 years, and Wen died during the process (Sawyer 1993: 27). Wen’s son Wu succeeded him on the throne. The young man proved to be as able and virtuous as his father. Following T’ai Kung’s direction, Wu overthrew the Shang emperor and established a new imperial dynasty. Scholars differ about the date when this took place, but estimates range from 1111 BC to 1066 BC (Rodzinski 1979: 17). The Chou rulers presented themselves, not as revolutionaries, but as restorers of China’s ancient moral order. Upon declaring victory, King Wu freed his warhorses and performed other acts to demonstrate that peace had returned to the land (Wilhelm 1929: 106). Wu then toured his kingdom, gave audiences and performed the traditional sacrifices of the meadow and the field (Wilhelm 1929: 106–7). ‘[A]ll the people learnt filial piety’, a classical Chinese history concludes, and ‘the princes knew whom they must serve’ (Wilhelm 1929: 106–7). King Wu’s subjects were particularly impressed with the new ruler’s sacred musical compositions. To connoisseurs of traditional Chinese culture, King Wu’s combination of ritual and song expressed the highest levels of piety and refinement. Centuries later, Confucius remarked that anyone who understood the meaning of King Wu’s ceremonies could grasp the cosmic system as clearly as if it were lying on the palm of his hand (Wilhelm 1929: 107). The previously cited history notes, in a more practical vein, that King Wu’s ceremonies spread the ‘regulations of the house of Chou’ throughout the land and left ‘the feudal princes in a state of brotherly subordination’ (Wilhelm 1929: 107). Having demonstrated his cultural standing with these ceremonies, King Wu went on to justify his conquest through reasoned argument. According

34

Historical background

to China’s Book of History, the Chou explained their acts by inventing the concept of t’ien ming, the Mandate of Heaven (de Bary et al. 1960: 6). Heaven, they said, elected or commanded certain men to be rulers over the tribes of the world, and their heirs might continue to exercise the Heaven-sanctioned power for as long as they carried out their religious and administrative duties with piety, wisdom and justice. But if the worth of the ruling family declined, if the rulers turned their backs on the spirits and abandoned the virtuous ways that had originally marked them as worthy of the mandate to rule, then Heaven might discard them and elect a new family or tribe to be the destined rulers of the world. (de Bary et al. 1960: 6) The Chou’s claim to moral superiority implied a claim of fidelity to the ancient way of life. ‘Chou is an old people’, began a song from the dynasty’s rituals, and legend held that the ruling family was descended from the god of agriculture, King Millet (de Bary et al. 1960: 6; Needham and Bray 1984: vi). When the much-admired Duke of Chou designed a legal and administrative code for the empire, he instituted a system of social ranks designed to preserve the sharp class divisions that had played such an important role in Shang society (Wilhelm 1929: 117). The Tso-chuan, a historical work from the early Chou dynasty, quotes a sagely ruler as professing a highly conservative theory of human action. One notes that this ruler’s ideas echo portions of what Chapter 1 of this book described as the ancient philosophical system of thought. The lord of Liu said, ‘I have heard it said that men at their birth receive the exact principles of heaven and earth, and this is what is called their nature. From that we have the patterns for action, ceremony and deportment, so as to establish this nature. The able nurture these so as to secure good fortune, while those without ability contravene them and earn misfortune …’. (Kierman 1974: 28) The way to nurture proper – and, thus, successful – behaviour, the lord of Liu emphasizes, are through ‘sincerity’ and ‘respect’ (Kierman 1974: 28). One notes that this sage does not consider the idea that one might succeed through simple material advantage, nor does he acknowledge the possibility that one might invent effective new methods through creative thought. The lord of Liu goes on to apply his ideas to the problems of rule. ‘The great affairs of the state are sacrifice and warfare’, he declares, and one must attend to them in the same spirit of sincerity and respect that one attends to other important matters (Kierman 1974: 28).

Historical background 35 Indeed, the lord of Liu suggests, warfare itself is no more than a branch of religious ritual. ‘At sacrifices one presides over cooked meat, and in war one receives raw meat: these are the great ceremonies of the spirits’ (Kierman 1974: 28). Given these attitudes, no one should be surprised to learn that Chou nobles waged war in a stylized way. Divination remained routine (Kierman 1974: 32). Warriors observed courtesies with their enemies even on the battlefield. One anecdote relates an incident in which a pair of warriors named Yuehpo and She-shu diligently performed a series of customary acts of bravado when executing a raid on opposing forces. As they rode back from their sally, an enemy commander named Pao Kuei chased them with his own forces. Yueh-po held off the pursuers with his bow, but at last, he had only one arrow left. At that point: [A] stag leaped up before [them] and [Yueh-po] shot it in the spine. Pao Kuei … was just behind them, so She-shu took the stag and presented it to him, saying, ‘It is not the proper time of the year and the presentation animals have not arrived, yet I presume to feast all the pursuers’. Pao Kuei stopped [the chase], saying, ‘the one on the left is good at shooting, the one on the right has [the art of correct ceremonial] speaking. They are superior men’. And so they got away. (Kierman 1974: 36) Chou dynasty moralists expected rulers to make state policy in a similar spirit of honourable conduct. In one episode, the Jung barbarians signed a peace treaty with the Chinese principality of Chin. (Not to be confused with the later Chinese state of Ch’in.) One of Chin’s vassal rulers, Duke K’ang of Liu, wanted to take advantage of the treaty to attack the barbarians by surprise. An adviser upbraided him ‘You will be turning your back on a covenant and cheating a great state. This will surely bring defeat: to abandon a covenant is unlucky, to cheat a great state unrighteous. Neither spirits nor men will aid you: How can you win?’ (Kierman 1974: 35). As Duke K’ang’s adviser noted, Chinese moralists of this period assumed that both ‘spirits’ and ‘men’ would enforce the moral order. Historical anecdotes frequently suggest that fate, if not supernatural beings, contrives to punish dishonourable behaviour. ‘He who betrays his word is sure to suffer for it’, asserted one Chou period minister, ‘You need have no concern over this’ (Kierman 1974: 39). In the previous incident, Duke K’ang ignored his adviser’s scruples and attacked, only to suffer a disgraceful and richly deserved defeat from another barbarian tribe that very year (Kierman 1974: 35). Ethical Chinese statesmen also suggested that, since even the strongest states depended on social order for their own existence, they had a vested interest in upholding the principles they needed others to uphold in relations

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Historical background

with them. Another anecdote from the later years of Chou rule tells of an incident when representatives of two enemy provinces met to negotiate a peace treaty. Although the two sides had agreed to attend the parley unarmed, the representatives of one province wore armour under their clothes. The chief minister of their own country upbraided them for their act. ‘Having assembled the multitudes of the states, it is not impermissible for us to show our lack of good faith? [Our vassal states] expect good faith from [our realm] and for that reason they have come to submit to her. If we do not keep faith, we are casting away that by which we must effect the submission of [our own vassals]’. (Kierman 1974: 38–9) A cynic might respond that one’s own upright conduct is no guarantee that others will be equally honourable in their dealings with you. The minister did not discuss the possibility that the rulers of his country’s vassal states might be more moved by their overlord’s power than by his adherence to principle. The minister did, however, consider the possibility that, if the ambassadors attended the peace talks unarmoured, the enemy ambassadors might ambush them. Although the minister considered this unlikely, he suggested that, even if it happened, it was nothing to fear. ‘If they … take up arms to injure us, our credit would be great. There is nothing to be troubled over’ (Kierman 1974: 39). Even in matters of life and death, he implies, a moral advantage is more valuable than a practical one. The ambassadors presumably found this argument persuasive. The recorders of such anecdotes may have indulged in poetic licence. Nevertheless, the people of the Chou era clearly admired such chivalry. One may reasonably assume that Chou-era rulers and warriors attempted to practise it. As long as warfare remained limited to a small aristocracy that shared traditional ideals, combat could remain a courteous ritual and statecraft could safely mix practical concerns with religion. Even in the early years of Chou rule, however, the old Chinese aristocracy’s monopoly on power had begun to falter and traditional ideals had begun to sound hollow. Although the Chou rulers presented themselves as defenders of Chinese culture, the Chou people were not culturally Chinese (Rodzinski 1979: 34). The Chou acknowledged that they had recently been barbarians, feuding with other tribes on the northern plains (Sawyer 1993: 25). They took pride in their legendary ruler Tan Fu, who had led them to a land where they were able to settle and adopt the more civilized lifestyle of farmers (Sawyer 1993: 25–6). Their relations with the original Chinese, however, had never been smooth. Tan Fu’s heir had attacked his neighbours to gain territory, and although the Shang dynasty rulers of the time initially sanctioned his conquests, the emperor later had him imprisoned (Sawyer 1993: 26).

Historical background 37 King Wu’s campaign to overthrow the Shang Emperor also undermined more idealistic beliefs. For all the talk of Shang corruption and Chou’s mandate from heaven, Wen and Wu owed their victory more to shrewd planning and ruthless execution than to moral purity. A text known as T’ai Kung’s Six Secret Teachings documented this in detail. For these reasons, Confucian scholars of later Chinese dynasties rejected the Six Secret Teachings as a forgery, maintaining that ‘true Sages, such as the founders of the Chou dynasty and the T’ai Kung, would not debase themselves or be compelled to use artifice, deception, sex and bribes to achieve their ends’ (Sawyer 1993: 36). Contemporary scholars, however, have concluded that T’ai Kung was probably a real person (Sawyer 1993: 31). Moreover, twentieth-century archaeologists have discovered extracts from the Six Secret Teachings in Han dynasty tombs, proving that the book is older than its Confucian detractors preferred to believe (Sawyer 1993: 36). The exact age of the book remains unknown. A careful reading of the writing style suggests that the work has undergone multiple revisions by multiple authors (Sawyer 1993: 36). Some of those authors added references to cavalry, swords and crossbows, none of which existed in China in T’ai Kung’s time (Sawyer 1993: 36). Nevertheless, the current book, with all its revisions, appears to have evolved from a Chou-era collection of military lore (Sawyer 1993: 37). There is no way to know whether T’ai Kung was the original author. Nevertheless, there is also no reason to assume that he was not. Moreover, even if the work was not actually his, the real writers apparently assumed that he was the sort of man who might have written such a book. All this suggests that T’ai Kung’s contemporaries understood what the Chou rulers had actually done. This, in turn, suggests that the Chinese were in a position to draw subversive conclusions about the matter. Confucius and Menicus, both of whom lived in the later centuries of Chou rule and both of whom revered the dynasty’s founders, were painfully aware of this point. Legend held that Wu had massacred his political opponents, and both thinkers found this idea disturbing. Menicus simply denied that such a thing could have happened (Wilhelm 1929: 115). Confucius acknowledged the possibility that it did, writing that although ‘the great musical rites with which King Wu celebrated his victory’ were ‘perfectly beautiful’, they were not ‘perfectly good’ (Wilhelm 1929: 115). Another ancient text warned that those performances expressed ‘a wrongful sentiment – namely, hatred of the enemy’, and some traditions state that worthy nobles turned against the Chou empire out of revulsion against its founders’ crimes (Wilhelm 1929: 115). Meanwhile, China’s military methods, political relationships and economic practices were changing. Chou rulers exploited these changes and deliberately promoted them. In the words of Ssu-ma Chien, King Wu ‘began anew with All Under Heaven’ (Sawyer 1993: 30). Regarding these new beginnings, Ssuma Chien adds that T’ai Kung’s ‘plans occupied the major part’. Whatever

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T’ai Kung’s actual historical role, it is interesting to note that Ssu-ma Chien associated Chou-era reforms with this man of outstanding practical wisdom and ominous moral influence. T’ai Kung is best-known as a strategist, and King Wu’s most visible reforms were military. Some archaeologists hold that the Chou invented chariot warfare, and practically all agree that they were among the first to use mass chariot charges for shock effect (Sawyer 1993: 364). The Chou introduced a four-horse war chariot to carry heavily armed troops into battle at greater speed (Sawyer 1993: 364). Their Shang opponents rode ornately decorated two-horse vehicles for display purposes, but apparently dismounted in combat (Sawyer 1993: 364). Not only did chariots allow warriors to strike swiftly on the battlefield, they appear to have allowed Chou forces to move faster cross-country. Traditional histories relate that King Wu achieved an advantage in his final campaign by marching out of his way and crossing the Yellow River at an unexpected point, thus circumventing the Shang Emperor’s defensive works (Sawyer 1993: 364). The emperor’s failure to prepare for this manoeuvre and King Wu’s success at executing it suggests that Chou forces enjoyed more mobility than the Chinese considered normal at the time. Since the marching speed of an army typically has more to do with its logistical establishment than with the capabilities of its combat units, one may speculate that the Chou supplemented their advanced chariot force with an equally advanced supply train. When King Wu ceremonially released his warhorses to herald the return of peace, he also ‘dispersed the draught-oxen to pasture in the wilds of the Peach Forest, never to be yoked again’ (Wilhelm 1929: 106). This suggests that he viewed them as basic to warfare. T’ai Kung’s Six Secret Teachings emphasize the importance of military administration, and this includes the administration of supplies (Sawyer 1993: 60–2). Not only did the early Chou rulers introduce new methods of fighting, their grand strategy produced a new political and diplomatic order. Wen, Wu and T’ai Kung assembled a coalition of over 800 principalities to overthrow the Shang rulers (Sawyer 1993: 6). Many of these principalities lay outside the earlier borders of China. All played a continuing role in the new empire. Chou emperors continued to conquer neighbouring peoples and expand their empire throughout the first three centuries of the dynasty’s rule (Latourette 1934: 35). In other words, the Chou incorporated barbarian realms into China. King Wu also aligned himself with formerly dispossessed factions within the Shang Empire. The new ruler awarded descendants of the old Hsia dynasty dominion over substantial provinces, while forcing families aligned with the Shang rulers to leave their lands (Sawyer 1993: 6; Wilhelm 1929: 117–18). These measures helped King Wu prevent the Shang from returning to power. Furthermore, they expanded the Chinese empire (Gernet 1972: 52).

Historical background 39 Nevertheless, the Chou rulers’ diplomacy complicated China’s affairs, both internally and externally. Different rulers had entered the Chou coalition on different terms. Wen and Wu had conquered some of them and brought them into the alliance by force (Sawyer 1993: 6). Others, such as the Hsia nobles, depended on the new imperial dynasty for support. All, however, fielded their own troops and all governed their people directly, relying on their own administrative bureaucracies (Rodzinski 1979: 20). Thus, all retained varying degrees of autonomy and many had sufficient strength to conduct relations with the Chou overlords on their own terms. As noted above, the Shang emperors had governed their realm through their relationships with semi-independent regional lords. The Chou’s methods of achieving power gave those lords more influence than ever, and the new rulers bowed to this fact when they issued their codes of law. The Chou officially acknowledged the feudal system, formally establishing a hierarchy of noble ranks and officially stipulating the rights and obligations owed between lord and vassal (Rodzinski 1979: 20). In the early years of the dynasty, the Chou emperors manipulated this system effectively enough to retain overall control. Sinologist Ralph Sawyer describes their methods: Finally, the Western [early] Chou consolidated their rule through several political and military measures, the most important of which was the enfeoffment of powerful clan members among both allied and dissident states. Each person so enfeoffed would establish a collateral family line and would emigrate with his family members, retainers and military forces. They would constitute a Chou enclave among the local people and would immediately construct a walled town, which would function as the Chou military, political, economic, administrative and cultural center. … The obedience of these feudal lords was reinforced by their military and political inferiority, and was emphasized by their relative isolation – all of which necessitated mutual cooperation under the king’s directives. (Sawyer 1993: 7) Chou emperors reinforced their position by maintaining a more complex and almost certainly larger military establishment than had been typical under the Shang. The ruling family fielded six royal armies and numerous garrison units, all under its direct control (Sawyer 1993: 7). In times of war, the emperor would call on the provincial rulers for further troops (Sawyer 1993: 7). Armies appear, however, to have continued recruiting exclusively from the aristocratic class, at least in the early centuries (Sawyer 1993: 7). The Chou methods of maintaining power entailed a perpetual jockeying for position, in which the emperor could not always expect to prevail. Moreover, by bringing former barbarian realms into the empire, the Chou

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rulers had involved themselves in those realms’ relations with new tribes that lived beyond the new province’s borders. The Chou emperors had also set a precedent by which their successors – or perhaps even the rulers of subordinate provinces – might justify bringing other alien peoples into China in the future.

Profiting the people Not only did the Chou rulers introduce new cultural relationships, a new military system and a new political order, they took steps towards reforming the economy. Although their innovations appear modest when compared to the revolutionary changes that swept China at the end of their dynasty’s reign, the fact that they appreciated the importance of economic development is itself significant. For all their professions of piety, the Chou rulers cast doubt on the earlier view of rulers as mere functionaries to divine forces that governed the land and its abundance. Their example encouraged the alternative idea that rulers could influence their people’s prosperity through rational policy, along with the even more alluring thought that rulers could go on to use their realm’s collective wealth to achieve long-term political ambitions. Such ideas appear in the early chapters of T’ai Kung’s Six Secret Teachings. When King Wen asked what he could do to have ‘the ruler honored and the people settled’, T’ai Kung replied ‘just love the people’ (Sawyer 1993: 43). King Wen responded by asking what loving the people meant in practice. T’ai Kung answered ‘profit them’ (Sawyer 1993: 43). T’ai Kung later identified ‘[g]reat agriculture, great industry and great commerce’ as the ‘three treasuries’ of the state (Sawyer 1993: 46). Yet later, when discussing the problem of preserving the state’s territory, he advises King Wen continually to cultivate long-term prosperity as a way of dissipating potential dangers before they take shape and preparing for eventual crises before they emerge. If at the height of the day, you do not dry things in the sun, this is termed losing the time. If you grasp a knife but do not cut anything, you will lose the moment for profits. If you hold an axe but do not attack, then bandits will come. If trickling streams are not blocked, they will become great rivers. If you do not extinguish the smallest flames, what will you do about a great conflagration? If you do not eliminate the two-leaf sapling, how will you use your ax [when the tree has grown]? For this reason, the ruler must focus on developing wealth within his state. Without material wealth he has nothing with which to be benevolent. If he does not bespread beneficience, he will have no way to bring his

Historical background 41 relatives together. If he estranges his relatives it will be harmful. If he loses the common people he will be defeated. (Sawyer 1993: 46–7) Thoughts such as these may have inspired the Chou rulers to promote advanced farming techniques. The Chou sent advisers throughout China to help rulers of other fiefdoms increase their harvests. (Sawyer 1993: 26) A twentieth-century scholar and military commander named Hsu Pei-ken suggests that this practice helped Kings Wen and Wu develop friendly relations with potential allies. Sinologist Ralph Sawyer adds that agricultural advisers would have had an opportunity to gather intelligence about the peoples and geography of the areas they operated in (Sawyer 1993: 26). As the Chou dynasty went on, agricultural progress transformed economic and social life throughout China. Nevertheless, one must take care not to overestimate the early rulers’ role in accelerating this progress. Despite the activities of Chou’s advisers, archaeologists find little evidence of widespread agricultural reform in the early dynasty (Rodzinski 1979: 21). The Chinese appear to have increased their use of irrigation in this period, but farmers continued to rely on stone-age tools (Rodzinski 1979: 21). More dramatic changes would not appear for centuries. The Chou rulers made more tangible progress in improving their realm’s system of communications and transport. ‘The roads of Chou are (smooth) as a whetstone, reads a passage in the Shih Ching (Book of Odes), ‘straight as an arrow’s flight’ (Needham et al. 1971: 4). Scholars believe that these lines date to the ninth century BC, if not earlier (Needham et al. 1971: 4). A second-century BC text credits the Chou rulers with establishing a government ministry to improve the efficiency of road networks throughout the empire. In the entry for the Ssu Hsien (Director of Communications) we read: He studies the maps of the nine provinces in order to obtain a perfect knowledge of the mountains, forests, lakes, rivers and marshes, and to understand the (natural) routes of communication. … When mountains and forests present obstacles, he cuts through them. When rivers and lakes offer impediment, he bridges them …. (Needham et al. 1971: 4) Not only did these roads help fill T’ai Kung’s three treasuries, the Chou appreciated their more immediate military value. The Ssu Hsien was responsible for noting strategic points such as passes and junctions (Needham et al. 1971: 4). ‘If there is alarm in the empire he fortifies the roads and difficult points, halts wanderers, and guards the positions with his men, letting past the barriers only those with the imperial seal’ (Needham et al. 1971: 4). The

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Chou also instituted a system of way-stations to support travellers, along with a postal system (Needham et al. 1971: 35). Confucius held that virtue spreads even faster than an imperial decree transmitted by post, but the fact that he chose this figure of speech suggests that the folk of his time found Chou’s courier network impressive (Needham et al. 1971: 35). Ssu Ma Chien relates that T’ai Kung personally took charge of the ‘three treasuries’ in his own fiefdom of Ch’i. When the T’ai Kung reached his state he rectified the government in accord with [local] customs; simplified the Chou’s forms of propriety [li]; opened up the occupations of the merchants and artisans; and facilitated the realization of profits from fishing and salt. In large numbers the people turned their allegiance to Ch’i, and Ch’i became a great state. (Sawyer 1993: 30)

Wars without, wars within Eventually, a weak man inherited the Chou dynasty throne (Latourette 1934: 35). Yu Wang, who became emperor in 781 BC, was infatuated with a beautiful concubine named Bao Si (Latourette 1934: 35). Although Chou dynasty traditions permitted polygamy, custom dictated that a man should treat his official wives with more respect than mere concubines, and one primary wife with the greatest consideration of all. Yu Wang, however, declared Bao Si’s son as his heir, alienating his primary wife and her influential family (Latourette 1934: 35). Moreover, the emperor abandoned state affairs to cater to Bao Si’s whims. On one occasion, he ripped up invaluable sheets of silk so that the concubine could enjoy the tearing sound (Latourette 1934: 35). On another, he tried to amuse her by lighting the beacons used to warn the Chou family vassals of an attack by the barbarians (Latourette 1934: 35). This proved particularly unwise, since Yu Wang’s first wife’s family was on good terms with nearby barbarian tribes. In 771 BC, the queen’s father joined forces with a tribal leader and attacked the capital (Latourette 1934: 35). When the emperor’s troops lit the signal fires, the rulers of vassal provinces assumed (or affected to assume) that their ruler was playing another practical joke, and failed to respond (Latourette 1934: 35). The queen’s father had Yu Wang killed and returned the more legitimate prince to the throne (Latourette 1934: 35). The Chou dynasty’s problems, however, ran deeper than one emperor’s follies. New barbarian tribes had migrated to their western borders, where they posed a growing threat (Gernet 1972: 680). Some suggest that some of these tribes had mastered the art of fighting from horseback, although this is controversial, and the Chinese themselves continued to rely on chariots (Gernet 1972: 680). In the south, the empire had encountered the large and well-organized barbarian state of Ch’u, which supported its military ventures

Historical background 43 with the produce of the fertile lands around the Yangtze River. The Chou rulers had already impoverished their own people in earlier wars, alienating the peasants and leaving few resources for future campaigns (Wilhelm 1929: 123). Yu Wang’s successor, Emperor Ping, found himself unable to defend the western parts of China, including the traditional capital. Accordingly, Ping relocated the capital to a safer location in the east, thereby admitting that the Chou rulers could no longer defend their empire (Latourette 1934: 35–6). Ping drew on aid from his more powerful vassals to secure his rule (Bai 1982: 90). During this period, Chinese rulers obtained many of their best warhorses from the semi-barbarian state of Ch’in, located in a mountainous region on their western frontier. Ping admitted Ch’in into the Chou empire and appointed a prominent horse-breeder as its ruler, hoping that the new province would be able to ward off attacks from even more savage peoples further west (Sawyer 1993: 8). The Chou emperor’s vassals promptly began to take advantage of the imperial government’s weakness. A number of provincial rulers adopted the title wang, which was supposedly reserved for the emperor (Gernet 1972: 58). Provincial rulers also preyed on each other. Over 1,800 independent fiefdoms had paid homage to the imperial court at the height of the Chou Empire’s strength (Bai 1982: 89). As imperial power declined, the rulers of more powerful regions forcibly annexed their weaker neighbours and by 722 BC, only about 100 principalities remained (Bai 1982: 89). Confucius reputedly wrote a book chronicling the history of one such state during the years between from 722 BC to 481 BC, titled the Spring and Autumn Annals. Accordingly, scholars refer to this epoch of Chinese history as the Spring and Autumn period (Bai 1982: 89). This term’s suggestion of beginnings, endings and transitions is appropriate. In a technical sense, the Chou empire continued, but its actual political relevance was in rapid decline. The Spring and Autumn period is the era in which the early Chou rulers’ political and economic innovations began to mature, with profound consequences for all of China. In the early seventh century, a nobleman named Huan assumed control of the state of Ch’i. Huan not only managed to reconcile himself with his former rivals, he convinced one of his most dangerous opponents, the wily Kuan Chung, to serve as his chief adviser (Wilhelm 1929: 125–6). Under Kuan Chung’s direction, Huang introduced a variety of new economic policies. Like his predecessor T’ai Kung, Huan took advantage of Ch’i’s long coastline to encourage the salt trade (Wilhelm 1929: 125–6). This gave his people – and his state – a source of income to supplement agriculture. In the time since T’ai Kung, Chinese metalworkers had gradually begun to master the use of iron. The dates at which iron technology became widespread remain uncertain. Chinese farmers, for instance, do not appear to have used

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iron tools until the fifth century BC (Needham and Bray 1984: 149). Historians do, however, credit Huan and Kuan Chung with taking advantage of Ch’i’s rich deposits of iron ore to found a metal industry (Wilhelm 1929: 126). Not only did this give them yet another source of revenue, it allowed them to produce stronger armour for their war chariots (Wilhelm 1929: 126). Ch’i’s new industries allowed people to aspire to easier lives than they would have led as farmers. These industries also allowed Huan to maintain a large army without overtaxing his subjects. As Ch’i became an increasingly pleasant place to live, it attracted immigrants (Wilhelm 1929: 126). Ch’i, like most Chinese states of this period, had too small a population to cultivate all its arable land (Wilhelm 1929: 126). Huan offered the immigrants opportunities to farm unused countryside, thereby enriching his state even further. Huan and Kuan Chung used their state’s wealth and military capabilities to organize and occasionally coerce the other Chinese provinces, but not to subjugate them. Thanks to Ch’i’s power, the Chinese managed to turn back barbarian invasions from both the north and the south. In 667 BC, the Chou emperors formally recognized Ch’i’s role as a protector of the empire. The emperor awarded Ch’i the title of ‘hegemon’, and appointed its rulers to defend Chinese civilization on the imperial family’s behalf (Gernet 1972: 681). Kuan Chung, however, died, and Huan proved incapable of governing without his adviser. Palace conspirators sealed the former ruler in a room and left him to die of hunger (Wilhelm 1929: 128). Meanwhile, his sons fought over who was to succeed him, scandalously ignoring their duty to mourn and bury their father (Wilhelm 1929: 128). When worms began to crawl from the death-chamber, the princes found themselves unable to overlook their filial obligations any longer. The princes’ response, however, was scarcely less shocking – they interred their father according to a barbarian custom, burying servants alive with him in the tomb (Wilhelm 1929: 128). The princes’ behaviour dramatized the decay of Chinese moral traditions, and the growing influence of foreign practices. This internal strife also undermined Ch’i’s prosperity and power. The state of Sung, ruled by descendants of the Shang Dynasty, briefly succeeded Ch’i as the guardian of Chinese tradition and Chou rule (Wilhelm 1929: 124–5). Sung, however, was a small province. Within 13 years, the Chou emperors recognized the large and centrally located state of Chin as hegemon. For several generations, Chin struggled with Ch’u (Bai 1982: 92). Despite the fact that Chin enjoyed moral authority as the guardian of the Chou dynasty, other Chinese provinces proved increasingly willing to ally themselves with the powerful southern barbarians when it suited their interests. By the end of the seventh century, the Chou rulers themselves were relying on Ch’u for support against the even more threatening barbarian tribes of the north (Wilhelm 1929: 129–30). Eventually, the emperor not only acknowledged Ch’u as culturally civilized but honoured it as the new hegemon. Tradition states

Historical background 45 that Ch’u’s hegemony began in 613 BC, although some historians prefer 597 BC, which is the year that Ch’u decisively defeated its rival Chin (Wilhelm 1929: 125; Gernet 1972: 680). By bringing Ch’u into their empire, the Chou rulers embroiled China in the disputes of the Yangtze delta region. Throughout the sixth century, a pair of barbarian states known as Wu and Yueh challenged Ch’u for control of the area. Wu eventually overran Ch’u, only to be defeated in turn by Yueh (Latourette 1934: 39). During their period of supremacy, the lords of Wu persuaded the Chou emperors to recognize their state as hegemon, further eroding the distinction between the Chinese and the barbarian outsiders (Latourette 1934: 39). Ch’in eventually helped Ch’u recover its sovereignty, but the wars in the south underscored the impotence of the Chou emperor, taking China closer to the point at which provincial rulers would relate to each other purely on the basis of force (Cotterell 1981: 99).

Seeds of change As the provincial lords asserted their independence, the Chinese developed technologies and institutions that further strengthened those rulers and their states. The pace of change remained slow. Moreover, from a strategist’s point of view, the effects of the change remained modest. No statesman managed to exploit the innovations of the late Spring and Autumn period as dramatically as T’ai Kung and Kuan Chung exploited the developments of their times. The changes of the seventh century BC did, however, set the stage for the more general change that was to come. This was, for instance, the period in which the Chinese began to practise irrigation on a large scale. The idea of re-routing rivers to control floods and water crops was not new. A traditional song dating to the eighth century BC refers to artificial methods of flooding rice fields (Needham et al. 1971: 269). The eighth-century irrigation works, however, appear to have been small and localized. By 606 BC, however, the state of Ch’u had begun to commission works such as the Shao Pei, or Peony Dam, which watered six million acres of farmland (Needham et al. 1971: 271). A reservoir from the Peony Dam project still exists, 62 miles in circumference (Needham et al. 1971: 271). Such water projects allowed farmers to produce more grain more reliably in poorer land. Building dams and canals was a labour-intensive process, and since the provincial governments were the only institutions that possessed direct authority over sufficient numbers of workers, they were able to use such civil engineering works for their own benefit. Large states with large populations had an obvious advantage as well. This rewarded the states which, like Ch’i in Kuang Chung’s time, managed to attract immigrants, but it also rewarded the states which, like Ch’u in a later period, managed to expand at their neighbours’ expense.

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Perhaps equally significantly from a strategist’s point of view, this was also the period in which rulers instituted centralized systems of taxation. Previously, rulers had relied on their vassals to manage farmland in times of peace and raise contingents of armed men in times of war (Gernet 1972: 61). Those vassals had met their obligations by imposing compulsory labour upon the peasants. In 594 BC, the province of Lu began to tax farmers directly, fixing the amount to be paid to the amount of land each peasant cultivated (Gernet 1972: 61; Needham et al. 1971: 260). This reduced the provincial ruler’s dependence on local potentates. Furthermore, it gave the farmers themselves more freedom. Previously, the local lords had kept peasants continually occupied on the communal fields. Under the new system, those who had grown enough to feed themselves and pay their taxes were able to pursue other activities. These developments may have benefited the provincial rulers more than the peasants themselves. Irrigation undoubtedly raised agricultural productivity, but until the Chinese introduced metal tools and superior methods of land use, most people would have to remain on the land most of the time. Moreover, China’s rulers saw no reason to let human resources go unused. Often, freeing peasants from compulsory labour in the fields merely made them available for compulsory labour on the provincial government’s civil engineering projects (Needham et al. 1971: 260). The new system of private production combined with limited taxation did, however, open the way for the later development of industry and commerce. Meanwhile, the new system strengthened provincial rulers relative both to the lesser nobles, who no longer controlled the sources of grain and labour, and to the Chou emperor, who remained dependent on vassals. Lu introduced further measures of this nature in 590 BC and the province of Cheng followed suit in 543 and 538 (Gernet 1972: 61). Although we do not know when other states introduced such policies, we can infer that rulers throughout China were quick to appreciate their advantages. Not only did state rulers take greater control over revenue, they assumed more direct power over the territory they annexed in war. Traditionally, rulers had awarded conquered land to trusted vassals, who then ruled it as semiautonomous feudal lords (Gernet 1972: 64). Early in the seventh century, however, state rulers began to appropriate some of their newly won land into hsien, administrative districts under central control (Gernet 1972: 64). Rulers continued to practise the feudal system as well. One may speculate that it took time for rulers to develop bureaucracies capable of administering large hsien, and also that rulers continued to find it expedient to encourage loyal service by rewarding their followers with fiefdoms. Again, however, one can assume that provincial rulers understood that the hsien system would ultimately increase the power of their states.

Historical background 47 Certainly, China’s rulers recognized the connection between the way a state mobilizes its resources and its ability to exert political power. T’ai Kung and Kuan Chung had drawn attention to this relationship centuries earlier. One sees further evidence that Chinese strategists thought in such terms in the Spring and Autumn-era history known as the Tso chuan. This document recounts how, in 547 BC, the premier of Ch’u instructed a court official to draw up a register of arable land, enumerate the products of mountains and forests, identify briny regions suitable for salt production and assess the risk of flooding (Needham et al. 1971: 259). The courtier responsible for this project was the Minister of War, and the premier specifically instructed him to use this information to determine the size of the army (Needham et al. 1971: 259). Military forces also continued to develop in the Spring and Autumn period, but once more, there was considerable continuity with earlier epochs. Armourers replaced the two-piece leather armour of earlier periods with stronger and more flexible tunics of lacquered leather scales (Sawyer 1993: 369). The spirit of chivalry continued to prevail, although this did not preclude unorthodox tactics. Duke Wen of Chin, for instance, gained an advantage in an important engagement by having his charioteers drag felled trees back and forth across the battlefield, blinding the enemy with dust (Kierman 1974: 51–6). Armies became progressively larger. An army of the early Spring and Autumn period might have consisted of ‘several hundred to a thousand chariots’, each of which had a 10-man infantry squad to support it (Sawyer 1993: 9). By the end of the period, major provinces could routinely field 4,000 such vehicles (Sawyer 1993: 9). Since each charioteer of that period went to war with a retinue of 10n or more footsoldiers, this meant that an army of the late Spring and Autumn period consisted of over 40,000 men (Sawyer 1993: 9). This increase in the size of armies undoubtedly increased the importance of the economic policies that sustained them and the logistical systems that propelled them into battle. Since both economics and logistics require forethought, factors that increase their role in military operations also tend to encourage conscious attention to strategy. One may speculate that the demands of maintaining large armies helped motivate Spring and Autumn rulers to undertake their massive civil engineering projects. Certainly, rulers understood the direct military value of waterways. In 486 BC, the king of Wu commissioned a canal known as the Han Kou to supply his armies as they marched to attack the more northerly states of Sung and Lu (Needham et al. 1971: 271). Increasing the size of armies also had social consequences. Most obviously, such increases forced states to arm a larger proportion of their population. States began to use commoners as troops. At the beginning of the Spring and Autumn period, most rulers required each family to provide a single son for the

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army, but by the end of the epoch, most states held the entire male population liable for conscription (Sawyer 1993: 375). Militarily advanced realms such as Chin and Ch’u sorted the civilian population into administrative cells analogous to military formations, so that commanders could mobilize large units rapidly, without wasting time organizing them (Sawyer 1993: 375). Bringing large numbers of commoners into the army must have forced rulers to develop means of controlling better-armed subjects. One may speculate that changing the social composition of fighting forces undermined the aristocracy’s ability to uphold gentlemanly standards of conduct on the battlefield. Moreover, not only did raising large armies affect the relationship between rulers and peasants, it helped to create a new class in between. The fact that Chinese rulers were replacing feudal levies with taxation and standing armies compounded these effects. Carl von Clausewitz discussed the consequences of analogous developments in seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury Europe: The very circumstances that changed methods of recruitment and regular replacement of fighting forces were to change methods of maintenance and supply. Once the Estates had been exempted from the former in exchange for monetary tribute, they could not very well be burdened with the latter by stealth. So, the government, the treasury, had to carry the burden of subsistence: the army could not live off the land while it was stationed on its own territory. Governments, therefore, had to treat the maintenance of the army as their responsibility alone. In this way, maintenance presented increased difficulties, for two reasons: the government had to assume responsibility for it, and the fighting forces were required to remain permanently in the field. Not only an independent military class but also an independent system for supplying it were thus created, and were developed to the fullest possible extent. (Clausewitz 1976: 230–1) A paragraph later, Clausewitz elaborates on the social and political consequences of this development: Military institutions thus tended to become more and more independent of the country and the people … in consequence, warfare became more regular, better organized and more attuned to the purpose of war – that is, to its political objective. (Clausewitz 1976: 231) Taxes in Spring and Autumn China tended to consist of grain, rather than ‘monetary tribute’, but aside from that, Clausewitz’s observations up to this

Historical background 49 point apply. The spread of institutions such as the hsien system had a similar effect in the civil realm, and since the Chinese fully appreciated the connection between war and society, this had direct strategic consequences as well. During the Spring and Autumn period, states expanded both their military and their civil administrative systems dramatically, and this meant that rulers required such counsellors in greater numbers. Where earlier kings selected courtiers on the basis of their noble blood, personal connections and upright reputations, the rulers of the late Spring and Autumn period were increasingly eager to ‘use men’ whose technical expertise made them practically valuable (Crump 1964: 1). Rulers took on such servitors to assist them with a wide variety of undertakings, but military and political advisers were prominent. This made it possible to build a career as a strategist on the basis of skill and training, rather than external factors such as birth. ‘[E]ven those from “the meanest alleys of poverty” could hope to rise rapidly if they were skilled enough and if they could gain the ear of someone in power – and this last consideration was crucial’ (Crump 1964: 2). Those who supported themselves in this way came to identify themselves in terms of their profession. The Chinese referred to court advisers as shih, or gentleman, and those who achieved their positions through merit rather than pedigree were called shih k’e, or retainers (Crump 1964: 2). As Clausewitz would have predicted, shih of all backgrounds claimed the authority to act independently from rulers on matters of professional judgement. Sun Tzu, who presumably belonged to the shih class, elaborated on this issue (Tao 1986: 100). Tradition holds that Sun Tzu asserted his professional independence by executing two of the King of Wu’s favourite concubines in a military exercise, despite the ruler’s pleas to spare them (Szuma 1979: 29). The king went on to employ Sun Tzu as a general. The new system did not completely replace the earlier one. Many rulers continued to choose many of their advisers on the basis of sentiment and propriety. Unsurprisingly, the traditional aristocratic courtiers and the technocrats came into conflict (Crump 1964: 1). For this reason, shih had to pay great attention to the art of persuasion. Followers of different schools of thought developed characteristic styles of reasoning, ranging from the straightforward use of argument based on the ruler’s self-interest (li) to highminded rhetoric that explicitly rejected li to elaborate narratives that seem to present the ruler with a choice while actually pre-determining what his choice will be (Crump 1964: 4–5, 115–21). Battlefield tactics do not appear to have changed dramatically until the end of the Spring and Autumn period, but as forces grew larger, it became inevitable that the role of infantry would grow and the role of the chariot would decline. Evidence suggests that chariots were effective in battle (Sawyer 1993: 364–6). Nevertheless, they broke down frequently (Sawyer 1993: 364–6).

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They became stuck easily and could not enter rough terrain (Sawyer 1993: 364–6). Chariots were also difficult to manoeuvre in formation, especially at speed (Sawyer 1993: 364–6). Moreover, chariots were expensive and only warriors with considerable experience could drive them in combat. When armies had only a few thousand men to a side, the advantages of mounting a fraction of those men in chariots outweighed the costs. When armies numbered in the tens of thousands, the expense of maintaining a similar ratio of chariots to infantry must have proved difficult to justify. As the Spring and Autumn period went on, armies did indeed raise increasingly large proportions of their forces as footsoldiers (Sawyer 1993: 374). The states of Wu and Yueh never adopted chariots, despite the urgings of their Chinese allies (Sawyer 1993: 365). These states fought many of their campaigns in the marshy regions around the Yangtze River, and their rulers may have concluded that wheeled vehicles were inappropriate for that sort of terrain. Chinese advisers did, however, train the troops of Wu to use bows and arrows effectively in combat (Bai 1982: 94). The Wu people themselves introduced the tactic of using war canoes to carry out large-scale amphibious raids, inspiring their enemies in the state of Ch’u to counter by developing larger warships with multiple decks (Needham et al 1971: 440–1). This discovery of naval forces coincided with the expanding logistical requirements of land forces, leading many Chinese states to field fleets of watercraft to supply their armies (Needham et al. 1971: 440–1).

Beginnings of pragmatism The combination of turmoil and innovation challenged the traditional pieties that the Chou rulers and their people presumably held dear. This did not become apparent until the end of the Chou period, but even in the dynasty’s early years, one can identify the beginnings of a new ethic of pragmatism. T’ai Kung himself reputedly took a sceptical view of traditional spiritual practices. When King Wu resolved to lead his final campaign against the Shang Emperor, he gathered the various noblemen who had pledged to support him and personally performed a divination ritual with a tortoise shell (Sawyer 1993: 29). The omens ‘were not auspicious, and violent wind and rain arose. The assembled dukes were all afraid, but the T’ai Kung stiffened them to support King Wu. King Wu then went forth’ (Sawyer 1993: 29). The fact that royal advisers of the period traditionally cast themselves as guardians of hallowed customs such as divination makes T’ai Kung’s act doubly subversive. Classic tales record how those who tampered with auguries suffered just punishments (Kierman 1974: 31). King Wu and T’ai Kung, by contrast, went on to found a new dynasty. Little wonder that others found themselves drawn to T’ai Kung’s approach.

Historical background 51 One anecdote tells of an incident in the middle centuries of the Chou Dynasty. When Tou Lien of Ch’u wished to mount a swift assault, his adviser asked for time to raise extra troops and perform a divination (Kierman 1974: 34). Tou Lien responded ‘we divine to resolve doubts. Where we have no doubts, why divine?’ (Kierman 1974: 34). The fact that Ch’u was originally a barbarian realm may be significant. One may speculate that, as Chinese culture merged with the cultures of nearby peoples, it became increasingly difficult to sustain belief in any one culture’s customs concerning matters such as divination, especially when those customs appeared inconvenient. Tou Lien, one notes, remained prepared to believe that divination worked, and that it might be useful under certain circumstances. Once people began to view traditional practices in utilitarian terms, however, it became possible for them to test those practices against reality, and to discard customs that failed such tests. As the Chinese developed their ability to control rivers through dams and canals, to pick another example, it became possible for the engineer and rationalist thinker Hsimen Pao to abolish the ancient custom of sacrificing human victims to the river-gods (Needham et al. 1971: 271). Just as the previously cited writings by the Lord of Liu represent what this book has called the ancient philosophical school of thought, Hsimen Pao’s success at linking technological improvement to enlightened reform represents a move towards modernism. As Chinese rulers adopted a more pragmatic view of supernatural matters, they began to take an equally pragmatic view of other customary limits to their freedom of action. Chinese tradition, as noted earlier, viewed oaths as sacred. An account from the middle Chou Dynasty relates what happened when an official from the province of Sung brokered a peace treaty between the rivals of Ch’u and Chin. Representatives of the enemy states swore, not only to refrain from attacking each other, but to make their ‘likings and dislikings the same’ (Kierman 1974: 35). ‘If any violate this covenant’, the oath continued, ‘may the intelligent spirits destroy him, causing the downfall of his armies and an end to his state sacrifices [that is, the loss of his domain]’ (Kierman 1974: 35–6). It was, however, the well-meaning Sung official who went on to suffer egregious misfortune. Three years later, he found himself on the wrong side of a political intrigue and had to flee his home country (Kierman 1974: 36). Ch’u and Chin, meanwhile, ignored their treaty and fought yet another bloody war (Kierman 1974: 36). The passage recording this incident does not report that the Ch’u or Chin rulers worried unduly about breaking their oath, nor does it report that they suffered any divine penalty for doing so. The Chou emperors had based their reign on the alleged mandate of supernatural forces, on their mastery of traditional rites and on their vassals’ oaths of fealty. As traditional beliefs faltered and the imperial

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Historical background family’s military strength waned, it became progressively difficult for Chou emperors to command respect. The emperors admitted as much when they recognized Duke Huan of Ch’i as hegemon. Huan, however, treated the Chou authorities with deference, pressuring them to abandon unwise policies but only on behalf of the common good. (Wilhelm 1929: 127)

By the time of Chin’s hegemony, only a few generations later, Chou commanded less respect. When Duke Wen of Chin needed the Emperor’s presence at a council, he brusquely sent a subordinate to fetch him (Wilhelm 1929: 129). The Ch’u hegemons openly mocked Chou and its customs. When the Chou court permitted Prince Chuang of Ch’u to view the sacred bronze tripods that symbolized the imperial family’s rule, the prince jokingly asked what they weighed (Wilhelm 1929: 130). This jest suggested that he was primarily interested in what the metal might be worth, and thus also hinted at the qualities he considered significant to political relations. Moreover, the Chinese of the Spring and Autumn period found themselves forced to admit that such pragmatism had its place. Kuan Chung, the courtier who engineered Ch’i’s rise to hegemony, was notorious for his political opportunism. Nevertheless, he saved the empire from the barbarians. Centuries later, when a scholar derided the practically minded minister, Confucius abandoned his usual moralistic tone to retort ‘but for Kuan Chung we should now be [following the barbarian customs of] wearing our garments buttoning down the side and our hair down our backs’ (Wilhelm 1929: 126). One should view these incidents of pragmatism as significant anomalies in Chou Dynasty thought, not as evidence of widespread trend. Divination remained nearly universal, as did traditional concepts of proper behaviour. Centuries later, Chinese rationalists would still have to argue fiercely for their positions. Warriors continued to cherish chivalry. As late as 638 BC, Duke Hsiang of Sung could voluntarily allow his enemies time to prepare their forces, lose the ensuing battle, and declare: The superior man does not inflict a second wound nor does he take prisoner anyone whose hair is gray. When the men of old made war, they would not attack an enemy who was in a defile. I am but the heir of a lost dynasty [the Shang], yet I would not sound the drums [to attack a foe], whose lines were unformed. (Kierman 1974: 66) Nor did Duke Hsiang’s example discourage his contemporaries. Decades later, when Ch’u threatened to overrun the Chou empire’s southern provinces, the legendary hero Duke Wen of Chin led a counter-attack. Duke Wen was a hardened man of barbarian ancestry, but he reputedly selected his

Historical background 53 subordinate commanders solely on the basis of their literary and philosophical accomplishments (Kierman 1974: 49). Unlike Hsiang, Wen won. For Chou dynasty rulers, men like these two dukes represented the ideal, and perhaps even the norm. Those who found this ideal unsatisfactory, however, had a growing number of alternative examples to inspire them. For self-evident reasons, those who preferred victory to propriety were the ones who shaped Chinese history.

The intellectual reaction Chinese thinkers perceived these social, political, economic, military and conceptual trends. Confucius, whose work has ‘never ceased to exert a vital influence on [China] down to our own century’ lived from 551 to 479 BC (de Bary et al. 1960: 15). Lao Tzu, whose influence on Chinese thought ranks second only to Confucius, reputedly lived at the same time (Needham and Ling 1956: 35; de Bary et al. 1960: 48). More recent scholarship suggests that he may actually have lived up to two centuries earlier or later, or, indeed, that he may have been entirely mythical (Baskin 1972: 53). Whatever the case, his works comment on the trends of the late Spring and Autumn period, and even those who believe that the author lived in a later period accept that his writings reflect the teachings of a school of thought that dates back to this time or before (Baskin 1972: 53). The general Sun Wu was also a contemporary of Confucius. Chinese tradition holds that Sun Wu wrote the book known as Sun Tzu’s Art of War (Sawyer 1993: 150). The traditional account remains respectable among twenty-first century Sinologists, and although others have questioned it, many who doubt that Sun Tzu was the same person as Sun Wu still believe that the author of The Art of War lived at the end of the sixth century BC (Sawyer 1993: 150). Other influential members of China’s ‘hundred schools of thought’ lived only a few generations later – the moralist Mo Tzu, for instance, was born in approximately 470 BC (de Bary et al. 1960: 34). All of these thinkers devoted their works to understanding what had become of China’s civilization and to formulating an appropriate response. Confucius and Mo Tzu advanced broad, idealistic proposals, while Sun Tzu was narrowly practical and Lao Tzu was deliberately enigmatic. Later chapters will discuss these thinkers’ ideas in detail. For purposes of this historical overview, one may note that the various trends of the Spring and Autumn period not only inspired their thought, but shaped their careers. Several of these thinkers came from modest backgrounds, and others were associated with putatively uncivilized states. Although Confucius’ ancestors belonged to the gentry, his father died when he was young, leaving the family impoverished and relatively obscure (de Bary et al. 1960: 15). Mo Tzu’s name suggests that he had been tattooed as a prisoner or a slave (de Bary et al. 1960:

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34). Even if this was not literally the case, his writings demonstrate his affinity with society’s downtrodden. Traditional accounts of Lao Tzu’s life describe him as a court historian in semi-barbarian Ch’u, where he may have had aristocratic origins (Wilhelm 1929: 147–8). All these thinkers sought to advance their social visions by advising rulers. In other words, they sought to act as shih k’e. All enjoyed periods of success, but these periods generally proved fleeting. Both Confucius and Lao Tzu despaired of China’s rulers and withdrew from political life (de Bary et al. 1960: 16; Lao 1972: unnumbered preface). Sun Wu’s career was more gratifying. His ancestors were among the many who migrated from their home states to live under the enlightened government of Ch’i (Tao 1986: 11–12). Ch’i had a rich tradition of strategic thought, nourished by the examples of T’ai Kung and Kuan Chung (Tao 1986: 11–12). Sun Wu’s father had served as a commander in Ch’i’s army, and the young strategist presumably grew up studying both the intellectual and the practical aspects of war (Tao 1986: 11–12). As Sun Wu’s talents matured, Ch’i fell into internal disorder (Tao 1986: 11–12). At this point, Sun Wu successfully offered his services to the king of Wu (Tao 1986: 11–12). Although Wu presumably lay outside the boundaries of Chinese civilization, the days when this might have prevented a Chinese ruler from making common cause with Wu’s king or a Chinese strategist from seeking employment in Wu’s court had passed. As the king’s military adviser, Sun participated in Wu’s victorious campaign against Ch’u (Tao 1986: 11–12). Sun Wu’s exact role, however, remains unclear. Despite Sun Wu’s success as a general, the shih k’e achieved their most lasting influence, not through their immediate political and military activities, but through their writings and their networks of disciples. One may infer that the growth of the shih k’e class provided these thinkers with an educated audience willing to study and transmit their ideas. Confucius, for instance, reputedly taught 3,000 students (de Bary et al. 1960: 16). This underscores the point that he lived in an era in which it was socially and economically possible for large numbers of people to support themselves as intellectuals.

The immolation of the Chou empire ‘Confucius’, sinologist Richard Wilhelm notes, ‘once said that if the feudal princes usurped power, the ministers in the feudal states would soon follow suit, and disorder would then spread from rank to rank’ (Wilhelm 1929: 131). The fact that rulers were delegating increasing amounts of responsibility to an increasing number of ministers made this prospect all the more likely. Moreover, the new ministers tended to be freelance professionals with considerable ambition and few personal ties to the old feudal order. For these

Historical background 55 reasons, few should be surprised by the series of palace coups that broke out in the first decades of the fifth century BC. Such putschs toppled the governments of Lu and Ch’i (Gernet 1972: 61). The instigators of these coups tended to be lesser aristocrats with senior court positions – men whose experience, personal contacts and control over state resources enabled them to rule, but who lacked the rightful authority. Indeed, the usurping T’ien family of Ch’i did not even attempt to govern directly. Rather, it placed tractable princes on the throne, repeatedly murdering them when they proved recalcitrant (Bai 1982: 93). The most significant coup destroyed the province of Chin. There, six leading military officers overthrew the central government, divided the country among themselves and proceeded to fight over its territory (Gernet 1972: 61). In 453 BC, the three survivors partitioned Chin into independent states known as Han, Wei and Chao (Gernet 1972: 61). Chin had been the cultural heart of the Chou empire. Moreover, Ch’i and Chin had been the most militarily powerful of the originally Chinese regions. The disorder in Ch’i and the disintegration of Chin symbolized the collapse of Chou civilization. Although heirs of the imperial dynasty continued to call themselves emperors within their own palaces, they commanded neither territory nor allegiances. The partition of Chin marks the beginning of the historical epoch known as the Warring States period (Gernet 1972: 682). Of the 100 provincial states that had flourished in 722 BC, seven remained significant. These seven fought incessantly, giving the period its name. Not only was war becoming ever more common, it was becoming ever more destructive. Mo Tzu, writing at the beginning of the era, described the consequences of a typical campaign: Take the case of a country about to go to war. In winter the cold is to be feared, in summer the heat. This means that neither winter nor summer is the time for such action. But if in the spring, then the people miss their sowing and planting: if in the autumn, then they miss reaping and harvesting. If they miss only one season, then the number of people who will die of cold and hunger is incalculable … [t]he army casualties also are incalculably large, perhaps whole armies perishing. (Hughes 1972a: 102–3) The chivalric rules that had once protected captives and non-combatants vanished. Gone were the days when even in times of war sworn inter-state agreements safeguarded the trade and traffic of the peaceful population. History becomes the monotonous recital of the destruction of human lives following the capture of a town. Where formerly prisoners of war

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The Chinese viewed these developments as catastrophic. ‘Life had lost all security’, historian Richard Wilhelm writes, summing up the era (Wilhelm 1929: 133). Where the Chinese of earlier generations could believe in spirits that enforced moral codes and a Mandate of Heaven that secured virtuous rulers on the throne, only ‘gross materialism’ remained (Wilhelm 1929: 133). The Chinese thinker Hsun Tzu (298–238 BC) asserted that matters had deteriorated to the point at which the difference between truth and lies had vanished (de Bary et al. 1960: 111). If a future ruler wished to restore civilization, Hsun Tzu continued, he would have to reform the very language his subjects spoke (de Bary et al. 1960: 111).

A dark age of progress This dark age was not a relapse into primitivism. To the contrary, it was the period in which dramatically improved agricultural techniques spread throughout the country, the period in which iron tools became freely available, and the period in which an unprecedented proportion of the population found the opportunity to achieve wealth, status and education. The population was also growing rapidly (Gernet 1972: 67). A new economy and a new social system were taking shape, and the rulers of the seven contending kingdoms were in a position to exploit them, if only they could figure out how. The agricultural improvements went far beyond past innovations. As noted earlier, the Chinese may have invented the plough and discovered methods of continuous cropping centuries earlier, but they made little use of them at the time. In the fourth century, they began to employ these tools and techniques widely (Needham et al. 1971: 162). Chinese farmers also discovered how to use green manure and other fertilizers (Needham et al. 1971: 162). The Chinese developed more sophisticated methods of deciding when to plough and sow, along with techniques for draining waterlogged fields (Gernet 1972: 67). States extended their irrigation works, and, perhaps even more significantly, developed means for rehabilitating salty ground (Gernet 1972: 67). Ch’i may have promoted iron technology in Kuan Chung’s time. Archaeologists have found iron hand tools dating back to the Spring and Autumn era in what then was Ch’u (Needham et al. 1971: 162). In the Warring States period, however, iron hoes, spades and ploughshares appear throughout China (Needham et al. 1971: 162). Iron ploughshares remain rarer than other implements, but they are also particularly important, both because they allow farmers to work harder ground than would be possible with more primitive equipment, and because they help smaller numbers of people to till

Historical background 57 larger amounts of land. Once the Chinese introduced iron ploughshares, they perfected them relatively quickly – although some have criticized Chinese shares as ‘small, insecurely mounted and incapable of turning soil to any considerable depth’, they were, in fact, heavier and more secure than those used in ancient Greece and Rome (Needham et al. 1971: 162). The question of whether the Chinese introduced improved agricultural techniques to provide for their growing population or whether the population increased because of the increasing availability of food has much in common with the familiar question regarding chickens and eggs. These combined developments had implications for society and politics. First, land became both scarcer and more productive. Whereas Chou dynasty farmers found land abundant enough to clear new fields regularly and leave existing plots fallow two years out of every three, farmers of the Warring States not only worked all the land they possessed, but attempted, with some success, to double-crop it (Needham et al. 1971: 162). The fact that so many states were making such large-scale efforts to bring new areas into cultivation further suggests that farmland was growing more valuable. This enriched states that managed to expand, making wars of conquest more attractive than ever. Meanwhile, the population was expanding and the proportion of that population needed for farm work was declining, creating a surplus of labourers. Not only did the growing labour pool provide troops for Warring States China’s armies, it also provided human resources for the full gamut of civilian occupations. Increasing numbers of people migrated to towns and took up crafts. Many cities expanded their walls in order to accommodate the growing population (Gernet 1972: 73–5). This is also the period in which Chinese metalworkers invented the bellows and perfected methods of casting metal, thus allowing foundries to produce large quantities of cast-iron items (Gernet 1972: 69). These developments made it possible to manufacture standardized goods in sufficient quantities for large-scale trade. Whereas in the [Spring and Autumn] age, commerce remained confined to luxury projects such as pearls and jade and was the province of merchants who had special relationships with the princely courts, the [Warring States] saw the development of a considerable trade in ordinary consumer goods (cloth, cereals, salt), and in metals, wood, leather and hides. (Gernet 1972: 72) From the fifth century onwards, Chinese states and merchants began to facilitate this trade by casting coins (Gernet 1972: 72–3). The combination of trade, money and new manufacturing techniques allowed the Chinese to realize the efficiencies allowed by division of labour and large-scale production. Wealth came, not from isolated farms, mines or workshops, but from networks of

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mutually supporting enterprises. Thus, merchants built commercial empires incorporating mines, foundries, caravans and riverboats (Gernet 1972: 72–3). For the same reasons, governments could raise greater sums in taxes if they were fortunate enough to have all the elements of a functioning economy under their administration. This provided yet further advantages to the large states that had managed to annex their neighbours. To moralists, these developments merely emphasized the corruption of the age. The Chinese traditionally viewed merchants as parasitical. Traders occupied the bottom of the classical Chinese hierarchy of social ranks (Rodzinski 1979: 25). Artisans were only one rung up (Rodzinski 1979: 25). Farmers lived harder lives, but they produced invaluable food, and thus they occupied a more honourable position (Rodzinski 1979: 25). The nobility occupied the most honourable position of all (Rodzinski 1979: 25). Nevertheless, the Chinese could not overlook the fact that the new economy allowed increasing numbers of people to live comfortable – sometimes exquisitely comfortable – lives. Even an idealist like the historian Ssu-ma Chien commented, perhaps wryly: What it was like [in the golden age] before the time of [the legendary Emperor] Shen Nung, I do not know, but, judging by the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents, ever since the time of Emperor Shun and the Hsia Dynasty men have desired to feast their eyes on beautiful women, their ears on music; their mouths have delighted in meat, their bodies in pleasure and comfort, and their hearts in power and glory. Even if you went from door to door reasoning with them, such deep-rooted habits as these could never be changed. (Szuma 1979: 410) ‘The best thing’, Ssu-ma concludes, is to accept these desires and clear the way for people to fulfil them (Szuma 1979: 410). The historian goes on to celebrate the spread of wealth and to eulogize famous entrepreneurs, encouraging others to follow their examples (Szuma 1979: 410–28). Even Confucius, he notes, depended on the wealthy Tzu-kung to promote his teachings (Szuma 1979: 414). Although Ssu-ma wrote in the Han Dynasty, many of his anecdotes concern the Warring States period, and his sentiments appear to have been typical of that time. ‘A family with a thousand pieces of gold is comparable to the lord of a city’, Ssu-ma concludes (Szuma 1979: 428). ‘[A] man with millions can live like a king. Not for nothing are such men called “nobles without fiefs” ’ (Szuma 1979: 428). This expression may have referred to more than the rich families’ lifestyle. Increasing numbers of rulers turned to wealthy merchants to fund state activities, and, as a consequence, common-born businessmen acquired influence over government (Gernet 1972: 72). Ssu-ma tells of an incident in

Historical background 59 which the trader Lu Pu-Wei met a young prince with a claim on the throne. Lu Pu-Wei remarked, privately perhaps, ‘This rare merchandise would be a sound investment’ (Szuma 1979: 152). Rulers of earlier eras could treat the general population as a passive and homogenous mass. Benevolent monarchs took their subjects’ concerns into account, but since the common-born public consisted almost entirely of peasant farmers, law-makers could assume that those concerns would be simple, uniform, and well-known. Political writers could sum up the measures by which rulers might cultivate a happy, productive population in a few standard injunctions. Such writers warned rulers against adopting policies that would keep their subjects from attending to agricultural tasks such as sowing and harvesting, for instance, and, of course, against overtaxing them (Sawyer 1993: 43). The new economy of the Warring States period fragmented the population into many different classes, each with its own interests. People from all of these classes acquired a new ability to act politically, as well as being acted upon. Although only a few became ‘nobles without fiefs’, even the majority who remained farmers achieved greater autonomy. Whereas once land had belonged exclusively to the hereditary aristocracy, the Chinese of the Warring States period included it among the commodities that one could buy and sell for coinage (Rodzinski 1979: 25). Although historians have no way to know how many peasant families managed to buy their own land, the increasing variety of ways to earn cash and the spread of moneylending gave many the opportunity (Rodzinski 1979: 25). On a grimmer note, the moneylending system forced other peasants to part with their lands to pay debts, and compelled yet others into slavery (Gernet 1972: 77). Not only had it become possible for peasants to buy their own fields, new land for purchase was becoming available. Property-owners of earlier eras had passed their entire estates on to their eldest sons intact at the time of their deaths, keeping the land under the control of a single family (Rodzinski 1979: 25). Landholders of the Warring States period, however, began to divide their estates among numerous descendants, multiplying the chances that at least some of the heirs would offer a portion of the property for sale (Rodzinski 1979: 25). This practice also dispersed the wealth of once-mighty houses, further eroding the distinctions between the nobility and the commoners. These social, industrial and commercial developments permitted the Chinese to wage war on an unprecedented scale. The new availability of manpower allowed even smaller states to field forces of around 100,000 men (Sawyer 1993: 10). By the third century, powerful rulers reputedly maintained armies a million strong on a permanent basis, while mobilizing up to 600,000 more in times of emergency (Sawyer 1993: 10–11). These gigantic armies inflicted and suffered equally gigantic losses, rising to 450,000 at the battle of Ch’ang-p’ing in 260 BC (Sawyer 1993: 11).

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As armies grew, the proportion of troops mounted in chariots dwindled (Gernet 1972: 66). Aristocratic warriors continued to favour these vehicles as a mark of status, and officers may have found them useful as a means for getting from point to point behind their own lines. Still, the decline in the combat value of the chariot inevitably reduced the influence of the wellborn charioteers, thus also diminishing the spirit of gallantry those men had brought to China’s battlefields (Gernet 1972: 66). By the end of the fourth century, commanders began to train men to fight on horseback (Sawyer 1993: 12). This proved controversial, since it required troops to adopt a ‘barbarian style of dress’ consisting of a short jacket and trousers, rather than wearing the customary long coat of the Chinese (Sawyer 1993: 12). The time when such objections would have prevented rulers from adopting a militarily expedient measure, however, was gone. Since the Chinese of this era used nothing more than rolled blankets as saddles, riders who wished to stay on their mounts had to limit themselves to light weapons (Sawyer 1993: 13). Men on horseback could, however, manoeuvre more adroitly than men in chariots (Gernet 1972: 66). This would have allowed cavalry to ride across the battlefield faster while remaining in formation. Cavalry forces could also operate in rougher terrain (Sawyer 1993: 13). This allowed commanders to use them more imaginatively, taking advantage of their speed to stage surprise raids from unexpected directions (Sawyer 1993: 387–8). Commanders could also co-ordinate such raids with operations by other types of forces to discomfit their enemies in an even wider variety of ways. The versatility of cavalry also increased the versatility of the entire army, allowing even more mobile infantry forces to pass through hills, woods and marshes without becoming too greatly separated from mounted elements. The development of industry and the mechanical arts allowed the Chinese to produce military equipment in larger quantities and greater variety. Bronze helmets gave way to iron (Sawyer 1993: 369–70). As the Warring States period went on, armies began to arm troops, not only with traditional bronze halberds, but with swords (Sawyer 1993: 371–2). This weapon benefited both infantrymen engaged in close combat and riders in need of a one-handed weapon. Some scholars suggest that militarily advanced states used the new casting technology to mass produce iron weapons, but the fact that archaeologists have found relatively few iron swords in the Warring States era sites casts doubt upon this theory (Sawyer 1993: 388). Bronze blades may, in fact, have been sharper (Sawyer 1993: 388). The Chinese also considered bronze more elegant (Sawyer 1993: 388). Since commanders tended to issue swords to elite troops, they may have preferred to use the more prestigious metal. In the second half of the fifth century, or perhaps a little later, the Chinese invented the crossbow (Gernet 1972: 66). This weapon outranged the doublecurved bows used in earlier eras. Since the nomadic tribes that raided China’s

Historical background 61 borders continued to rely on the older weapon, the crossbow gave the Chinese a much-needed advantage over their enemies. Crossbows could also penetrate armour, and although the Chinese introduced iron shields to counter them, these weapons completed the triumph of peasant infantry over gallant, armoured charioteers (Sawyer 1993: 370). Crossbows proved particularly useful in certain tactical situations. The Chinese learned, for instance, to fire them from cover, and from elevated positions. Commanders also trained large crossbow units to deliver massed volleys. The first recorded battle involving crossbows took place between the states of Ch’i and Wei in 341 BC (Sawyer 1993: 11). Ch’i commander Sun Pin lured Wei’s army into a ravine where his 10,000 crossbowmen could pepper them from the high ground. This combination of new weapons and superior generalship allowed Sun Pin to slaughter 100,000 enemy troops in a single engagement (Sawyer 1993: 15). Sun Pin also wrote commentaries concerning another area of military development: siege warfare (Sawyer 1993: 12). Rulers of the Warring States period improved the systems of walls and towers that defended their key cities, taking special care to fortify sites that dominated major transportation routes (Sawyer 1993: 12). The pacifist Mo Tzu and his followers advised governments concerning such matters, on the theory that defence works would discourage predatory rulers from practising aggression (Franke 1974: 152). Mo Tzu not only discussed engineering, but counselled rulers about techniques for managing the civilian population in times of siege (Franke 1974: 152). This is also the period in which armies began to use earthworks on the battlefield, and in which rulers began to build far larger earthen walls to defend the frontiers of entire states (Sawyer 1993: 12). The Chinese developed new means for attacking strong places as well. ‘[M]obile shields, battering rams, catapults’, and ‘mobile towers’ were among the weapons that appeared in ‘substantial numbers’ (Sawyer 1993: 12). Military advantage, however, remained with the defender. The classical text Chan-kuo Ts’e (Intrigues of the Warring States) tells of an incident from the late Warring States period in which Ch’in’s army swept aside an opposing force numbering over one million strong and surrounded the remnants of the defeated host in the city of Han-tan (Crump 1964: 71–5). Despite their overwhelming superiority, Ch’in’s forces were unable to reduce Han-tan’s defence works for a considerable time – time the defenders used to win help from external allies and save themselves (Crump 1964: 71–5).

Endgame Meanwhile, the early struggles among the seven rival kingdoms remained inconclusive. The frontier states of Yen, Ch’u and Ch’in had escaped the wars and intrigues that inaugurated the Warring States period. This made them

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the dominant contenders. Each managed to secure prized bits of territory – mountainous Ch’in, for instance, acquired passes giving it access to its neighbours to the north and south – but none managed to conquer more substantial holdings (Rodzinski 1979: 31). The reason, which will seem familiar to all students of international politics, is that weaker states joined forces to keep the powerful in check (Crump 1964: 71–5; Szuma 1979: 396). When a formerly threatening state declined in power and another rose to take its place, the other kingdoms revised their alliances accordingly. In 350 BC, in the midst of this stalemate, a minor nobleman from Wei named Kung-sun Yang approached King Hsiao of Ch’in, seeking a position in the court (Rodzinski 1979: 31). King Hsiao appointed Kung-sun as his chief minister and awarded him feudal authority over the fiefdom of Shang. Shang Yang, as the minister became known, instituted a new system of government designed to maximize the state’s ability to exploit its subjects. The new minister’s policies became the basis for a school of thought known as Legalism. Shang Yang aimed, above all, to destroy the central government’s internal rivals. Therefore, he abolished the feudal system of local administration, in which noblemen personally governed within their own fiefdoms. In place of feudal rule, he extended the hsien system throughout the country, placing all of Ch’in under the direct control of the palace bureaucracy (Gernet 1972: 65). Not content with stripping the aristocracy of its formal political role, Shang Yang also instituted special taxes and laws on land usage designed to discourage relatives from living together, and thus from accumulating wealth or influence as a family (Wilhelm 1929: 156). Although Shang Yang suppressed the landed aristocracy and extended families, he introduced Ch’in’s first laws allowing individual farmers to purchase land (Rodzinski 1979: 32). The new minister also reformed the tax laws, again to the benefit of small-holding farmers (Rodzinski 1979: 32). In so doing, he aimed to build up a large population of productive agriculturalists. Moreover, he aimed to insure that these agriculturalists would own land and reap its benefits as individuals. By isolating people from supportive institutions such as families, he sought to make them completely subject to the state. If the state was to control its subjects, it needed a way to monitor them. Therefore, Shang Yang organized the population into mutual responsibility circles (Cotterell 1981: 108). Each of these circles consisted of 5–10 unrelated people. If any member of such a circle committed a crime, all would suffer the same punishment, unless, of course, the others detected and reported the malefactor. Shang Yang also issued Ch’in’s people with internal passports and required innkeepers to maintain records of their guests (Szuma 1979: 68). The minister sought to increase the state’s control over its people yet further by keeping subjects in a state of terror. Where Confucius taught that a truly virtuous ruler would not need to punish his subjects at all, Shang Yang sought to give his legal code a reputation for severity (de Bary et al. 1960:

Historical background 63 32–3; Hughes 1972b: 142). To this end, the minister made lavish provision for punishments such as tattooing, branding on the top of the head, removal of the nose, removal of ribs and death by boiling (Cotterell 1981: 108). Merely to litter the streets of the capital city was to incur the penalty of flogging, and those who knew about criminal activity but failed to report it were sawn in half (Cotterell 1981: 108; Szuma 1979: 63). The Chinese literary canon includes a work titled The Book of the Lord Shang, in which the Ch’in minister allegedly explains his concept of government. Contemporary scholars do not know how much of this book, if any, Shang Yang actually wrote (Baskin 1972: 135). The book is, however, compatible both with the Ch’in minister’s recorded policies and with other works by Warring States Legalists. Passages from this work illustrate the ways in which the Legalists challenged Chou-era political and military thought. The Book of the Lord Shang sums up the overall purpose of statecraft succinctly. Where the Lord of Liu had once claimed that war and sacrifice were the fundamental business of the state, Ch’in’s new minister offered a modified formulation. ‘The means by which a country is made prosperous are agriculture and war’ (Hughes 1972b: 138). The Lord of Liu put sacrifice first, valuing war primarily as an adjunct to religious ritual. Shang Yang put war first, valuing agriculture primarily as a means of increasing state power. Not only did the Ch’in minister know that armies require food, he added: If (the people’s) attention is devoted to agriculture, then they will be simple, and being simple, they may be made correct … Being singleminded, their careers may be made dependent on rewards and penalties: being single-minded, they may be used abroad. (Hughes 1972b: 138) This desire to produce simple people responsive to simple incentives helps explain Shang Yang’s hostility towards another group of people who were making states prosperous in his time: the so-called nobles without fiefdoms. Although the minister recognized certain crafts as equivalent to farming, he decreed that those who followed ‘subsidiary occupations like trade would have their wives and sons enslaved’ (Szuma 1979: 63). The same penalty applied to the ‘idle and poor’ (Szuma 1979: 63). These policies went beyond the customary Chinese distaste for crass moneymaking. Ssu-ma Chien, an admirer of Confucius and an advocate of traditional gentlemanly virtues, portrayed the proper relationship between the state and the market in terms reminiscent of Adam Smith: There is no need to wait for government orders: each man will do his best to get what he desires. So cheap goods will go where they fetch more, while expensive goods will make men search for cheap ones. When all

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Shang Yang, however, had no particular sympathy for people’s desires, nor was he willing to leave such a vital matter as production to flow freely like a stream. According to The Book of the Lord Shang, the minister viewed the people’s wants as pernicious except where they might serve as a means to channel the population’s energies into agriculture and war. Shang advised rulers to direct the economy through selective taxation. If the prices of wine and meat are made high and the taxes on them so heavy that they amount to ten times the cost of production, then merchants and retailers will be few, farmers will not be able to enjoy drinking bouts, and officials will not overeat … Then it is certain [that] waste lands will be brought under cultivation. (Hughes 1972b: 138) Legalists condemned intellectuals even more vehemently than they condemned merchants, although Shang Yang did not move against them so directly. The Ch’in minister did, however, pass sumptuary laws to prevent members of any class from taking advantage of any talent to live more comfortably than merited by their service to the state (Szuma 1979: 63). Normally, the only way to increase one’s rank, and thus one’s access to luxuries, was to achieve specified feats of valour in war (Szuma 1979: 63). Civilians could, however, achieve promotion by denouncing others for criminal or subversive activity (Szuma 1979: 63). Shang Yang justified these policies by deriding tradition, dismissing the idea that virtue would triumph over vice and breaking with those, such as the Lord of Liu, who held that nature laid down fixed principles for human conduct. Ssu-ma Chien’s history reconstructs a debate between Shang Yang and one of his rival courtiers, a traditionalist named Kan Lung: But Kan Lung said, ‘Not so. A sage does not teach people to change their ways, a wise sovereign does not rule by discarding tradition. He who educates the people in accordance with custom succeeds without any trouble; he who rules according to established laws will have competent officials and satisfied subjects.’ Yang replied, ‘Kan Lung talks like one of the vulgar herd. The common run of men cling to conventions, while scholars are smothered by their own learning. They are all adequate at sticking to routine, but not the

Historical background 65 sort of people with whom to discuss other matters. The Three Dynasties were each governed [successfully] according to different traditions and the Five Conquerors each prevailed by different policies. The wise make laws; the foolish keep them. The able alter the conventions, the foolish are bound by them’. (Szuma 1979: 62) Where earlier moralists advised statesmen that spirits and men would enforce moral codes, and even that honourable defeat was better than shameful victory, The Book of the Lord Shang states: A country of a thousand chariots is able to preserve itself by defence, and a country of ten thousand chariots is able to round itself off by fighting [i.e. wars of aggression] – even [a wicked ruler like] Chieh, unwilling (as he would be) to whittle down a word of this statement, would yet be able to subdue his enemies. And if abroad one is incapable of waging war and at home one is incapable of defence, even [an honourable and benevolent ruler like] Yao could not pacify for any misbehaviour a country that (normally) would be no match for him. Looking at it from this point of view, that through which the country is important and that through which the ruler is honoured is force. (Hughes 1972b: 145) Within a year, Ssu-ma Chien, reports, ‘the subjects of [Ch’in] were flocking to the capital in thousands to complain of the new measures’ (Szuma 1979: 64). Shang Yang apparently tolerated such criticism at first, although he offered no compromises (Szuma 1979: 64). Then, when the opportunity presented itself, he exposed his most vocal critics as hypocrites (Szuma 1979: 64). Having discredited his opponents, he banished them to the frontier (Szuma 1979: 64). After 10 years, ‘villages and towns were well-governed,’ ‘men fought bravely in war’ and ‘no more discussion of the laws was heard’ (Szuma 1979: 64). In the process, Shang Yang offended the crown prince, who eventually had him quartered by chariots. The minister had, however, emphasized the importance of enshrining state policy in precisely phrased documents, so that governors could execute it impersonally without relying on any individual’s guidance or interpretation (Hughes 1972b: 143). ‘Only a [paragon such as] Yao would be able to judge … without a model. But the world does not consist exclusively of Yaos!’ (Hughes 1972b: 143). Perhaps for this reason, his system of government survived him. One notes also that Legalism represented a conscious turn toward the systematic, materialistic approach this book characterizes as modernism. Outside of Ch’in, the immediate results of Shang Yang’s new laws were less spectacular. Legalism was only one school of political thought among many,

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and other thinkers raised sharp objections to its teachings. The Confucian thinker Menicus (372 to 289 BC), for instance, condemned Legalist policies. In a speech to King Hui of Liang, he described the sufferings Ch’in’s rulers imposed on their subjects and rhetorically asked whether the oppressed population would fight against a more benevolent monarch who came to ‘punish’ their tyrannical overlords (Legge 1972a: 183). Menicus criticized Ch’u in similar terms (Legge 1972a: 183). The first state to upset the balance of power among the Warring States was Ch’i. At the beginning of the third century BC, a capable ruler took the throne of that country and took advantage of his state’s thriving mercantile economy to restore its traditional military excellence. This ruler went on to attack the neighbouring state of Chao with great initial success, before the usual coalition of other states formed to knock back the rising power (Latourette 1934: 42). Although Ch’i retained its sovereignty, it was ruined, and one may surmise that its opponents suffered heavy losses as well. Ch’in, however, emerged relatively unscathed, and this war increased its military advantage over the divided states of China’s cultural heartland. In 333 BC, Ch’u increased its territory and neutralized an ancient threat to its borders by annexing the barbarian country of Yueh (Cotterell 1981: 102). This may explain why Ch’in’s diplomats were able to undermine the (possibly legendary) anti-Ch’in alliance formed in the same year by appealing to states that considered Ch’u the greater threat (Latourette 1934: 41). Seventeen years later, Ch’in compelled the kingdoms of Shu and Pa to acknowledge its supremacy (Cotterell 1981: 109). Ch’u’s leaders objected, perhaps because they also had borders with Ch’in’s newly acquired client states (Cotterell 1981: 109). Nevertheless, Shu and Pa were barren countries with no history of importance, and rulers in other parts of China might have been forgiven for overlooking developments there. Ch’in’s decisive victory over the aggressive mounted nomads of the north in 314 BC ranked as the Legalist state’s ‘first great military exploit’ after Shang Yang (Gernet 1972: 103). This triumph secured Ch’in’s western frontier for several generations, allowing the kingdom to concentrate its resources against the other Chinese states. The realms of Chao and Yen, which also suffered from nomad attacks, may have benefited from Ch’in’s campaign as well – except, perhaps, when surviving nomad raiders identified them as less dangerous sources of plunder. Ch’in’s discipline, productivity, secure frontiers, judicious expansion and success at disrupting opposing alliances allowed it to grow progressively stronger throughout the first half of the third century BC. In 256 BC, Ch’in’s rulers had developed enough confidence in their power to annex the modest fiefdom belonging to the heirs of Wen and Wu, carrying off the sacred tripods that represented imperial power and destroying the last remnant of the Chou Empire (Rodzinski 1979: 32; Latourette 1934: 42). Meanwhile, the ruler of Han

Historical background 67 realized that his kingdom was likely to be Ch’in’s next target. Han could not match the Legalist state’s strength, nor could it find suitable allies. The king of Han decided to undermine Ch’in’s economy with a ruse. Accordingly, he dispatched the engineer Cheng Kuo to convince Ch’in’s rulers to build a system of irrigation canals near the Min River in Shu (Cotterell 1981: 110). The king of Han assumed that this project was too ambitious to succeed, and that it would consume enough resources to hobble Ch’in’s army (Cotterell 1981: 110). This plan did indeed prevent Ch’in from undertaking any conquests for some time, but it backfired when the Legalist state, mobilizing labourers as efficiently as it mobilized troops, actually completed the canal project. ‘Thus’, Ssu-ma Chien tells us, ‘the interior’ – that is, the vast tract of formerly useless land Ch’in acquired when it annexed Shu – ‘became a fertile plain without bad years’ (Cotterell 1981: 110). In 230 BC, Ch’in conquered Han (Cotterell 1981: 117). In 228 BC, Ch’in conquered Chao (Cotterell 1981: 117). Wei followed in 225 BC (Cotterell 1981: 117). The next year, Ch’in attacked the southern state of Ch’u, which had always been its most dangerous opponent (Cotterell 1981: 145–6). In 223 BC, Ch’in subdued its southern rival, making its conquest of Yen in 222 BC and its annexation of Ch’i in 221 BC inevitable (Cotterell 1981: 117). Ch’in defeated the Warring States, to quote Ssu-ma Chien, ‘as a silkworm devours mulberry leaves’ – voraciously, unstoppably and one bite at a time (Rodzinski 1979: 32). This truth, however, should not obscure the fact that the Legalist state suffered numerous embarrassments along the way. At one point, a foreign merchant named Lu Pu-Wei installed a disfavoured prince on Ch’in’s throne and claimed the position of chief minister as a quid pro quo (Szuma 1979: 155). Ambassadors from other states repeatedly bested Ch’in’s rulers in the verbal ju-jitsu of diplomacy (Szuma 1979: 139–42; Crump 1964: 71–5). Indeed, there were occasions in which the Legalist state’s intended targets found military allies at the last minute, forcing Ch’in to postpone its conquests (Szuma 1979: 145–6; Crump 1964: 71–5). Ch’in’s enemies appear to have won the hearts of ordinary people as well. This helped inspire certain individuals to make attempts on the Ch’in king’s life. The first was a wandering swordsman named Ching Ko, who ‘made friends wherever he went’, impressing ‘worthy men and elders’ while remaining at ease with minstrels and dog-flesh vendors (Szuma 1979: 392–3). In 227 BC, the Crown Prince of Yen sought a ‘man of outstanding courage’ to bring down the Legalist tyrant and Ching Ko accepted the mission (Cotterell 1981: 142). Those who knew of this plot reputedly wept at the thought of the assassin’s heroism (Szuma 1979: 399). Eight years later, his friend Kao Chien-li followed his example (Szuma 1979: 401). An unrelated citizen of Han named Chang Liang staged a third assassination attempt in 218 BC (Cotterell 1981: 145). Some give Ch’in credit for adopting new military technology relatively early. Ch’in may, for instance, have been quicker than other states to dispense

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with obsolete chariot forces (Latourette 1934: 41). Tenuous evidence suggests that Ch’in took the lead in introducing mass-produced swords, and perhaps even iron armour (Sawyer 1993: 371–2; Cotterell 1981: 27). Nevertheless, even if Ch’in actually made these advances, other states are known to have achieved much greater ones. Chao, for instance, was the first to introduce mounted cavalry, Ch’i led the way with the crossbow, and Ch’u is the state that impressed its neighbours with iron-tipped spears ‘sharp as a bee’s sting’ (Cotterell 1981: 145). Indeed, Ch’in’s rulers frequently mismanaged military affairs. When the Legalist state planned its campaign against Ch’u, an inexperienced general claimed that he could defeat the southern state with a mere 200,000 men (Cotterell 1981: 145-6). Ch’in’s king, hoping for an economical victory, put him in command (Cotterell 1981: 145–6). The general’s stratagems did not avail him, and Ch’u smashed Ch’in’s army. Nevertheless, the Legalist state defeated Ch’u, partially because Ch’in’s king later appointed a more competent commander, but also because Ch’in was able to mobilize a second army the following year, three times the size of the first (Cotterell 1981: 145-6). The Legalist state rode out its diplomatic setbacks because, as the king of Yen lamented, the other states were too cowed to rally behind its chosen victims with any consistency, even by the time when all recognized Ch’in as a common enemy (Szuma 1979: 396). Lu Pu-Wei’s skill as an intriguer eventually failed him, the king he had crowned ordered him into exile, and he drank poison to avoid the more gruesome forms of death that often concluded a fall from political power in his time. The assassins became figures of popular romance, but all failed in their attempts to kill Ch’in’s king. Throughout these events, Shang Yang’s laws, further inspired by the third century Legalist thinker Han Fei Tzu and implemented by Han Fei Tzu’s more practical acquaintance Li Ssu, allowed Ch’in’s rulers to channel the country’s energies into their long-term goals without interruption.

Look on my works, ye mighty … Where the founders of the Chou dynasty paid homage to China’s timehonoured customs and sought to establish themselves as heirs of that tradition, the rulers of Ch’in followed the opposite approach. Upon defeating Ch’i, King Cheng of Ch’in summoned his ministers to discuss the future of his new realm. The courtiers began, accurately if immodestly, by acknowledging the unprecedented significance of their accomplishment. In the past the five emperors ruled over a thousand square li of territory, beyond which were the barons and barbarians. The barons were free to pay homage or not as they pleased, for the emperor had no control over them. Now Your Majesty has raised an army of justice to punish

Historical background 69 tyrants, subjugating the whole empire so that all lands within the seas have become our provinces and counties and all the law-codes have been unified. This is something never before achieved, which not even the Five Emperors could match. (Szuma 1979: 166) In that spirit, and in keeping with the Legalist emphasis on linguistic precision, Ch’in’s rulers invented a new vocabulary of government. This vocabulary included distinct names for each particular type of state decree and established a new title for the ruler himself (Szuma 1979: 166). The ministers proposed calling the emperor Tai-huang, meaning ‘supreme sovereign’, but king Cheng viewed the word tai as repetitious, and declared that he would be Shih Huang-ti, or First Sovereign Emperor (Szuma 1979: 166). The suffix ‘ti’ implied divinity. Previous emperors had received the title only after their death, but the man who had presided over the remaking of China’s political world encountered no additional difficulty in declaring himself to be a living god (Cotterell 1981: 139). ‘I brought order to the mass of beings and put to the test deeds and realities’ (Gernet 1972: 78). Shih Huang-ti subsequently declared in an inscription upon a commemorative pillar: ‘Each thing has the name that fits it’ (Gernet 1972: 78). The modernist belief that one can resolve difficult issues by redefining one’s terms is evident in the new emperor’s claims, as is the modernist faith in innovation. In the same spirit, Shih Huang-ti’s minister Li Ssu abolished all earlier political institutions and extended Shang Yang’s system of government throughout the empire, making the penal code harsher than ever (Szuma 1979: 167–8). Where Shang Yang had deported selected dissidents, Li Ssu relocated substantial portions of the population, aiming to break up any groups that might have served as nuclei for rebellions. The minister moved 120,000 families in 221 BC alone (Cotterell 1981: 149–50). When prominent Confucian thinkers criticized imperial policies in 213 BC, Li Ssu had all the books in China burned, sparing only works deemed useful for state policies and the collections in the imperial library (Szuma 1979: 178). Moreover, he decreed that those who quoted from old books should be executed, those who explicitly cited such works to oppose state policy should have their entire families wiped out, and that those who knew of such behaviour but failed to report it should be punished as if they themselves were guilty of it (Szuma 1979: 178). Despite these laws, certain learned men levelled fresh protests against the new regime. In response, Li Ssu had the empire’s scholars rounded up, put them on trial for sedition, forced them to give evidence against one another, ordered over 460 buried alive and deported the rest to the frontiers (Szuma 1979: 181). The new empire disarmed its subjects, melting down weapons to make bells and colossal statues (Szuma 1979: 168). Li Ssu went on to standardize weights,

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measures, the written language and the gauges of carriage-wheels (Szuma 1979: 168). The gauge of carriages mattered because vehicles with differently spaced wheels left ruts in different places on roads, increasing the difficulty of road maintenance. Over the following two decades, Ch’in mobilized the empire’s people to build palaces, tombs, a nationwide system of highways, and the first Great Wall (Szuma 1979: 168–85). These enterprises succeeded, although Shih Huang-ti’s most cherished project – to develop an elixir that would render the drinker immortal – did not (Szuma 1979: 168–85). In 210 BC, Shih Huang-ti died. Since the emperor’s eldest son sympathized with the proscribed Confucian scholars, Li Ssu conspired with a palace eunuch named Chao Kao to put a more malleable and less scrupulous younger son on the throne (Szuma 1979: 185). One can plausibly present this as the death-knell of the Ch’in Empire. Li Ssu himself later regretted it as such (Cotterell 1981: 175). ‘For an unprincipled ruler, how can one make any plans?’ (Cotterell 1981: 175). Given the fact that Li Ssu himself was notorious for his Machiavellianism, one may surmise that the Second Emperor was very unprincipled indeed. Ch’in, however, had sustained its policies through palace intrigues before. The Legalist system of government was not supposed to depend on the personal qualities of the ruler. Erh Shih Huang-ti, the Second Sovereign Emperor, could use its institutions to exploit the people as effectively as a more astute and virtuous monarch. Indeed, this may have compounded the destructive influence of his reign. Erh Shih Huang-ti was determined to pursue all his father’s most grandiose construction schemes without pause, no matter what his subjects suffered in the process. Once he had resolved upon this course of action, the Legalist administrative system made it simple for him to execute it, thoroughly alienating the people who bore its costs. As the Second Emperor’s rule became increasingly unpopular, he had to devote an increasing proportion of his army to controlling the population. In 209 BC, Erh Shih Huang-ti deployed 50,000 picked soldiers to garrison the capital city (Szuma 1979: 189). Not only did this make the troops unavailable for service elsewhere, it created a logistical problem that further impeded the emperor’s ability to conduct other operations. Ssu-ma Chien reports: As there were many mouths to feed in the capital and not enough provisions, grain and fodder were levied from the provinces, transport workers were ordered to supply their own rations, and all grain within three hundred li [approximately 93 miles] of Hsienyang [the capital city] was commandeered. (Szuma 1979: 189) In order to implement these measures, the Second Emperor had to oppress the restive population even further. Ssu-ma notes that ‘the laws were enforced even more rigorously’ (Szuma 1979: 189).

Historical background 71 Meanwhile, in a routine mobilization of troops, the Second Emperor’s authorities conscripted 900 men from the poorer neighbourhoods of a farming community to garrison a town called Yuyang (Szuma 1979: 197). As the draftees marched to the appointed place, ‘[t]here was heavy rain, and they saw that they could not arrive on time. The penalty for delay was decapitation (Szuma 1979: 197). Chen Sheh and Wu Kuang, the peasants serving as camp leaders in the conscript force, considered the implications of this development. ‘Desertion means death and so does revolt’, they argued. ‘Since the risk is the same, why not die for our country?’ (Szuma 1979: 197). Chen and Wu staged a variety of incidents to win the loyalty of the other conscripts (Szuma 1979: 198). When they were certain that their companions would follow them, they killed their officers and proclaimed a rebellion. To boost their popular support in the surrounding countryside, they falsely claimed to be fighting on behalf of two widely respected noblemen, Prince Fu-su and General Hsiang Yen (Szuma 1979: 199). ‘As they advanced, their ranks swelled. By the time they reached [the city of] Chen they had about seven hundred chariots, more than a thousand cavalrymen and several tens of thousands of infantry’ (Szuma 1979: 199). Once the rebels had stormed Chen and killed the Ch’in ruler’s officials there, the elders and chief citizens hailed them as crusaders against ‘an unjust government’ (Szuma 1979: 199). Thus encouraged, the rebel leader Chen Sheh proclaimed himself king. ‘Thereupon all in the provinces and counties who hated the rule of [Ch’in] rose against their governors and magistrates in order to follow Chen Sheh’s lead’ (Szuma 1979: 199). Menicus had warned that power built on Ch’in’s tyrannical methods would prove hollow, and the events of 209 BC appeared to be proving him right. Menicus, however, had anticipated that a more virtuous nobleman would lead a traditional army to ‘punish’ Ch’in’s rulers (Legge 1972a: 183). The idea that a substantial portion of the subject population might take matters into its own hands does not appear in his writings. Chen Sheh’s revolt was the first peasant uprising of this type in Chinese history, although it was not to be the last (Rodzinski 1979: 50). Chen Sheh was as much of a political and military innovator as Shang Yang. A commoner who had known the rebel leader when both of them were peasants reputedly exclaimed ‘Whew! Even Chen Sheh can be king!’ (Szuma 1979: 204). This phrase rapidly became a common expression throughout the empire (Szuma 1979: 204). Moreover, just as the broader social and economic developments of the Spring and Autumn period made Ch’in’s mass armies possible, the broader trends of the Warring States period and the Ch’in Empire helped to create conditions under which a mass rebellion could succeed. Despite Legalist attempts to keep the population simple, the economic developments of the late Warring States period had increased common people’s access to resources of all types while awakening them to their

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political interests. Newer weapons such as swords and crossbows were easier for common-born rebels to acquire and use than war chariots. The growth in the size of armies allowed more potential rebels to gain military experience. The experience of brutal rule by a single imperial government had given them a common cause for rebellion. The enforced movement of populations undoubtedly helped to break down regional loyalties that might have otherwise kept them divided. Ch’in’s rulers had organized the population into various administrative units, and these units – as Chen Sheh demonstrated – could easily become the nuclei of uprisings. Those who wished to march across the countryside inciting rebellion undoubtedly found the imperial road network as useful as the regime. Chen Sheh did not, however, have the means to control what he had unleashed. His uprising swept across the empire, not as a purposefully organized campaign, but as the rebellion of ‘countless bands of troops, each several thousand strong’ (Szuma 1979: 199). Independent rebel leaders declared themselves rulers in the provinces once known as Yen and Chao, fragmenting the movement. The original peasant leaders did not even prove particularly adept at handling their own forces. Both were murdered by their own followers within six months (Szuma 1979: 202–3). Although the Ch’in Empire’s armed forces were already overstretched, the Second Emperor had the conscript labourers working on his father’s tomb formed into a new army to suppress the uprising (Szuma 1979: 200). Chang Han, Privy Treasurer of Ch’in, led the counter-insurgency. The fact that the Second Emperor had to rely on a civilian official for a general and a labour force for soldiers indicates the degree to which his fortunes had declined, but Chang Han still routed two of the most significant rebel armies in rapid succession (Szuma 1979: 200). Over the following year, he joined forces with elements of Ch’in’s regular army and continued his string of victories (Cotterell 1981: 182). In 208 BC, however, Chang Han had to retreat from strong rebel forces which had fortified themselves in the city of Chu-lu (Cotterell 1981: 182). The Second Emperor sent him a message of reprimand, and when he sought direction from the court, he received no satisfactory reply (Cotterell 1981: 183). Chang Han concluded – with considerable justification – that court intriguers planned to use him as a scapegoat for the continued existence of the rebellion. Therefore, he defected to the rebels in Chang Han, taking the bulk of the imperial army with him. The rebel leader who benefited from this act was a man named Hsiang Yu. Hsiang Yu’s family had provided generals for the state of Ch’u, and his uncle had trained him in military administration (Szuma 1979: 205). Moreover, he was popular and physically strong (Szuma 1979: 206). These attributes, perhaps, made him more effective as a revolutionary than Chen Sheh or Wu Kuang. Hsiang Yu also worked assiduously to establish his dominance over

Historical background 73 other rebel groups, destroying rivals and assuming control of their forces (Szuma 1979: 212). At this point, Ch’in’s downfall may have been inevitable, but if the imperial rulers had any chance of restoring their reign, they squandered it. The eunuch Chao Kao schemed to improve his position in Ch’in’s court, first persuading the Second Emperor to have Li Ssu sawn in half at the waist and then succeeding the Legalist theorist as prime minister (Cotterell 1981: 175). Chao Kao went on to test his influence in the court by presenting the Second Emperor with a stag and claiming that it was a fine warhorse (Cotterell 1981: 184). Although the monarch protested that the animal was actually a deer, the rest of the courtiers were frightened of Chao Kao and agreed that the animal was a prize stallion (Cotterell 1981: 184). After this, the Second Emperor began to doubt his own sanity, allowing Chao Kao to extend his influence yet further. Chao Kao’s gambit, one notes, extended a particular theme in Chinese political thought to the point of absurdity. Li Ssu’s teacher Hsun Tzu had observed that a new ruler might establish his rule by imposing a new language. Shih Huang-ti had established a new type of regime by giving himself a newly invented title. Chao Kao went a step farther by renaming a stag as a horse and using sheer terror to make people acknowledge the new name as the correct one. Orwell would have understood. Chao Kao went on to have the Second Emperor killed. Even he, however, was unable to force the rest of the court to acknowledge him as the new emperor, so he placed the Second Emperor’s nephew on the throne. The Third Emperor proved more capable than Chao Kao had anticipated, and had the treacherous eunuch assassinated. By this point, however, the politics of the Ch’in court had lost their relevance to the destiny of the empire. Although Chang Han had placed his army at Hsiang Yu’s disposal, the rebel leader considered the remains of Ch’in’s forces unreliable. Therefore, Hsiang Yu mustered his own forces at night, overpowered the Ch’in defectors, and massacred over 200,000 of them (Szuma 1979: 215). Meanwhile, one of his subordinate commanders, a rough-mannered commoner named Liu Pang, led a separate army into the imperial capital. The Third Emperor emerged from his palace with a ceremonial noose around his neck to offer his surrender. Liu Pang treated the inhabitants mercifully. Forty-six days later, however, Hsiang Yu arrived with 400,000 men, slaughtered the population and set the city on fire (Cotterell 1981: 187). The embers reputedly smouldered for three full months (Cotterell 1981: 187). This left Liu Pang and Hsiang Yu in a position to found a new state. Predictably, perhaps, the two fell out with each other. For the following five years, the rebel leaders fought for control of the empire (Rodzinski 1979: 51). Hsiang Yu repeatedly humiliated Liu Pang on the battlefield, but Liu Pang enjoyed more popular support. The common-born general had made a plain-spoken vow to replace Legalism with a more humane system of

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government, and this message inspired widespread enthusiasm (Rodzinski 1979: 51). Thus, Liu Pang was able to replace his losses with new recruits. Cynics may note that he also benefited from Hsiang Yu’s mistakes. Although the Ch’uborn nobleman was a wily tactician, he chose his base of operations poorly. Furthermore, in an uncharacteristic moment of chivalry, Hsiang Yu passed up an opportunity to have his rival murdered at a feast. In 202 BC, Liu Pang defeated his opponent and took the throne as the first emperor of the Han Dynasty (Rodzinski 1979: 51). As emperor, he did indeed rule more benevolently than the Ch’in monarchs (Cotterell 1981: 191–2). Nevertheless, historians routinely note that the Han dynasty retained the more successful Legalist methods of imperial government, suppressing the descendants of the feudal nobility, ruling the empire through a centralized bureaucracy, mobilizing conscript labour for massive public-works projects, deporting malcontents to frontier provinces and enforcing codes designed to prevent plebeians from exceeding their station (Gernet 1972: 110–17). Militarily, the Han Dynasty systematically exploited all the advances of previous centuries.

Conclusion As this chapter has shown, China’s tradition of strategic thought extends back to the mythical rulers who invented the study of history. This tradition continued unbroken through China’s transition from stone age feudalism to a technologically and economically sophisticated empire. Throughout this process, moral and intellectual developments repeatedly influenced the art of war as powerfully as newly invented weapons. The shift from ancient ways of thinking to modernism and from primitive feudalism to a technologically enthusiastic state system at the end of the Spring and Autumn period is particularly important to those interested in studying Chinese strategic ideas, both because it produced a number of geniuses and because it created social conditions in which such geniuses could live as professional intellectuals. Confucius and Sun Tzu belong to this generation of thinkers. The Legalists continued this tradition of strategic thought, and Ch’in’s rise to power appeared to vindicate their approach. Nevertheless, an anecdote regarding Chen Sheh suggests the flaw in the Legalist version of logic. One day, when the future rebel leader was a young peasant at work with his fellow farm hands: [Chen Sheh] climbed up a mound and brooded morosely for some time. ‘If I become rich and noble, I will not forget the rest of you’, he said. The other farm hands laughed. ‘How can a farm labourer become rich and noble?’ they asked.

Historical background 75 ‘Ah!’ said Chen Sheh with a deep sigh. ‘Can a sparrow know a wild swan’s ambition?’. (Szuma 1979: 197) Even as Chao Kao and the Second Emperor stretched Legalist ideas concerning language to the point at which they became nonsense, rebels such as Chen Sheh rediscovered the rich possibilities of the unknowably complex reality that modernistic approaches had presumably reduced to manageable abstractions. Chen Sheh’s words and deeds also re-asserted the idea that intangible and individual qualities such as boldness, imagination and perhaps even moral virtue could be as useful for realizing those possibilities as impersonal Legalist rationalism. This made the teachings of less materialistic thinkers such as Confucius seem relevant again. Legalist teachings had proved themselves to be powerful, but they had not proved themselves unequivocally superior to earlier or alternative systems of thought. Modernism had, in short, given way to postmodernism. Chen Sheh’s era informs our understanding of earlier military and political texts, not only because it concludes the story of Ch’in, but because it was a period when the Chinese themselves rediscovered their own classic works on these topics. Liu Pang’s most effective generals used tactics specifically recommended by Sun Tzu (Szuma 1979: 273). T’ai Kung’s Six Secret Teachings enjoyed a fresh burst of popularity during the collapse of the Ch’in dynasty as well (Sawyer 1993: 37). This, sinologist Ralph Sawyer suggests, may be because people hoped to overthrow the Legalist tyrants the same way T’ai Kung had overthrown the tyrants of Shang (Sawyer 1993: 37). Chinese writers of this period also added material to classic works on strategy, while, perhaps, dropping passages that failed to interest them (Sawyer 1993: 37). The combination of Li Ssu’s edict against books and the even greater destruction of literature that took place when Hsiang Yu’s men burned the imperial libraries make it impossible to tell how extensive these changes may have been. Therefore, when one reads currently available versions of a book such as Sun Tzu’s Art of War, one is reading a text which was selected and edited by people who knew how the various strategic and political theories of earlier eras had functioned during the rise and the fall of the Legalist state. This makes the postmodernism of the Ch’in period relevant to any interpretation of earlier strategic writings, and also highlights the relevance of those writings to the types of problems that emerged in the age of Ch’in. Having reviewed the evolution of Chinese strategic thought up to this climatic point, one may probe deeper into what the various strategic thinkers wrote about issues that remain pressing today.

3

From modernism to postmodernism in contemporary strategic thought

Like their ancient Chinese counterparts, the military thinkers of the past three centuries have encountered unprecedented industrial development, a corresponding industrialization of warfare, an intellectual tendency towards pragmatism, new political movements that sought to maximize the state’s ability to exploit the previous developments, the sudden collapse of regimes based on those movements, and a subsequent period of uncertainty. The post-Soviet period has, thankfully, been calmer than the post-Ch’in period. Nevertheless, the violence which has punctuated it has occasionally seemed unpredictable, uncontrollable and incomprehensible. In this regard, contemporary strategists may hear muted echoes of the barbarian invasions that humiliated the Chou Empire and the spontaneous peasant uprisings that unravelled the Ch’in. Recent military thinkers have responded to these developments in broadly the same way as their Chinese predecessors. Twenty-first century concepts of strategy grow from seeds planted at the dawn of the industrial age, in the late eighteenth century. Military writers of that time, like the Chou dynasty Chinese, assumed that the nature of war was fixed. Successful strategists, in their view, are those who adapt to war’s eternal principles. Technological developments allowed ambitious Chinese strategists to redefine warfare on their own terms, and similar developments in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries allowed the strategists of those eras to do the same. In both cases, this process allowed – and compelled – strategists to re-organize their entire societies for military purposes, often at appalling human cost. In both cases, this process led many to conclude that an abstract, morally detached and narrowly calculative approach to strategy could reduce the art of war to a system. In ancient China, the Legalist rulers of Ch’in pushed this system to – and beyond – its limits, leading to their own spectacular downfall. The repeated scientific and technological breakthroughs of the past two centuries allowed strategic thinkers to re-invent both modernist and postmodernist approaches multiple times. Each iteration of this process raised new strategic questions,

From modernism to postmodernism 77 and none completely answered the questions of the last. Each differed from ancient Chinese events in important ways, but each suggested parallels as well. One must, of course, observe these parallels with caution. Ideas may mean different things to people living in different cultures and historical periods, even when the words used to express them sound similar. Moreover, most meaningful ideas transcend generalizations about intellectual movements. With those caveats, however, one may note that contemporary strategic thought, like ancient Chinese strategic thought, has developed through recognizable stages of ancient conservatism, modernist abstract pragmatism and postmodernist reconsideration. This allows one to identify points at which ancient Chinese works seem to address currently open questions. This chapter summarizes developments in contemporary strategic thought that present particularly interesting points of comparison with related developments in ancient China. The chapter cannot hope to address more than a tiny fraction of the strategic writings published over the past few centuries, and does not try. Moreover, since histories of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries are relatively easy to find, this chapter makes no effort to explain recent historical events as comprehensively as Chapter 2 narrates the military history of ancient China. Nor is the author attempting to classify individual thinkers as definitively ‘ancient’, ‘modernistic’, or ‘postmodern’ in their approach – the author readily concedes that real people blend these methods of thinking in different combinations at different times. This chapter does, however, attempt the more feasible task of tracing modernist and postmodernist themes in recent strategic thought, in order to highlight points at which ancient Chinese concerns intersect with contemporary ones.

From inescapable limits to inexorable progress Carl von Clausewitz’s On War serves as a starting point for contemporary strategic thought. The historian Herbert Rosinski describes it as ‘the most profound, comprehensive and systematic examination of war that has appeared to the present day’ (Clausewitz 1976: 45). When Clausewitz discusses the nature of war, he follows the ancient philosophical approach of emphasizing external limits on his subject. The more practically oriented chapters of On War emphasize the unforeseeable and unavoidable factors that complicate military operations (Clausewitz 1976: 140). When discussing war in more general terms, Clausewitz suggests that the word itself is meaningless until one puts it into a larger context. ‘[W]ar is only a branch of political activity,’ Clausewitz tells us, the emphasis being present in the original text (Clausewitz 1976: 605). ‘[I]t is in no sense autonomous’ (Clausewitz 1976: 605). This is the fuller meaning of Clausewitz’s

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well-known statement that ‘war is merely the continuation of politics by other means’ (Clausewitz 1976: 87). On War is, in this regard, based on the ancient method of thought. Clausewitz is interested in the nature of war, but he believes that war is merely a feature of a larger universe which war itself is powerless to alter. Military commanders must regard friction as unavoidable and military thinkers must recognize that their ideas are meaningless outside of political context. Almost immediately, other strategic thinkers began to chafe at Clausewitz’s pessimism about their art. Clausewitz’s contemporary and intellectual rival Jomini accused him of displaying ‘too much skepticism in matters of military science’ (Brinton 1943: 80). As Jomini’s twentieth-century interpreters elaborated, this scepticism threatened to paralyse any attempt to wage war more effectively (Brinton 1943: 80). Later critics held Clausewitz responsible for the unimaginative and bloody campaigns of the First World War (Bassford 1994: 319–36). Although these critics often misread On War, they introduced a new and more modernistic theme into strategic thought. Meanwhile, the technological and organizational innovations of the nineteenth century raised the possibility of reversing Clausewitz’s famous statement. New methods of transportation allowed armed forces to deploy unprecedented numbers of troops, new weapons allowed those troops to deliver unprecedented volumes of fire, and new systems of mass production allowed civilian workers to produce such war-winning technology on an unprecedented scale. Similar principles applied at sea, and inventions such as the tank and the aeroplane intensified the importance of industrial-age technology to war. Since some forms of society were clearly able to outproduce others, and since military victory made it possible for those societies to impose their way of life upon others, it appeared that politics might become a mere continuation of war by other means. Even before the nineteenth century’s spectacular developments in mechanical technology, Revolutionary France’s levée en masse set an example for those who would organize society around the needs of war. To quote the decree of the Convention of 23 August: From this moment until that in which our enemies shall have been driven from the territory of the Republic, all Frenchmen are permanently requisitioned for service in the armies. Young men will go forth to battle; married men will forge weapons and transport munitions; women will make tents and clothing, and serve in hospitals; children will make lint from old linen; and old men will be brought to the public squares to arouse the courage of the soldiers, while preaching the unity of the Republic and hatred against kings. (Brinton 1943: 77)

From modernism to postmodernism 79 This decree suggests that the levée might end when all enemies have been driven from the Republic. The instruments of industrial war, however, often take decades to prepare. Railroads, for instance, take time to build and are fixed in place once complete. The network of interrelated industries needed to produce heavy machinery takes even longer to develop, especially if it must support itself at least partially through success serving civilian customers. For these reasons, states must prepare for industrial-age war decades if not generations in advance. Since human beings cannot predict events that far in the future, this means that industrial-age states must continue to prepare for the possibility of war as long as potential enemies exist to threaten them. Politics must accommodate war on an indefinite basis. Since ships have always required support from a specialized industry and a skilled labour force, these points quickly became apparent with regard to naval warfare. Adam Smith is famous as an advocate of free trade, but he acknowledged Britain’s navigation acts, which restricted trade in order to support British maritime power, as ‘perhaps the wisest of all the commercial regulations of England’ (Earle 1943: 123).

The consequences for liberal government The American founders took similar ideas into account when they designed the US Constitution. During the American colonies’ struggle for independence, Benjamin Franklin could declare that those who would sacrifice essential liberty to gain temporary safety deserve neither, but once Americans actually achieved their independence, however, they had to confront the limits of such bravado (King date unlisted). Alexander Hamilton noted: ‘Safety from external danger is the most powerful director of national conduct. Even the ardent love of liberty will, after a time, give way to its dictates’ (Hamilton date of republication unlisted). In a later paragraph, Hamilton connects this point to economic, technological and intellectual development. When reading the following extract, one should keep in mind that Hamilton expects his readers to view standing armies as instruments of tyranny: It may, perhaps, be asked, by way of objection to this, why did not standing armies spring up out of the contentions which so often distracted the ancient republics of Greece? Different answers, equally satisfactory, may be given to this question. The industrious habits of the people of the present day, absorbed in the pursuits of gain, and devoted to the improvements of agriculture and commerce, are incompatible with the condition of a nation of soldiers, which was the true condition of the people of those republics. The means of revenue, which have been so greatly multiplied by the

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From modernism to postmodernism increase of gold and silver and of the arts of industry, and the science of finance, which is the offspring of modern times, concurring with habits of nations, have produced an entire revolution in the system of war, and have rendered disciplined armies, distinct from the body of the citizens, the inseparable companions of frequent hostility. (Hamilton date of republication unlisted)

Hamilton suggested that a unified United States might be sufficiently peaceable internally and sufficiently well protected externally to minimize its need for standing armies. On these grounds, he urged Americans to adopt the newly written Constitution. Hamilton suggested, in other words, that Americans could partially exempt themselves from the more general rule. Even Americans, however, would have to modify their national life in order to account for the ‘revolution in the system of war’. If America ever confronted the same international rivalries as European countries, it would presumably have to impose European-style discipline on its citizens. By the end of the nineteenth century, America did indeed face international rivalries, first in the Pacific, and then in Western Europe. When America entered the First World War, President Woodrow Wilson did indeed impose conscription, censorship, an income tax and other measures which Americans had generally (although not always) been able to avoid. Meanwhile, the experience of the First World War inspired the German general Erich Ludendorff both to found a brief military dictatorship in his own country and to reflect on more general principles which suggested that this system of government might become normal everywhere. In the words of one writer: Ludendorff’s idea of total war can be stated in the form of five basic propositions. War is total; first because the theatre of war extends over the whole territory of the belligerent nations. In addition to this diffusion of risks, total war also requires the active participation of the whole population in the war effort. Not armies but nations wage total war. Thus, the effective prosecution of total war necessitates the adaptation of the economic system to the purposes of war. Thirdly, the participation of large masses in war makes it imperative to devote special efforts, by means of propaganda, to the strengthening of morale at home and to the weakening of the political cohesion of the enemy nation. Fourth, the preparation of total war must begin before the outbreak of actual fighting. Military, economic, and psychological warfare influence the so-called peacetime pursuits in modern societies. Finally, in order to achieve an integrated and efficient war effort, total war must be directed by one supreme authority, that of the commander in chief. (Speier 1943: 315)

From modernism to postmodernism 81 Such thoughts would have seemed tyrannical enough in any era. The rise of industrial technology and putatively scientific approaches to human organization suggested that the garrison states of the future would extinguish their citizens’ personal identities and satisfactions even more completely than the warrior states of the past. A good Spartan could aspire to be a hero. A functional participant in a rationally (or rationalistically) organized modern military establishment was merely, the head of the US Army War College declared in 1920, ‘part of a machine made up of many different parts’ (Wilson 1997: 292). To the head of the War College, the fact that these parts were human was merely incidental (Wilson 1997: 292). Lenin commented upon the obsolescence of heroism as well. ‘No endurance, no physical force, no gregarious instinct and solidarity of the mass struggle … could give preponderance in the era of high-speed small-calibre rifles, machine-guns, intricate technical devices on vessels, and the loose formation in ground battles’ (Sidorenko 1970: 18). One notes that Lenin saw no more future for romantically socialist ideas of the mass struggle than he saw for romantically individualist ideas of personal valour. The British general J.F.C. Fuller elaborated on the political consequences of this line of thinking. Fuller begins by proposing a fundamental principle: ‘War to-day is total, therefore it includes everything, therefore it influences everything, and therefore in turn, it is influenced by everything’ (Fuller 1942: 7). Having observed both the supreme importance of war and its intimate association with all other aspects of life, he goes on to observe: [t]he age in which we live is an industrial one, armies must inevitably become industrialized, and in spite of [that] fact … our parliamentary system of government has remained unrationalized. That is, developed as it was during an agricultural civilization, it never adapted itself to the needs of an industrial order. (Fuller 1942: 8) Fuller goes on to discuss how these conditions affected British state policy in the twentieth century, summarizing ‘sommambulistically, we prepared to commit suicide’ (Fuller 1942: 8). The solution: [A]s for Parliaments, Houses of Representatives, Congresses, Reichstags, Grand Councils and such-like talking shops, my opinion is that were they all closed down the world would be a happier habitation. If it can be called a political system, the one I reluctantly advocate in this Age of Contending States is that of an Army raised to a national footing, in which the Prime Minister is Commander-in Chief, and the Cabinet his Staff; Members of Parliament representing the subordinate commands,

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From modernism to postmodernism whose constituencies, like the arms of an army – infantry, artillery, tanks etc. – are organized according to their functions. (Fuller 1942: 9–10)

Not all of Fuller’s ideas were so dispiriting. The general’s observations about the potential of mechanized warfare encouraged him and others to hope that capable generals might be able to find some creative new strategy ‘as new to the Blitzkrieg as Cambrai was to the Sitzkrieg’ that would maximize their forces’ effectiveness while reducing their casualties (Fuller 1942: 17). Analogous ideas have appeared many times before and since. Each time, the worldly wise have responded with variants of Clausewitz’s sober assessment: [H]owever much one longs to see opposing generals vie with each other in craft, cleverness, and cunning, the fact remains that these qualities do not figure prominently in the history of war. Rarely do they stand out among the welter of events and circumstances. (Clausewitz 1976: 202) Whether or not one finds Clausewitz’s warning persuasive, one may note that the idea of manoeuvre warfare grows out of dissatisfaction with the logocentricism of pure modernism. If strategy was merely a matter of rational calculation, one would have to agree with Michael Handel that ‘that which might be true if only one side were to employ the principles of war is rarely true when both sides subscribe to the same logic’ (Handel 1996: 211). This, in turn, would force one to concede that both sides in any conflict will attempt to outmanoeuvre each other, and that their attempts are likely to cancel each other out. To argue that it is possible to win victories through what Fuller describes as ‘craft’ is to express a discernibly postmodern faith in extra-rational creativity (Fuller 1942: 17). Nevertheless, the fact that the theorists of mechanized warfare flirted with postmodernity did not challenge modernism’s grim conclusions about the political implications of industrial-age war. Total mobilization and central control are as useful for waging wars with tanks as they were for waging wars without them. The fact that aircraft allowed opposing nations to bombard each other’s cities from the very beginning of a war made civilian morale – and, thus, a government’s ability to control civilian behaviour – more likely to prove decisive than ever. Therefore, it was increasingly difficult to see how states that failed to modify their political systems accordingly could survive. Marxist-Leninists and Wilsonian liberals looked forward to a time when there would indeed be a global political community with no external rivals. In such a community, countries might safely restore people’s freedoms. Since such a community was impossible while dissenting states remained powerful,

From modernism to postmodernism 83 both Marxist-Leninists and Wilsonians could speak of war to end wars (Vigor 1975: 3). In the meantime, both could justify draconian impositions upon people’s lives in order to wage this most benevolent of wars more effectively. The Second World War appeared to confirm many of these ideas. Although the idea of war to end wars had begun to strike many as ironic, the idea that people would have to build their lives and political communities around the technical problems of preparing for all-out mechanized war appeared more compelling than ever. The fact that several of the world’s most brazenly militaristic dictatorships had lost the war could not erase the fact that a more efficient dictatorship had played the decisive role in defeating them. Although Americans took pride in their country’s part as the ‘arsenal of democracy,’ the US had actually had great difficulty mobilizing its economy, particularly in the initial phases of the war. Almost two years after Pearl Harbor, an internal US government report noted that it was ‘entirely possible’: For Ordinance to schedule the production of, say, 500 tanks per month in an arsenal; for the arsenal to apply on PRP [the resource allocation scheme in force at that time] for the material and be given 90% of the steel and 80% of the copper; for this 80% of the copper to be reduced to 70% by the copper Branch [of the War Production Board] … and for some subcontractor making a vital part to be given only 60% of his material requirements. (Cuff 1987: 1) Had the United States faced enemies as capable as the Axis powers without allies as strong and resilient as Great Britain and the USSR, its approach to national mobilization would have failed. As the Cold War developed, American leaders justly feared that they were in just such a situation. Not only did the American republic face the threat of an external rival, it faced the danger that, in its attempts to counter this opponent, it would transform itself into a garrison state. Those who advocated individual liberties in other countries faced the same dilemma. Modernist views of grand strategy appeared to have triumphed, and liberals appeared to be confronting what those committed to modernism’s ethic of intellectual honesty might have viewed as a harsh but undeniable truth. Liberalism was damned if it did and damned if it did not. The United Nations forces’ initial defeats in the Korean War seemed to confirm the point that liberal states were poorly equipped to confront illiberal opponents, and no lesser a soldier than General Douglas MacArthur feared that prolonged conflict with such opponents would induce his country to militarize itself into tyranny (Gaddis 1982: 119).

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Modernism mark II: nuclear weapons Meanwhile, twentieth-century physicists, also animated by modernist intellectual leanings, presented liberal and illiberal states alike with a new weapon. This weapon was the atomic bomb, soon followed by more powerful thermonuclear explosives and later augmented by ballistic missile delivery systems. American thinker Bernard Brodie promptly declared nuclear arms to be an ‘absolute weapon’ (Brodie 1946: passim). A prominent strategic thinker of a later generation summarizes the import of this work: While some argued that the atomic bomb was just a more destructive weapon to be added to the armoury of strategic bombing, Brodie put forward the proposition that it had changed the basic character of strategy. His initial thoughts were expressed in an essay published in November 1945. From henceforth, he argued, the nature of war had changed. The strategic situation would be dominated by the offence, and cities would be the most valuable and vulnerable targets. In such circumstances, constant readiness was essential. This might provoke tension and preventative war; alternatively it might produce stability through mutual fear. He had not yet decided which way the balance would tip. (Booth 1991: 21) Insofar as Brodie held that rationally based science could produce a new technology which would, through an equally rational process, mandate a new approach to political and military affairs, he remained within the modernist tradition. The Soviet thinkers who presumed that nuclear weapons would merely accelerate previous trends in military technology were taking a modernist approach as well, although they followed it to different conclusions (Siderenko 1970: passim; Sokolovsky 1963: passim). Soviet nuclear theorists held that the logic of nuclear strategy grew out of the larger and equally modernist political logic of Marxism-Leninism (Siderenko 1970: 5–6). Mao tseTung and his followers differed with the Russians on numerous details, but they also took the modernist position that rational application of rationally knowable political and military concepts would reveal all imperialists – even atomically armed imperialists – as paper tigers (Mao 1963: 279–83). Brodie did not dwell at such length on the relationship between military developments and political systems. Nevertheless, the idea that the newly invented military technology might support a new science of strategy governed, not by relentless competition to mobilize human and material resources to the maximum possible degree, but by rationally engineered ‘stability through mutual fear’ offered liberal democracy a niche to take shelter in. If the goal of avoiding wars really had taken precedence over the goal of winning them, if the possession of a finite number of relatively cost-effective

From modernism to postmodernism 85 nuclear weapons was sufficient to perpetuate that condition, and if one could rely on one’s enemies to recognize this state of affairs, liberal democracies could deter totalitarian opponents without needing to achieve totalitarian levels of mobilization. For these reasons, American President Dwight Eisenhower and his Secretary of State John Foster Dulles based their defence policy on nuclear weapons. Eisenhower went so far as to use a veiled nuclear threat as part of his programme to negotiate an end to the Korean War, and this tactic appears to have succeeded. Later generations of policy makers concluded that it would be unwise to rely exclusively on threats of so-called Massive Retaliation, but their revised doctrines continued to rest on the strategy of preventing a third world war by insuring that such a war would be nuclear. Indeed, Western nations adopted an overly complex nuclear command structure for the very reason that this increased the chances of all-out nuclear war, and thus, presumably, the deterrent value of nuclear forces (Bracken 1983: 163–4). Brodie’s idea also suggested a new intellectual approach to military thinking. If strategy had become a matter of logical responses to threats and counter-threats, strategists could become logicians. This suggested that scholars could speak as authoritatively on strategic matters as experienced military commanders. These ideas happened to achieve respectability at a point in history when American President John Kennedy and his Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara were eager to assert greater civilian control over the military establishment. For these reasons, among others, academics gained considerable influence in the American strategic community. One notes parallels between this development and the emergence of the shih ke in Spring and Autumn China. Prominent academic strategists pushed the new concept of strategy through perpetual deterrence towards ever-greater degrees of abstraction. If one could view strategy purely in terms of logic, it seemed to follow that one could express that logic in terms of mathematics. Thus, military thinkers made increasing use of techniques such as game theory and formal modelling. These techniques commonly incorporate the same type of assumptions found in the modernist decision-making model discussed in Chapter 1. Brodie himself, one may note, questioned this trend towards formulaic thinking, but his doubts merely distanced him from the academic mainstream (Brodie 1966: 37–41; Gray 1982: 129–30).

Beyond nuclear deterrence Even in the heyday of deterrence theory, few assumed that nuclear standoffs would eliminate other forms of warfare. The Korean War demonstrated that limited wars remained possible, and the spread of insurgency in what was becoming known as the Third World suggested one form such wars might take. Khrushchev’s pledge to undermine the West by supporting what he

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called wars of national liberation underlined the point that such conflicts could influence the outcome of the grandest global struggles (Kagan 1995: 451). Russian and Chinese Communists may have differed on other issues, but the People’s Republic of China defence minister Lin Biao publicly affirmed that his country planned to use a similar strategy (Griffiths II 1966: 95). Accordingly, strategic thinkers devoted increasing attention to waging and countering guerrilla warfare. Mao Zedong’s confidence that socially advanced (i.e. Communist) societies following up-to-date People’s War techniques could expose the once-formidable imperialist forces as ‘paper tigers’ represents a form of modernistic thinking (Mao 1963: 279–83). Those who hoped to condense the methods Britain used to suppress Communist insurgency in Malaya and elsewhere into a generally applicable formula had, at least, a modernistic faith in the powers of analysis and systemization (Thompson 1966: passim). Therefore, theories of insurgency and counter-insurgency retained contact with the trend towards modernism in strategic thought. The study of irregular warfare did, however, introduce counter-currents into military theory. Most writers on the subject acknowledged the poetic truth of Mao’s statement that guerrillas are fish who must swim in the sea of the people. If anti-guerrilla forces could persuade the people to turn against the insurgents, the sea would dry up and the insurgency would fail. This forced insurgency and counter-insurgency theorists to return to something close to Clausewitz’s argument that military strategy makes sense only in the context of external political circumstances. By reviving an ancient philosophical perspective on a contemporary problem, insurgency theorists were taking a postmodern approach. This approach gained followers as the United States took an increasing part in the Vietnam War. In this war, US planners implemented academically popular concepts of crisis bargaining and limited warfare, with unsatisfactory results (Summers1984: 117). After over seven years of effort, America withdrew, abandoning its South Vietnamese ally to North Vietnamese conquest. A full discussion of the Vietnam War’s influence on contemporary strategic thought lies beyond the scope of this book. In summary, America’s defeat inspired many to re-think deeply held beliefs about politics and war. Vietnam did not vanquish modernism in strategic thought, but it inspired postmodern reflection. In the words of Martin Van Creveld, ‘We have seen the future and it does not work’ (Gray 1997: 166). For many commentators, the most significant lessons of Vietnam concerned the fact that guerrilla forces managed to embarrass the regular army of a rich and technologically developed nation. The fact that America had conceded defeat without using nuclear weapons or even encountering any particularly interesting opportunities to use nuclear weapons seemed to support a growing belief that mutual deterrence among nuclear-armed countries – or, perhaps, plain human horror at the effects of nuclear explosions – had rendered such

From modernism to postmodernism 87 armaments unusable. Any trend that reduces the chance of nuclear war is a blessing, but one must note that, if the power of nuclear weapons actually does prevent their use, strategies to preserve liberal political systems by relying on nuclear weapons suffer from a serious weakness. Those who cared to investigate would have found that the Vietnamese Communists sustained their victorious campaign by relying upon a particularly brutal and comprehensive system of national mobilization. The middle decades of the Cold War, in short, reopened the questions about modernity and the nature of warfare which the invention of nuclear weapons had briefly appeared to answer. Pessimists of the late 1970s and early 1980s could muster considerable evidence to suggest that the liberal world was about to face the day of reckoning which earlier policies of containment and nuclear deterrence had postponed (Rood 1980: passim). An alternative body of literature hinted that both superpowers might exhaust their resources in military competition (Kennedy 1988: passim). The Soviet government, however, proved less efficient and less committed to its own perpetuation than such Cassandras had guessed. Between 1989 and 1991, with most Western economies still functional, the Soviet Union permitted people in its European satellite states to overthrow their Communist governments and then replaced its own, granting many of its former territories independence in the process.

Late-model modernsim The questions about the nature of war remained open. One might, after considering the events of 1989–90, return to Clausewitz’s pre-modernist suggestion that war and strategy are merely appendages of larger political developments. A committed modernist could respond that better-organized totalitarians would have succeeded where the Soviet leaders of the late 1980s failed. Although few offered that particular argument, modernist approaches remained influential. One of the boldest grand strategic modernists of the 1990s was Francis Fukuyama. In The End of History and the Last Man, Fukuyama reversed the argument that technological development rewards totalitarian systems of administration. To the contrary, he argued, liberal democracy constituted the ‘end point of mankind’s ideological evolution’ (Fukuyama 1992: xi). The very idea that one may perfect political systems is quintessentially modernist. Fukuyama began by acknowledging that dictatorships might use resources more efficiently in the short term (Fukuyama 1992: 124–5). Nevertheless, he drew on Alexandre Kojeve’s interpretation of the philosopher Georg Hegel to suggest that people have an innate drive to be recognized as human (Fukuyama 1992: 145–6). Since liberal society accords all citizens a basic level of dignity, it minimizes conflict over the most bitterly divisive of internal issues while maximizing people’s motivation to seek further recognition

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through commercial and scientific endeavours. Therefore, Fukuyama reasons, liberal societies can remain stable, productive and innovative over the long term, while illiberal societies cannot. Although Fukuyama devotes relatively little attention to purely military affairs, his modernist view of history has powerful implications for grand strategy. Just as liberalism minimizes conflict within states, Fukuyama holds, it defuses many of the most dangerous conflicts among states as well. For this reason, Fukuyama suggested the so-called realism of amoral power politics among states had lost its purpose. Although this doctrine had helped the United States avoid dangerous crusading and naïve trust in international organizations during the perilous early years of the struggle with Communism, it had been no more than a useful fiction. The progress of liberalism had made such concepts irrelevant. Fukuyama noted that some scholars had suggested that the West should actually help the Warsaw Pact preserve its strength. These scholars argued that a balance of power between rival blocs was an exceptionally stable way to manage international relations. This proposal, Fukuyama wrote, reminds [O]ne of a doctor who, after treating a cancer patient through a long and agonizing process of chemotherapy that finally forces the cancer into remission, tries desperately to persuade the patient to continue the chemotherapy on the grounds that is has been so successful in the past. Treating a disease that no longer exists, realists now find themselves proposing costly and dangerous cures to healthy patients. (Fukuyama 1992: 252–4) Rather, Fukuyama suggests, liberal countries should found their foreign policies on the knowledge that, just as liberal democracy minimizes conflict among citizens within a state, liberal democracy minimizes conflict among states as well. ‘The peaceful behavior of democracies further suggests that the United States and other democracies have a long-term interest in preserving the sphere of democracy in the world, and expanding it where possible and prudent’ (Fukuyama 1992: 280). The fact that, in the long term, liberal democracies are stronger and more stable means that they make surer allies as well, even from a purely self-interested point of view. Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in 1990 gave world leaders an opportunity to demonstrate their will to preserve, if not the ‘sphere of democracy’, at least the sanctity of a friendly country’s borders. A coalition of over 30 nations rose to the occasion, suggesting that the end of the Cold War might usher in a new era of collective global policing based on loosely liberal ethical principles. The coalition’s campaign to liberate Kuwait, known as Operation Desert Storm, also inspired more technical thinking about the nature of warfare.

From modernism to postmodernism 89 Western forces had used a wide range of innovative military equipment. Much of it had worked impressively well. Moreover, Western forces had demonstrated that it was becoming feasible for commanders to use emerging communications and information-processing systems to co-ordinate the operations of all the military assets of a turn-of-the-century nation state. This suggested that armed forces would soon be able to wage war more efficiently than ever before, maximizing the strategic effect of each round fired and instantly responding to changing circumstances throughout the theatre of operations. Indeed, the success of precision-guided munitions raised the possibility that future armed forces might be able to wage war more humanely than previously imaginable, destroying enemy military assets with minimum bloodshed on all sides. Since waste, confusion and profligate suffering have been the hallmarks of war throughout human existence, these were breathtaking possibilities. Not only did they have the potential to change the way strategists planned wars, they had the potential to change the way political leaders made decisions to go to war in the first place. If the idea of war to end wars had lost its lustre, the idea of war to end outrageous abuses of human rights had become newly attractive. Many continued to question the principles behind such humanitarian intervention, but all had to take the idea more seriously than they might have done in the past. By the time of the 1990–1 Gulf War, these ideas were no longer original. Soviet thinkers had been discussing such prospects since the 1960s, initially referring to the new form of warfare as a Military Technical Revolution (MTR) (Watts 2005: 110). Andrew Marshall, as the US Defense Department’s Director of Net Assessment, adopted the concept into American military planning in 1973 (Watts 2005: 110). Meanwhile, as Soviet military thinkers of the 1970s became increasingly impressed with the implications of the MTR, they began to refer to it as a Revolution in Military Affairs (RMA). In 1993 Marshall led the rest of the Western defence community in adopting the newer and more emphatic term (Watts 2005: 110). In 1993 Alvin and Heidi Toffler published War and Anti-War (Toffler and Toffler 1993: passim). This book integrated the RMA concept into broader propositions about social, economic and political trends. Although the Tofflers write in an informal tone for a popular audience, their work both articulated and elaborated upon influential ideas about the state of the world. To summarize, they held that advances in information technology and organizational practice constituted a ‘third wave’ of human development, and that it would alter political relations as dramatically as the earlier ‘waves’ of agriculture and industrialism (Toffler and Toffler 1993: 18–22). In tones reminiscent of the nineteenth-century modernist thinker Karl Marx, the Tofflers noted that the third wave took shape as advanced ‘civilizations’ or ‘sectors’ discover more efficient means to extract profit from less developed

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populations (Toffler and Toffler 1993: 22). Marx might also have endorsed the Tofflerian proposition that the social conflicts and technological possibilities of the new society will encourage elites to become increasingly cosmopolitan while spurring ‘poor, powerless, and “wannabe”’ groups to demand new political identities and new forms of government (Toffler and Toffler 1993: 243–4). The Tofflers did not expect traditional institutions such as nation states to survive, except, perhaps in ‘soft-edged’ form (Toffler and Toffler 1993: 242). Although the Tofflers do not use the example, the soft-edged persistence of the Chou Emperor throughout the ages when powerful provincial states exercised all real political power in China might seem to illustrate what they have in mind. The Tofflers saw the RMA as part of these larger developments, and also as a force that would drive them forward. Their vision of the future was not as dogmatic as that of the twentieth-century Marxists. Where Marx predicted an inevitable revolution, they speculated about a variety of possible futures. Indeed, they ventured to hope that future generations would achieve some ‘insight or awareness’ that would take world history in a fresh and unforeseen direction (Toffler and Toffler 1993: 251–2). The Tofflers did, however, assume that this insight would come from increased ‘understanding of the revolutionary new linkage between knowledge, wealth and war’ (Toffler and Toffler 1993: 252). Their faith in people’s creative powers partakes of postmodern thinking, but their faith in people’s ability to use accumulated knowledge to change their conditions is more modernistic.

Beyond information warfare Other thinkers of this period placed less trust in humanity’s capacity for selfimprovement. Works of self-described postmodernism proliferated in the 1990s (Fairlamb 1994: passim; Gray 1997: passim; Rosenau 1990: passim). Although many of these writings were highly theoretical, more practically minded authors also engaged in postmodern reflection. Some asked whether the absence of large-scale military struggles of the sort that had dominated all previous historical eras might render the intellectual discipline of strategy obsolete (Betts 1997: passim). Samuel Huntington’s widely read Clash of Civilizations suggested a continuing role for strategic planning, but raised the idea that consciously developed ideas about war and political life might be mere handmaidens to people’s pre-rational allegiance to the cultural units he called ‘civilizations’ (Huntington 1996: 19–20; Huntington 1996: 55; Huntington 1996: 95–100). To have suggested that idea at an early phase of an intellectual discussion might have fallen into the category of ancient thought, but to return to it after considering more rationalistic and progressive concepts is more properly postmodern.

From modernism to postmodernism 91 A different group of thinkers suggested that humanity’s pre-rational side would take war and politics in even more frightening directions. Military historian Martin van Creveld’s The Transformation of War argued that people’s biological appetite for violence would persist even as nuclear weapons made organized war of the sort practised in earlier centuries ludicrous (Van Creveld 1991: 14–15). Accordingly, he held that institutions supported by organized war would vanish, but that new institutions capable of perpetrating new forms of violence would proliferate, leading to a new Middle Ages of feuding bands and city states (Van Creveld 2000: passim). Medieval life, as Creveld observed in a hopeful moment, had a certain romance to it, but more pessimistic writers predicted, not a return to the Middle Ages, but a bleaker ‘Coming Anarchy’ (Kaplan 1994, passim). Less speculative writers made the point that, while strategic theories were constantly changing, the material effects of weapons were not. Colin Gray made this point in The Second Nuclear Age. Although theories of nuclear deterrence – to say nothing of nuclear warfighting – had fallen from favour, nuclear weapons themselves continued to offer their possessors both options. This fact, Gray argued, revived Clausewitz’s view of war as a mere continuation of politics. ‘The nuclear RMA has transmuted significantly as its political context has been revolutionized’ (Gray 1999: 9). Gray went on, however, to suggest that technology would ultimately prove more important than politics. Politicians make their own strategic environment, but to adapt Marx’s observation concerning history, they do not make it just as they please. Eventually, Gray suggested, circumstances would arise in which contending factions would find currently unfashionable nuclear options expedient. Therefore states would one day practise nuclear deterrence again, for the same reasons they did during the Cold War. Moreover, the day would come when states or other political actors actually used nuclear weapons. Here, Gray’s emphasis on the rational consequences of technological capabilities resembles the modernism of earlier nuclear theorists. Nevertheless, as Gray develops his points, he diverges from the main body of earlier nuclear theory. Earlier theorists tended to assume that the extreme consequences of nuclear war would force rational strategists to follow a limited number of predictable courses of action. Gray held that anything could happen and everything eventually would. ‘[T]he nuclear challenge to our security does not reduce to a simple menace … strategic peril is wont to come in multiple forms’ (Gray 1999: 10). This emphasis on variegated and ever-changing circumstances, possibly understandable in terms of specific situations but incomprehensible in a more general sense, is characteristic of postmodern thinking. For the practically minded, Gray suggested, this meant that strategists had to remain alert and flexible. This meant, among other things, that they needed to preserve as

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many of their own options as possible. ‘[T]he interests and motives behind and the character of the nuclear challenges in this new nuclear age require a complementary layering of policy initiatives if the requisite flexibility to cope with nuclear danger is to be achieved’ (Gray 1999: 10). The fact that Gray made these points in abstract language softens the controversial implications of his statement. Nevertheless, those implications are there. The idea that different actors might have different ‘interests and motives’ requiring different responses suggests that one would be foolish to base one’s nuclear strategy purely on the principle of ‘stability through mutual fear’. There might be occasions, for instance, when one might wish to have and even use a national missile defence system. One might face opponents so implacable that it becomes necessary to prevent them from developing a threatening nuclear capability by striking first. Gray’s work suggested a new dimension to the other visions of the emerging strategic environment. The Second Nuclear Age also reopened earlier questions about the degree to which nuclear weapons had changed the nature of war. Moreover, this book noted that similar principles applied to other kinds of armaments (Gray 1999: 10). Although Gray was referring primarily to biological devices and other so-called weapons of mass destruction (WMD), one could extend the argument to, for instance, the information technology that presumably supports the RMA. Even if information technology – or neo-anarchical savagery or any other alarming military [re]discovery – truly does have revolutionary potential, it might prove impossible to reduce that potential to a science. There might not be just one RMA, with one discernible and applicable set of principles. These sorts of developments might also require Gray’s ‘complementary layering of policy initiatives’ (Gray 1999: 10). The Second Nuclear Age invites readers to reconsider their views of technology and war even more fundamentally than its ambitious title suggests.

Recent theories in practice The events of the 1990s and early twenty-first century proved as complex and multifaceted as the more postmodern authors might have predicted. Spectacles such as the Hutu tribe’s 1994 campaign to exterminate the rival Tutsi people in Rwanda supported the idea of a coming anarchy. India and Pakistan’s nuclear tests strengthened the idea of a new thermonuclear age. Those who had hoped that political affairs had progressed to the point at which nations could collectively enforce shared principles of behaviour suffered disappointments in Somalia, the Persian Gulf and the remains of the former republic of Yugoslavia, to name but three oft-cited examples. By 1999, the members of the North Atlantic Treaty Organisation (NATO) had become so frustrated with United Nations decision-making procedures that they intervened in a

From modernism to postmodernism 93 conflict within the republic of Serbia without waiting for UN approval. The fact that NATO was attempting to rescue victims of ethnic persecution gave its act moral credibility, but the fact that it was violating the very principles of sovereignty the United Nations coalition had fought to uphold in the 1990–91 Gulf War raised profound questions about the direction of world politics – a point which officials within the People’s Republic of China were quick to raise (Zhang 2000: passim). The developed states used more military information technology in 1999 than they had in 1991. In Operation Desert Storm, for instance, 8 per cent of all US munitions fired were precision-guided, while in 1999, this figure had more than tripled to 30 per cent (Bowie et al. 2006: 132). Nevertheless, the Serbs managed to resist the combined attack of the most materially advanced nations in the world for 11 weeks (Dorr 2000: 54). During this period, the Serbs completed the ethnic purges that NATO had sought to prevent (Goulding 2000: 6). Only the Serbian leaders truly know what combination of factors led them to capitulate in the end, but there is little evidence that NATO’s information warfare tactics had finally proved revolutionary. The fact that their decision to yield coincided with a relatively old-fashioned ground offensive by ethnic Albanian guerrillas suggests the opposite conclusion (Tilford 1999: 35–6). As the twentieth century gave way to the twenty-first, the theme of unauthorized military action repeated itself on a grander scale. Twenty-first century conflicts also continued to highlight the ambiguities about RMA warfare. On 11 September 2001, Islamic militants affiliated with Osama bin Laden’s al-Qaeda organization directed hijacked passenger aircraft into the two towers of New York City’s World Trade Center. Other militants crashed another airliner into the Washington DC headquarters of the US Department of Defense. Not only did this conform to the predictions of writers such as Van Creveld, it spurred the Bush administration to implement a bold and fiercely controversial foreign policy doctrine. (See, for instance, Anonymous 2002 (National Security Strategy): passim.) The United Nations supported a multi-national campaign to overthrow the government of Afghanistan, which sheltered Osama bin Laden and materially supported for his operations. Nevertheless, key members of the UN Security Council balked at America’s subsequent proposal to settle unresolved disputes with Saddam Hussein’s Baathist regime in Iraq in a similarly direct fashion. In 2003, America led a coalition of its supporters to invade Iraq without formal approval, in a campaign known as Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF). If NATO’s unsanctioned attack on Serbia had challenged the idea of collective global action on the basis of shared principles, America’s attack on Iraq openly defied it. Although the G.W. Bush Administration rejected gentler notions of rational progress in international affairs, many of its concepts and methods were modernist. America’s 2002 National Security Strategy, for instance, echoes

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Francis Fukuyama’s observations about the strategic significance of democracy (Anonymous 2002 (National Security Strategy): prefatory statement). Donald Rumsfeld, acting as G.W. Bush’s Secretary of Defense, worked to transform the US military in order to take advantage of what other strategic thinkers had called the RMA. When America’s coalition attacked Iraq in 2003, this technology worked much as RMA theorists had predicted. When the international coalition expelled Iraq’s army from Kuwait in 1991, the United States alone deployed 527,000 troops (Anonymous 1991: 81). In 2003, the so-called ‘coalition of the willing’ overthrew Saddam Hussein’s regime and occupied the country with less than one-third of that number (Diamond 2004: 35). Not only did the numerically smaller forces of 2003 achieve more ambitious objectives than their 1991 counterparts, they unleashed a greater volume of firepower. American air forces in 2003, for instance, released almost twice as many munitions per day than the larger US air component that supported Desert Storm (Bowie et al. 2006: 132). These smaller, more potent forces appeared correspondingly more flexible, politically as well as tactically. Operation Desert Storm had required over five months of highly visible deployment. Although the coalition of the willing required an even longer period to position its assets in the theatre, it was able to transport its smaller forces with comparatively little fanfare. The G.W. Bush Administration’s hostility towards Saddam Hussein was no secret, but few outside military circles noted the significance of July 2002, when Squadron Four of the US Navy’s Afloat Prepositioning Ships began to move materiel into the Persian Gulf (Military Sealift Command 2003). The fact that western leaders of the twenty-first century were able to deploy their forces unobtrusively undoubtedly helped them avoid clashes with their domestic political opponents as they prepared for a notoriously controversial war. The political advantages of the RMA were even more apparent in the realm of international relations. The 1991 coalition had depended utterly on international support, not least because its methods of operation required it to launch its initial offensive along a front line over 200 miles in length (Schwarzkopf 1991: 97). To manoeuvre on this scale in the envisioned theatre of operations, the coalition needed the complete support of Saudi Arabia. This involved the coalition in the diplomatic minuet by which the Saudi regime maintains its legitimacy as guardian of the Islamic holy places. When Saudi Arabia’s government proved reluctant to support Operation Iraqi Freedom, the coalition simply opted to invade along a shorter front. Then, on 1 March 2003, the Turkish government withdrew permission for coalition ground troops to operate from its territory. The coalition adapted to this as well and went on to launch its offensive less than 20 days later, despite the fact that it had originally hoped to base between 50,000 and 95,000 troops in Turkey (Barak 2003). RMA technology allowed the West to revise the political context of war, transcending Clausewitz’s concept of war as a mere

From modernism to postmodernism 95 appendage of politics in a way that modernist strategic thinkers are entitled to take credit for. The fact that the G.W. Bush Administration made effective use of modernist ideas does not mean that it ignored other approaches to strategic thought. G.W. Bush’s decision to withdraw from the anti-ballistic missile treaty, as previously noted, conforms to the ideas Colin Gray expressed in The Second Nuclear Age. Gray’s thought contains substantial elements of postmodernism. The G.W. Bush Administration has also suggested that international terrorism changes the fundamental nature of war. As Bush himself put it in a memorandum to his National Security Council ‘[T]he war against terrorism ushers in a new paradigm, one in which groups with broad, international reach commit horrific acts against innocent civilians, sometimes with the direct support of states’ (Wippman 2005: 9). One could interpret this proposition as modernist, since it suggests that terrorists have transformed the world by adopting a superior method. Nevertheless, this method comes from outside the realm of logic and technological progress as such things are normally understood. Leaving aside the question of whether suicide missions can ever qualify as rational, the success of the 11 September attacks depended more upon their audacity than upon any process of applied deductive reasoning. Aircraft were approximately 100 years old and knives were even older. Even the tactic of using aeroplanes as projectiles had numerous precedents. If, therefore, ‘terrorism ushers in a new paradigm’ it does so by drawing on human capabilities that the more rigid forms of modernism find difficult to explain. The likely possibility that certain social, political and religious environments foster those capabilities in their inhabitants recalls Clausewitz’s ancient-philosophical observations about the limits of strategy, suggesting that the political climate that produces international terror organizations affects strategy more fundamentally than purely military developments can ever affect that climate. Thus, the G.W. Bush Administration’s view of terrorism complicates simple modernism in characteristically postmodern ways. Not only did the G.W. Bush Administration strategic thinkers always incorporate pre- and postmodernist ideas into their strategic thought, events since the second Gulf War have challenged the more technophiliac elements of their thinking. For those who had to risk their lives in combat, the RMA was not the panacea many had promised it would be. Old-fashioned heavy forces deployed in substantial numbers remained the most reliable tool for winning firefights (Talbot 2004: passim; Grant 2005: passim). To quote one US Marine Corps officer, ‘everybody wanted tanks’ (Gordon and Pirine 2006: 86). When the coalition confronted the problem of policing the country it had conquered, the small size of its forces turned from an advantage into a handicap (Diamond 2004: passim). The RMA has not altered the truth of Admiral J.C. Wylie’s proposition that ‘the ultimate determinant in war is the man on the

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scene with the gun’ (Wylie 1967: 72). Coalition forces did not have such men available in sufficient numbers to prevent post-war anarchy, nor were they able to prevent armed bands of Iraqis from organizing to wage guerrilla warfare against their presence. In the campaign to win so-called hearts and minds, even the coalition forces’ devastating firepower was potentially counterproductive. One could hardly expect Iraqi civilians who had lost homes and loved ones to coalition attacks to cooperate willingly with the forces which had bombarded them. At the dawn of the twentieth century, the idea that large quantities of heavy military equipment would win wars inspired modernistic strategic thinking. To return to this idea after new methods had presumably rendered it obsolete partakes of the postmodern approach. The 2003 Iraq War has also forced strategic thinkers to pay fresh attention to irregular and political warfare. Iraq’s insurgents lack the unity and ideological clarity of their Cold War counterparts, but, as of 2006, they have defied Western forces for three years. In the process, the insurgents have inflicted heavy casualties on the coalition forces. One hundred and seventy-three American and British soldiers died during the campaign against Saddam Hussein’s army (White 2006). During the following 13 months, insurgents killed over four times that number (White 2006). Guerrillas went on killing coalition troops at a similar rate for the following 18 months, and although the carnage declined after the Iraqi general elections of December 2005, the fighting continued to claim hundreds of lives (White 2006). As long as the insurgents remain active, the government formed in the 2005 elections will depend on outside support for its survival, and the modernist idea of transforming international politics by forcibly replacing hostile dictatorships with democracies will remain subject to serious doubt.

The counter-revolution Comparisons between America’s war in Iraq and America’s war in Vietnam tend to be more polemical than analytical, but, from the point of view of a strategic theorist, the two conflicts have at least one thing in common. Both have stimulated interest in irregular warfare, and both have inspired postmodernist reflection on basic strategic issues. In the Winter 2005–6 issue of the journal of the US Army War College an article by Jeffrey Record of the Air War College titled ‘Why the strong lose’ expressed this spirit of chastened reconsideration (Record 2005–6: passim). ‘All major failed uses of US force since 1945’, the author notes, ‘have been against materially weaker enemies’ (Record 2005–6: 16). Where the ancient Chinese marvelled that even Chen Sheh could become king, Record suggests that contemporary Chen Shehs have a positive advantage in becoming king.

From modernism to postmodernism 97 Record is far from alone in such reflection. The writings of the military thinker Ralph Peters, for instance, clearly illustrate the postmodern trend in twenty-first century strategic thought. Although Peters’ fundamental positions remain reasonably consistent throughout his career, he has placed increasing emphasis on what he calls the ‘counter-revolution in military affairs’ (Peters 2006: passim). This counter-revolution, Peters suggests, forces us to acknowledge truths that pure modernists prefer to ignore, and to revive ideas that pure modernists have tried to declare obsolete. Peters’ writings have not always seemed so counter-revolutionary. In 1999, he aligned himself with modernists who believed that liberal systems of government were objectively superior to others, and that it would be rational for liberal countries to accelerate progress towards a more benign world by adopting a grand strategy of liberalizing other countries wherever the opportunity presented itself. Peters disassociated himself from simplistic calls for a ‘quixotic global crusade’ or the ‘bogeyman of world government’ (Peters 1999: 7). Nevertheless, he concluded: It is time to form a Union of Democratic Nations, of globe-spanning, like-minded states whose people live under the rule of law and choose their own leaders. We need a grand alliance that can act, diplomatically, economically and, when necessary militarily for global betterment. (Peters 1999: 8) Peters based this article on the premise that the United States, and, presumably, the other potential members of his Union, had achieved unassailable military superiority. ‘In 1989, the last and worst of the old empires fell, we had won a complete victory …’ (Peters 1999: 2). The future was to be ‘an age of small-scale evils’, but one in which the West had the power to whittle away at those evils over time (Peters 1999: 2). A campaign against these evils, Peters concluded, would be wise for pragmatic as well as moral reasons. ‘A world in which men and women live freely and enjoy secure rights is the world in which our own greatness is likeliest to endure’ (Peters 1999: 8). Although Peters did not discuss the details of military operations in this article, one may infer that he had reasonable confidence in the western armed forces of the time, and, by extension, in their embrace of information technology. Peters changed his tone after the 11 September terrorist attacks. In late 2001, he published an article titled ‘Stability, America’s Enemy’ (Peters 2001– 02: passim). This article had more in common with his earlier work than the title would suggest. Peters’ 1999 piece emphasized the folly of supporting tyrannical regimes out of misguided adherence to the principle of national sovereignty and misplaced affection for the status quo (Peters 1999: 8). ‘Stability, America’s Enemy’, developed the same theme. Nevertheless, his choice of phrases suggests a more hard-edged view of global betterment than his earlier

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writing might have indicated, as does his suggestion that a ‘fractured’, China of ‘squabbling’ factions might suit American strategic interests better than the survival of the People’s Republic (Peters 2001–02: 15). One need not support the PRC’s Communist regime to note that China’s internal ‘squabbles’ of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries gave Chinese ‘men and women’ few opportunities to ‘live freely and enjoy secure rights’. Peters developed this more pessimistic line of thought in his 2004 work ‘In Praise of Attrition’, an article that lived up to its title in every way. ‘Focus on killing the enemy. With fires. With manueuver. With sticks and stones and polyunsaturated fats’ (Peters 2004: 27). By 2006, Peters appeared to have concluded that liberal societies had forgotten the necessity of doing so. No longer did Peters hope for a future of small-scale evils. No longer did he seem wholly comfortable with his country’s way of life, much less its military capabilities. Although he did not repudiate the idea of ‘global betterment’, he no longer encouraged readers to expect it. ‘[T]he suicide bomber – the living, thinking assassin ready to die – may prove impossible to stop’ (Peters 2006). Peters goes on to suggest that suicide bombing will continue to have widespread political effect: Even in the days before mass media, assassins terrorized civilizations. Today, their deeds are amplified by a toxic, breathtakingly irresponsible communications culture that spans the globe. Photogenic violence is no longer a local affair – if a terrorist gives the media picturesque devastation, he reaches the entire planet. We cannot measure the psychological magnification, although we grasp it vaguely. (Peters 2006) For those attuned to the nuances of modernist and postmodernist thought, Peters’ choice of words is significant. Suicide bombing is not only effective, it is immeasurably effective. Therefore, one cannot treat it as a mere technology, with knowable costs, benefits, effects and limitations. One cannot rectify the problems of logocentric views of strategy by updating them to take suicide bombing into account. ‘Image and idea are as powerful as the finest military technologies’ (Peters 2006). One of the most consistently disheartening experiences an adult can have today is to listen to the endless attempts by our intellectuals and intelligence professionals to explain religious terrorism in clinical terms, assigning rational motives to men who have moved irrevocably beyond reason. We suffer under layers of intellectual asymmetries that hinder us from an intuitive recognition of our enemies. (Peters 2006)

From modernism to postmodernism 99 Western society’s excessively modernist strategic thinking, Peters suggests, has led us into a dangerous cul-de-sac. ‘Security-wise, we have placed our faith in things, in bright (and expensive) material objects. But the counterrevolution in military affairs is based on the brilliant intuition that our military can be sidestepped often enough to challenge its potency’ (Peters 2006). Peters hastens to note that he is not denying the importance of material capabilities in their place, nor is he rejecting common sense. ‘Certainly, we inflict casualties on our enemies – and gain real advantages from doing so …’ (Peters 2006). Nevertheless, ‘We are seduced by what we can do; our enemies focus on what they must do. We have fallen so deeply in love with the means we have devised for waging conceptual wars that we are blind to their marginal relevance in actual wars’ (Peters 2006). Peters goes on to warn that the well-publicized incidents of Islamic suicide terrorism against the liberal West may be only the harbinger of future bombing campaigns conducted by a wide variety of religious groups against a wide variety of targets in every part of the world (Peters 2006). Even this prophecy, however, does not exhaust Peters’ pessimism. Just as suicide bombers hamstring liberal nations through their ruthlessness and capacity for self-sacrifice, he argues, the People’s Republic of China is capable of doing the same thing on a national scale (Peters 2006). In a war between the PRC and America, Peters asks, ‘which population would be better equipped, practically and psychologically, to endure massive power outages, food-chain disruptions, the obliteration of databases, and even epidemic disease?’ (Peters 2006). As Peters considers such a war, he revives ideas from earlier eras of modernism. Nuclear deterrence may have reduced NATO’s troop requirements during the Cold War and information technology may have allowed the 2003 coalition to conquer Iraq with a relatively small force, but in a war between America and China, numerical strength would regain its old significance. [A] war with China, which our war gamers blithely assume would be brief, would reveal the quantitative incompetence [emphasis in original] of our forces. An assault on a continent-spanning power would swiftly drain our stocks of precision weapons, ready pilots and aircraft. Quality, no matter how great, is not a reliable substitute for a robust force in being and deep reserves that can be mobilized rapidly. (Peters 2006) If nations are, once again, to depend on ‘robust’ forces, one may infer that those which adopt systematic methods of exploiting human and other resources to generate such forces will have an inherent advantage. Ludendorff’s ideas concerning total war may be relevant. Such an inference would strengthen Peters’ argument – China’s governing Communist Party enjoys domestic powers that will surely allow it to mobilize its population more efficiently

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than the liberal democratic regimes that preside within Europe and America (Peters 2006). A twenty-first century Fuller would not hesitate to draw this conclusion. Peters stops short of calling for totalitarian government on the grounds of efficiency. Nevertheless, he does voice the fear that western citizens, ‘conditioned to levels of comfort unimaginable to the generation that fought World War II [and even, he notes later, Vietnam] would balk at the sacrifice war with China would require of them’ (Peters 2006). Peters also expresses concern about the influence of the ‘intelligentsia’ that he feels has come to dominate liberal democratic societies (Peters 2006). In one passage, he calls for censorship, describing the media as ‘enemies at our back’. Although Peters himself may oppose any broader application of authoritarian measures, liberals are likely to find his line of thinking disturbing (Peters 2006). Peters does not, however, simply return to the logic of earlier total war theorists. Where a Ludendorff might have emphasized the importance of rationally mobilizing material resources, Peters emphasizes the importance of emotionally mobilizing the spirit: We need to break the mental chains that bind us to a technology-uberalles dream of warfare – a fantasy as absurd and dated as the Marxist dreams of Europe’s intellectuals. Certainly military technologies have their place and can provide our troops with useful tools. But technologies are not paramount. In warfare, flesh and blood are still the supreme currency. And strength of will remains the ultimate weapon. Welcome to the counter-revolution. (Peters 2006) As an aside, one may note that German and Soviet military thinkers of the 1930s also debated the relative importance of material and psychological mobilization, generally placing more importance on human factors during periods in which they perceived their own country’s forces as materially inferior (Habeck 2003: passim). Peters, one senses, revels in being provocative. Nevertheless, his writings respond to widely acknowledged developments in twenty-first century military history. Even without speculating about future wars between the United States and China, one may note that the occupation of Iraq demonstrates the enduring importance of possessing materially robust forces. Even before the 2003 invasion, US Army Chief of Staff Eric Shinseki warned American legislators that the invaders would need a force of ‘hundreds of thousands’ to impose order in an occupied Iraq (Diamond 2004: 34). Events appear to have vindicated this position. In a similar spirit, US officers and Defense Department officials of the mid2000s began to refer to their campaign against extremist networks as the ‘long

From modernism to postmodernism 101 war’ (Garamone 2006). This phrase not only highlights the importance of fielding large forces for protracted periods, it reminds strategists to consider a broad range of topics. Lt. General Raymond Odierno of the American Joint Chiefs of Staff emphasizes that narrow military planning will not be enough (Garamone 2006). ‘The Long War’, an American military press release summarizes, ‘entails being able to coordinate the military aspect of the fight with the efforts of diplomats, financial experts, police officials and others’ (Garamone 2006). Odierno portrayed the long war as a return to the type of struggle America faced in the Cold War, but Clausewitz might have found this fusion of strategy and politics familiar, and Tai Kung might have endorsed the emphasis on finance. Peters’ points about the power of will, ‘image and idea’ also resonate with many in the first decade of the twenty-first century. Odierno acknowledged that the long war would entail countering propaganda and misinformation (Garamone 2006). Although Peters himself speaks sarcastically of ‘shock and awe’, those who developed this concept set themselves the overall objective of controlling ‘the adversary’s will, perceptions and understanding’ (Ullman and Wade 1996). Indeed, far from downplaying the importance of human factors, British and American military thinkers circa 2005 normally emphasized the importance of integrating them into planning at every level, often citing the problems of fighting irregular opponents such as terrorists when doing so (Clow 2005: 35). An influential movement in both countries’ military planning circles sought to replace the hallowed military term the ‘objective’ with the alternative expression ‘effect’ (Clow 2005: 35). The word objective suggests an objective-ly recognizable material goal, such as capturing a certain hill or killing a certain group of enemy soldiers. Although one presumes that accomplishing such things will compel one’s enemies to conform to one’s desires, objective-based thinking encourages military commanders to focus on their units’ specific assignments, without worrying about the process by which capturing hills and destroying enemy forces achieves larger war aims. Even Clausewitz qualified his view of war with the observation that political considerations would not determine ‘the employment of patrols’ (Clausewitz 1976: 606). For US combat units occupying Iraq, Clausewitz’s qualification no longer applies (Caraccilo et al. 2004: 12). Advocates of so-called effects-based operations believe that strategists would be wise to pay more explicit attention to such factors at every stage of the planning process. Effects-based operations, in the words of the US Joint Forces Command, require commanders to focus on ‘[O]btaining a desired strategic outcome or “effect” on the enemy, through the synergistic, multiplicative and cumulative application of the full range of military and non-military capabilities at the tactical, strategic and operational levels’ (Clow 2005: 35). One notes that T’ai Kung, Sun Tzu, and numerous other ancient Chinese thinkers were particularly interested in the possibilities

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inherent in combining military and non-military capabilities at multiple levels as well.

Intelligence Intelligence specialists also go through recognizable cycles of modernism and postmodernism in their thought. Once again, the information technology of the 1990s inspired a modernistic trend and the events of the twenty-first century inspired a postmodernist reaction. RMA enthusiasts speak confidently of achieving ‘total battlespace awareness’ (Brundidge 2005). One proponent of this concept identifies the ‘pillars’ of such awareness as technology, processes and people (Brundidge 2005). The emphasis on technology and (rationally optimized) processes is manifestly modernistic, and the third pillar becomes more so when one learns that the author sees the art of using people primarily in terms of indoctrinating, training and developing them to follow the previously mentioned processes and use the previously mentioned technology (Brundidge 2005). This modernistic view of ‘information assurance’ remains alive and well in the twenty-first century. The author who wrote of the three pillars of battlespace awareness published his work in 2005. Nevertheless, the American intelligence community’s failure to predict India’s 1998 nuclear tests and Serbia’s success at hiding its military equipment from NATO reconnaissance during the 1999 Kosovo War casts doubt on the ability of information technology to achieve total awareness even of large, visible, material objects such as tanks and nuclear production facilities (Gormley 2004: 11; Tilford 1999–2000: 32–3). The September 11 attacks underscored the importance of human spies as a means of uncovering things which no sensor can image, such as the plans of a terrorist cell. Two years later, American and British leaders strongly hinted that their intelligence sources had given them reason to believe that Saddam Hussein’s Iraq either had or would soon develop threatening weapons of mass destruction (WMD). After the 2003 invasion, coalition forces produced only trivial evidence of Iraqi WMD. This led analyst Thomas Powers to ask ‘How could the CIA, with a budget in the many billions and a total staff approaching 20,000, get things so badly wrong?’ (Gormley 2004: 7). David Brooks of the New York Times (NYT) answered this question by arguing that the problem lay in the intelligence community’s excessively modernistic approach. In his view, the CIA’s emphasis on presumably scientific methods had deprived its analysts of the opportunity to use intuition and imagination (Gormley 2004: 14). Author Dennis Gormley finds Brooks’ own research methods inadequate, suggesting that the NYT columnist was too ready to take the CIA’s claim to possess a scientifically rigorous ‘tradecraft’ at face value (Gormley 2004: 14). Nevertheless, although Gormley would actually prefer for the CIA to place more

From modernism to postmodernism 103 emphasis on formal methods of analysis, he goes on to develop a decidedly postmodern theme of his own. The American intelligence community’s earlier failures to predict Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor, the Soviet Union’s decision to place nuclear missiles in Cuba, the Soviet Union’s subsequent decision to crush ideological dissent in Czechoslovakia and Egypt’s surprise attack on Israel in 1973 led prominent intelligence scholars to conclude that the blame for these mistakes lay, not merely with analysts who failed to collate data on these matters appropriately, but with leaders who lacked the political vision to imagine what the collated data might actually mean (Gormley 2004: 19; Wohlstetter 1965: passim). Gormley goes even further, citing the work of Gregory Treverton (Gormley 2004: 19). Treverton suggests, not only that interpreting intelligence requires onesided political judgement on the part of the interpreters, but that intelligence operations are part of a two-sided process in which one ‘co-creates’ a situation with one’s opponents (Gormley 2004: 19). Gormley illustrates this point by noting that the excessively rigid intelligence methods used by Britain and France in 1940 not only contributed to those countries’ failure to anticipate Germany’s surprise attack through the Ardennes but actually encouraged German leaders to adopt that strategy (Gormley 2004: 20). Intelligence operations, in other words, interact with all other aspects of grand strategy. To use them effectively, one must exercise the same postmodernist combination of judgement, creativity and holistic thought that one requires to conduct ‘effect-based’ military operations.

Best left to philosophers? In ancient China, developments in the art of war were often intertwined with developments in moral attitudes towards war. The shift from the semiceremonial warfare revered (if not exclusively practised) in the Chou period to the unsentimental methods of the Warring States reflected, not only a change in technology, but a change in people’s understanding of what war was properly all about. Strategic thinkers of the nineteenth, twentieth and twentyfirst centuries have also encountered this phenomenon. Many of the specific issues in contemporary military ethics have no parallel in ancient China, and vice versa. Confucius never had to consider the moral implications of a nuclear winter, and twentieth/twenty-first century ethicist Michael Walzer had no pressing need to address the propriety of repeating divinations. Nevertheless, more basic questions about when and how it is acceptable to kill remain pressing in both periods. Not only did Clausewitz’s theory propose limits to strategy, it practically denied the existence of military ethics. ‘Kind-hearted people might of course think there was some ingenious way to disarm or defeat an enemy without too much bloodshed’, the Prussian observes on the first page of his first

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chapter (Clausewitz 1976: 75). ‘Pleasant as it sounds, it is a fallacy that must be exposed: war is such a dangerous business that the mistakes which come from kindness are the very worst’ (Clausewitz 1976: 75). If one side uses force without compunction, undeterred by the bloodshed it involves while the other side refrains, the first will gain the upper hand. That side will force the other to follow suit; each will drive its opponent toward extremes, and the only limiting factors are the counterpoises inherent in war. (Clausewitz 1976: 75–6) True to his principle that war itself exists only in its political context, Clausewitz allows that ‘wars between civilized nations’ may be ‘less cruel’ than ‘wars between savages’, the reason lying in ‘the social conditions of the states themselves and in their relationships to one another’ (Clausewitz 1976: 76). Nevertheless, he warns, the fear, wrath and hatred that accompany warfare commonly transform those social conditions and relationships. Ultimately, if ‘civilized nations do not put their prisoners to death or devastate cities and countries, it is because intelligence plays a larger part in their methods of warfare and has taught them more effective ways of using force than the crude expression of instinct’ (Clausewitz 1976: 76). Later, Clausewitz dismisses ethical questions about both the nature of war and certain particularly controversial tactics in a single sentence. ‘We shall leave both to the philosophers’ (Clausewitz 1976: 479). This may be more than casual cynicism. If, as Clausewitz holds, the social relationships that ‘circumscribe and moderate’ war are not themselves part of war, discussions concerning the ethics of these relationships may lie beyond the competence of a mere strategist. Clausewitz does not, however, suggest any great willingness to defer to those philosophers who judge effective military methods unethical. Numerous other thinkers have proposed a greater role for ethics and even compassion in military affairs. A comprehensive review of their writings lies beyond the scope of this book. Those who would dismiss these thinkers as dreamers must acknowledge that their views influenced nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first century governments to commit themselves to a substantial body of treaty agreements restricting both the circumstances in which states may justly wage war and the methods states may use in the process. Far from being naïve idealists, the leaders who negotiated these treaties were often the same ones who led their nations to victory in cataclysmic wars. States have commonly taken these commitments seriously enough to incorporate them into their own legal codes, imposing criminal penalties on their own military personnel for violating them. (See, for instance, America’s War Crimes Act, US Code 18.2441. For discussion, see Mayer 2006: 41.)

From modernism to postmodernism 105 Nevertheless, advances in military technology and military thought have repeatedly confirmed Clausewitz’s scepticism. Woodrow Wilson’s hope to mitigate war by founding a League of Nations on rational principles was, in its own way, modernistic, but modernism in strategic thought has repeatedly overridden the hopes of liberal reformers. When Giulio Douhet considered what he believed to be the logically certain consequences of using aircraft in war, he did not flinch from concluding that air forces would intentionally devastate cities. Although the participants in the Hague Conference of 1907 attempted to prohibit ‘wanton bombardment’ of civilians, the air strategists of the Second World War conducted themselves much as Douhet would have predicted and advised (Rizer 2001). Those who hope to reconcile ethical and humanitarian concern with strategic modernity may find the fact that neither side used chemical weapons in the Second World War encouraging, but they must find the fact that the Cold War antagonists planned to use nuclear weapons by the tens of thousands less so. Material progress and modernistic strategic thought pushed war to greater extremes of brutality in Warring States China as well. Strategic modernism is not, however, synonymous with bloodthirstiness. Seventeenth-century commentators hoped that the invention of firearms would make war less horrible, and late-twentieth-century commentators had similar hopes for military information technology (Dunlap 1999: 24). Such technology allows combatants to choose and strike targets more accurately, potentially reducing the risk to bystanders. As authors George and Merideth Friedman put it: The accuracy of [Precision-Guided Munitions] PGMs promises to give us a very different age, perhaps a more humane one. It is odd to speak favorably about the moral character of a weapon, but the image of a Tomahawk missile slamming precisely into its target when contrasted with the strategic bombardments of World War II does in fact contain a deep moral message and meaning. War may well be a ubiquitous part of the human condition, but war’s permanence does not necessarily mean that the slaughters of the 20th century are permanent. (Dunlap 1999: 25) Supporters of the United Nations coalition that fought the 1990–91 Gulf War portrayed the coalition’s extensive (for the time) use of precision weapons as compassionate, and thus as morally superior. The scholar Brendan Howe reviews these arguments in his study of the normative dimensions of the Gulf War (Howe 2003: 205; Howe 2003: 209–10). In an interview with Time magazine, one military advocate of information warfare raised the hope that future armed forces might be able to disable their opponents without bloodshed by manipulating enemy computers (Dunlap 1999: 25). Developments in non-lethal weapons such as noise generators and incapacitating sticky foam

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offered more plausible ways of defeating certain types of opponents without needing to kill them. Col. Charles J. Dunlap Jr. notes that this ‘impetus to seek technological solutions to virtually every human dilemma – even the costly viciousness of war – is quintessentially American’ (Dunlap 1999: 25). The impetus is also quintessentially modernistic. RMA advocates maintained that their methods would be more effective as well as more humane. The fact that the developed states of the 1990s had no rivals capable of destroying them gave strategists a margin of error on this point. Even if the RMA failed to work as well as planned, Western state leaders had few reasons to fear that less scrupulous enemies would take advantage of their self-imposed restrictions to destroy them. This at least suggested that they had an ethical duty to use RMA concepts and technology as extensively as possible. Whether or not intellectual ethicists would have recognized such a duty in principle, political leaders perceived that their people expected them to recognize it in practice. In developing defense policy for the twenty-first century, leaders must deal with two related aspects of post-Vietnam and post-[1990–1991] Gulf War America. The first is the growing aversion in both the electorate and [emphasis in original] the uniformed ranks toward incurring virtually any friendly casualties in many military operations. The second, which Walter Boyne points out is ‘unusual in history’ requires wars to be won with ‘a minimum number of casualties inflicted on the enemy’. (Dunlap 1999: 27) Many inside and outside the military warned that such ideas could have unwanted consequences. NATO’s attempt to defeat Serbia in 1999 without suffering a single friendly casualty attracted particularly widespread criticism (Tilford 1999–2000: 37). One group of critics pointed out that, even in an age of information warfare, this sort of squeamishness remained a potentially crippling handicap in battle (Tilford 1999–2000: 37). Another group warned that the perception that war was becoming safer and more humane might tempt political leaders to use force more readily (Dunlap 1999: 41, 45). Others pointed out that information-age war remained bloodier than its advocates cared to acknowledge. Humanitarians noted, for instance, that the popular image of the 1990–91 conflict as a clean war of precision weapons was misleading. Coalition bombardments killed over 10,000 civilians in that campaign (Howe 2003: 210). A humanitarian modernist might respond that the Western forces could have been kinder if only they had possessed larger stockpiles of information-age weapons. Of the 88,500 tons of ordinance the 1990–91 coalition fired against Iraqi targets, only 7 per cent was precisionguided (Howe 2003: 210).

From modernism to postmodernism 107 A decade later, Western armed forces possessed information-age technology in much greater quantities. Nevertheless, even when armed forces had precision weapons available, they did not always find them useful. As one Afghan militia leader observed during the American-led coalition’s attempts to destroy Taliban forces with carefully targeted strikes, ‘a few bombs around Kabul won’t do anything’ (Evans 2001: 5). The coalition later began to bombard its opponents more heavily, not only with guided weapons aimed at carefully chosen targets, but with fuel-air explosives designed to incinerate everything within a broad radius. America’s Afghan supporters stated that they found the more savage attacks more encouraging. ‘I have never seen anything like it’, one Western-aligned Afghan marvelled, ‘It is horrible and wonderful’ (Cobain 2001: 8). The rapidly ensuing disintegration of the Taliban forces suggests that they found the more brutal attacks ‘horrible’ as well. Moreover, many twenty-first century military thinkers suggested that they lived in a savage age, and that such an age justified savage methods. Cofer Black, the former director of the Central Intelligence Agency’s Counterterrorism Center, summed up the G.W. Bush Administration’s ethical response to the political developments of the period with his remark ‘after 9/11, the gloves came off’ (Kaplan 2003). Peters assures us that the counterrevolution in military affairs will be a bloody one. If the modernist trend of the 1990s inspired many to hope for a kinder way to fight wars, the postmodern reaction of the twenty-first century has inspired many to return to a harsher form of pragmatism. Meanwhile, among academics, the experience of combat since 1990 has fuelled ethical reflection of a sort the Chou dynasty Chinese might have found familiar. A variety of ethicists have criticized emerging military methods on the grounds that, regardless of their kindness or cruelty, they violate a morally indispensable etiquette of war. Brendan Howe criticizes the UN coalition’s conduct in the 1990–91 Gulf War, not only for the total number of casualties it inflicted, but for the ‘extraordinary lopsidedness’ of deaths (Howe 2003: 208). Howe goes on to suggest that scholars Victoria Brittain and Jean Bethke Elshtain share many of his concerns (Howe 2003: 208). These thinkers would, in other words, have felt morally more comfortable if more coalition soldiers had died. Professor of philosophy Paul Gilbert develops this point in detail. Gilbert notes that the Geneva Convention of 1949 institutionalized an ancient understanding that it is unjust to use disproportionate force in war (Gilbert 2005: 100). The World Court has also accepted this principle (Gilbert 2005: 100). The Geneva Convention and the World Court focus their discussion of proportionality on the problem of limiting unnecessary harm to civilians (Gilbert 2005: 100). Gilbert, however, extends the concept to suggest that there is a ‘tacit agreement or contract’ of fair play between soldiers, and that

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‘short cuts to victory’ violate the terms of this contract (Gilbert 2005: 105). The contract allows combatants to seek sufficient advantage to prevail in a ‘contest of arms’ but not to use such overwhelmingly effective means that no ‘contest’ takes place (Gilbert 2005: 104–5). One must offer one’s opponent a meaningful chance to fight back, and one must expose one’s own troops to a meaningful chance of death. Such arguments have widespread support. Rob van den Toorn has summarized the positions of numerous well-respected thinkers who maintain that it is wrong to kill more members of an outside group than one loses of one’s own (Toorn 2003: 224). One of these thinkers, Jean Bethke Elshtain, explicitly states that her concern is not merely ‘lodged [in] respect for human life (Toorn 2003: 224). She would presumably find one-sided methods of killing akin to racism even if they reduced the total number of deaths on both sides (Toorn 2003: 224). Although Gilbert articulates these ideas in an academic journal, he suggests that most people outside academia already understand them intuitively. The British government’s critics accused Britain’s armed forces of using unfair means against Argentina in the 1982 Falklands War (Gilbert 2005: 101). Similar themes appear in public debates over the Gulf Wars of 1990–1 and 2003 (Gilbert 2005: 101). Gilbert also asserts that soldiers universally demand fair treatment from their enemies and feel ‘righteous indignation’ when they fail to receive it (Gilbert 2005: 107). Like the moralists of the Chou dynasty, Gilbert warns those who would violate the ‘conventions of professional soldiering’ that wrongfully gained advantages are unlikely to prove satisfactory for long (Gilbert 2005: 107). Where the ancient Chinese asserted that those who used dishonourable means would alienate their own supporters, Gilbert merely notes that, in theory, one would ‘expect’ disproportionate attacks to be ‘anathematised’ (Gilbert 2005: 106). Gilbert feels more confident in agreeing with his Chou dynasty predecessors that unfair methods invite retaliation (Gilbert 2005: 107). Moreover, Gilbert follows the ancient Chinese thinkers’ example by suggesting that the ‘conventions of professional soldiering’ are a foundation stone in the larger edifice of conventions that is civilization. Once one side has committed a ‘breach of the rules’, Gilbert tells us, the opposing side will ‘feel free to break the rules in its turn, just as the Iraqis have by employing terrorist methods and violating civilian immunities’ (Gilbert 2005: 107). Gilbert does not speculate on how far this process might lead. Confucius warned the feudal rulers of his time that an analogous process would destroy their own holdings, their system of government, and, ultimately, the culture that had made their way of life possible. Chinese history unfolded much as Confucius feared. Van den Toorn also suggests that the unfair tactics of technologically advanced powers compel us to re-think far broader assumptions about the

From modernism to postmodernism 109 morally acceptable use of violence. He is, however, optimistic about the process. Van den Toorn paraphrases Annette Baier in support of his view. According to van den Toorn’s interpretation of Baier, humanity is in a process of ‘education in the morality of violence’ (Toorn 2003: 224). To progress in this education, one must recognize the unfairness of one-sided violence in war. Not only must one accept that such violence provokes retaliatory terrorism, one must acknowledge the justice of such retaliation. ‘[T] he response to terrorist violence should not be counterviolence or condemnation but inclusion and removal of the grounds for resentment’ (Toorn 2003: 225). There are Chou Dynasty precedents for these ideas as well. The Chou rulers resolved numerous conflicts by accepting former enemies into their empire. This often required them to modify their own concepts of civilization to accommodate the new arrangement. Thus did the formerly barbarian realms of Ch’in, Ch’u and Wu become valued parts of China. Thus did generations of Chou rulers not only co-exist with powerful provincial lords but enlist their aid in maintaining order within the empire. Moreover, ancient Chinese thinkers understood this process in terms that van den Toorn and Baier might well applaud. A second century BC work titled The Masters of Huinan relates an anecdote from the Chin-Ch’u wars of the Spring and Autumn period. Chin had invaded Ch’u, and the more belligerent members of the Ch’u court wanted to strike back. Ch’u’s king, however, reflected that his enemies had not invaded during his predecessor’s time on the throne. ‘[N]ow that Jin [Chin] is attacking during my reign, it must be my fault. What can be done for this disgrace?’ (Zhuge 1989: 6). According to The Masters of Huinan, the people of Chin were so moved by the Ch’u king’s humility that they called off their attack (Zhuge 1989: 6). The Masters of Huinan draws a lesson from this tale. ‘This is why the Tao Te Ching says “Who can accept the disgrace of the nation is called ruler of the land” ’ (Zhuge 1989: 7). More traditional military thinkers might differ, in ancient China and today. The Tao Te Ching is, however, harder to dismiss when it suggests that no one is strong enough to conquer the whole universe by force (Lao 1972: 30). Clausewitz himself wrote that a view of war based upon purely military considerations would be absurd (Clausewitz 1976: 607). ‘So policy converts the overwhelmingly destructive element of war into a mere instrument’ (Clausewitz 1976: 606). To accomplish anything useful with this instrument, Clausewitz argues in detail elsewhere, one must convince one’s surviving enemies to consent to the outcome (Clausewitz 1976: 80–1). Although Clausewitz does not draw explicit ethical conclusions from this point, one may observe that both sides will find it easier to negotiate a peace settlement if they can agree upon even a few shared moral principles. One may also reverse Clausewitz’s statements to suggest that those who cannot find common ground with their enemies face a future of futile and overwhelming

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destruction. Strategists who wish to avoid such a future must plan for a time beyond war, and therefore those who reflect on twenty-first century warfare are wise to take note of those who reflect upon its morality.

Conclusion The previous two chapters have explored the development of strategic thought in ancient China and in the contemporary West. Taken separately, these chapters help us to understand both ancient Chinese ideas and contemporary ones in greater context, and thus to explore their nuances more perceptively. Taken together, these chapters help one to identify the points at which ancient Chinese ideas speak most directly to contemporary concerns. The next chapter will begin the task of using this material for those purposes, combing ancient Chinese literature for insights into the general nature of war.

4

The nature of war

A theorist’s first task is to define the subject she or he is theorizing about. Few theorists have taken this job more seriously than Carl von Clausewitz, who devotes Book One of his magnum opus solely to establishing the nature of war (Clausewitz 1976: 75–123). Clausewitz returns to the problem frequently throughout the other seven books that make up his treatise. As Chapter 3 noted, other strategic thinkers have used his work as a foil for their own explorations of this topic ever since. Not only are these debates interesting from a theoretical point of view, they have practical implications. One’s conceptual understanding of war shapes one’s views of such matters as the type of forces one must seek to acquire, the circumstances in which one must use them, the methods one will use in employing them, the way in which one must evaluate potential enemies and the degree to which one must subordinate one’s moral and political concerns to military necessity. Ancient Chinese writers presented their ideas differently from Clausewitz and his successors. Nevertheless, as soon as they began to treat strategy as a subject for reasoned analysis, they began to consider similar questions about the nature of war, with similar implications for military operations and politics. This chapter reviews their treatment of these issues. The first section notes that, like Clausewitz, ancient Chinese strategists tended to see war as a political instrument. Like the people of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the ancient Chinese lived in an age in which it was becoming increasingly possible for governments to use and modify this instrument in new, effective and frequently disturbing ways. This widened the gap between moral thinkers and pragmatists. The fall of Ch’in unleashed a reaction against the more aggressive, amoral and intellectually modernist schools of thought. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu’s Art of War and an assortment of related literature survived with its reputation relatively intact, perhaps because it acknowledged limits to the utility of war. Sun Tzu and his admirers paid particular attention to the social and economic restraints on military activity. A second section explores this theme in detail. The third section explores the degree to which cultural idiosyncrasies governed ancient Chinese ideas about war. Since the ancient Chinese often

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presented moral arguments in cultural terms, this discussion adds to our understanding of how the ancient Chinese strategic tradition attempted to reconcile morality with military necessity. A fourth section discusses the ways in which ancient Chinese thinkers applied their ideas about the instrumentality of war to long-term grand strategy.

War: its uses and abuses Those who adhered to the primordial Chinese view of war as one of the ‘great ceremonies of the spirits’ had little need to probe its nature any further (Kierman 1974: 28). If one is to believe the Lord of Liu, who articulated the primordial viewpoint, one masters ‘patterns for action’ through ‘sincerity’ and respectful adherence to tradition, not through critical analysis (Kierman 1974: 28). Perhaps in deference to this attitude, allegedly early works on strategy present strategic ideas as revelations and sagely instruction. King Wen of Chou supposedly found T’ai Kung by obeying the instructions of a fortune-teller, and the words of the augury described the strategist as the king’s ‘teacher’ (Sawyer 1993: 40). Before meeting T’ai Kung, the king purified himself by following a vegetarian diet (Sawyer 1993: 40). King Wen repeated this ritual before receiving instruction on such critical matters as the preservation of the state (Sawyer 1993: 40, 47). Although there is no reason to assume that Wen and T’ai Kung intended to imply a contrast between their methods and the customary view of war and sacrifice as occasions for acquiring and consuming meat, the symbolism of a ritual subverted is appropriate. When King Wen asked T’ai Kung the fundamental question of why some states thrive while others collapse, the strategist began in a conventionally pious vein by noting the importance of moral conduct, but proceeded onwards to the more suggestive conclusion that ‘[f]ortune and misfortune lie with the ruler, not with the seasons of Heaven’ (Sawyer 1993: 42). This implies that rulers must understand war clearly enough to direct it for their own purposes. No longer may rulers simply defer to custom. Moreover, if rulers are to take on this responsibility, they must learn what they are up against. In this spirit, King Wen asked T’ai Kung to tell him the tao (way) of military operations (Sawyer 1993: 51, 68). If Wen wanted a simple statement defining war, the sage disappointed him. T’ai Kung disparaged attempts to reduce the nature of war to a formula: ‘[W]ords which discuss ultimate affairs are not worth listening to’ (Sawyer 1993: 68). The sage did, however, propose a way for one to begin thinking about military affairs. First, T’ai Kung observed, wise strategists base their tactics on the enemy’s movements (Sawyer 1993: 68). Secondly, in T’ai Kung’s view, one should recognize that sound strategy arises from ‘the inexhaustible resources [of the mind]’ (Sawyer 1993: 68).

The nature of war 113 Of these two sources for military planning, the latter is the most important. This is because ‘one who excels in warfare’ will not wait passively for the enemy to act (Sawyer 1993: 68). Rather, such a strategist will take the initiative, pre-empting ‘misfortunes’, cultivating favourable circumstances and generally ‘being victorious over the formless’ (Sawyer 1993: 68–9). These teachings apply, not only to unorthodox ch’i manoeuvres, but to conventional cheng actions as well (Sawyer 1993: 68). Despite T’ai Kung’s reluctance to sum up the nature of war in a sentence, his observations imply a number of fundamental claims about the subject under discussion. The sage’s observation that fortune and misfortune lie with the ruler suggests that the primary actors in war are state leaders, and that these leaders use war to achieve material advantage. Both this and his comment about deriving strategy from the inexhaustible resources of the mind confirm that he sees war as an activity in which people act consciously for their own conscious reasons. So far, T’ai Kung’s unspoken definition of war seems compatible with both Clausewitz’s statement that war is a ‘serious means to a serious end’ and the Prussian’s conclusion that war is merely a continuation of politics by other means (Clausewitz 1976: 86). One notes, however, that T’ai Kung is intellectually bolder – where On War stressed limits on warfare, the previously quoted passages from the Six Secret Teachings suggest that a strategist’s resources are ‘inexhaustible’. Neither T’ai Kung nor Clausewitz offer any infallible way to distinguish war from related activities. Both, however, suggest standards by which to judge and reform military methods. A good strategy, both would tell us, is one that achieves one’s broader political goals. This view of war as a rational means to an end was novel in T’ai Kung’s China and remains controversial today (Van Creveld 1991: passim). If, however, one chooses to accept this view, one need only identify one’s political goals to begin considering the comparative advantages of using various military approaches to achieve them. T’ai Kung’s reluctance to generalize suggests postmodern sensibilities. Nevertheless, the modernistic implications of his teachings are more obvious. The Six Secret Teachings’ insistence that fortune and misfortune depend on human choices, for instance, is a manifesto for modernism. T’ai Kung’s claim that human beings may apply reason and effort to triumph over ‘the formless’ invites even more radically modernistic conclusions, suggesting that people may be able to achieve control over processes formerly viewed as unknowable and ungovernable. We have no way of knowing which subsequent Chinese strategic thinkers read the Six Secret Teachings, but many of those writers began their works from the same modernistic premises as T’ai Kung. Sun Tzu opens his Art of War by observing that ‘war is a matter of vital importance to the state; a matter of life or death’, which must therefore ‘be studied thoroughly’ (Tao 1986: 94). In this statement, Sun Tzu clearly assumes that states are the primary actors in war,

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that the importance of war lies, not in its spiritual or cultural significance but in its tangible consequences and that one can employ military forces more effectively by consciously studying their use. Different writers went on to develop these ideas in a variety of different directions. The humanitarian Mo Tzu not only presented war as an instrument of rational state policy but used this concept as the basis for his argument in favour of pacifism. Having discussed the evils of war, he wrote: All this is so: and why? The answer in defence of [war] is: we covet the fame and the profit of being victors in war. That is why [war] takes place. And the word of our Master Mo in reply is: Reckon up what they win for themselves; it is nothing of any use. Reckon up what they gain: it is the exact opposite of profit; far less than the loss. (Hughes 1972a: 103) Nor was Mo Tzu attempting to redefine profit and loss in intangible moral terms. As noted in Chapter 2, he lived in an era when most states had more useful land than their people could cultivate. Therefore, he could argue: [T]o bring the people to death and aggravate the troubles of high and low in order to quarrel over [territory], this logically is to throw away that of which you have too little and to double that of which you have too much. To put the affairs of state right in this fashion is directly counter to the interest of the state. (Hughes 1972a: 104) The growth of China’s population and the invention of more efficient farming techniques allowed Legalists such as Shang Yang to follow the same logic to the opposite conclusion (Needham et al. 1971: 162; Hughes 1972b: 138, 145). Once people were clearly expendable, state leaders no longer needed to view cultivating fallow land and conquering more land from others as mutually exclusive alternatives. Rather, they could use the profits from newly cultivated lands in their own kingdoms to finance the conquest of yet more land from others, which would then provide the resources for even larger conquests. The Ssu-ma fa (Methods of the Minister of War), a text probably compiled in the fourth century BC and associated with the state of Ch’i tersely notes that ‘when uprightness failed to attain the desired [moral and political] objectives, [rulers resorted to] authority’, and that ‘[a]uthority comes from warfare, not from harmony among men’ (Sawyer 1993: 111, 126).

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Right vs. might The Confucians, on the other hand, challenged Tai Kung’s view of war as a mere political instrument. Although they did not all deny that it was possible to use violence to achieve political ends, they exhorted rulers not to view state affairs in such narrowly pragmatic terms. ‘The gentleman’, Confucius wrote, ‘occupies himself with the Way and not with his livelihood’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 25). If rulers set a stronger moral example, he noted on another occasion, others would imitate them. ‘The weeds under the force of the wind cannot but bend’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 33). Confucius explicitly applied this principle to statecraft. When a nobleman asked him how to deal with foreign raiders, he responded ‘if you, sir, were not covetous, neither would they steal, even if you were to bribe them to do so’ (Jennings 1972: 12). Confucius accepted the existence of armed forces, and presumably accepted that rulers would occasionally use them. In a conversation with a companion named Tzu Kung, he listed ‘troops’ among the three ‘essentials’ of a state, along with food and the ‘confidence of the people’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 33). Nevertheless, Confucius held that it was better to die with one’s ‘humanity’ intact than to preserve one’s life through inhumane deeds (de Bary et al. 1960: 27). In his exchange with Tzu Kung, he made it clear that he applied this principle to societies as well as individuals: Tzu Kung said: ‘Suppose you were forced to give up one of those three [essentials], which would you let go first?’ Confucius said: ‘The troops’. Tzu King asked again: ‘If you are forced to give up one of the two remaining, which would you let go?’ Confucius said: ‘Food. For from of old, death has been the lot of all men, but a people without faith cannot survive’. (de Bary et al. 1960: 33) Such preaching held little to persuade those who rejected Confucius’ vision of gentlemanly conduct. Legalist writers dismissed Confucian idealism as pious nonsense. In the words of Han Fei Tzu: [W]hen males are born [parents] congratulate each other and when females are born, [parents] lessen the care of them. Equally coming out from the bosoms and lapels of the parents, why should boys receive congratulations while girls are ill-treated? Because parents consider their future conveniences and calculate their permanent benefits. Thus, even parents in relation to children use the calculating mind in treating them, how much more should those who have no affection of parent and child? The learned men of to-day, on counselling the lord of men, all persuade him to discard the profit-seeking mind and follow the way of mutual

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Having reasserted Tai Kung’s pragmatism, the Legalists proceeded to draw their own increasingly ruthless conclusions. The rise of Ch’in’s empire may have appeared to vindicate their approach, but its downfall inspired a resurgence of idealism. Chia I, a courtier and man of letters of the early Han dynasty (201–169 BC), revived the pre-modern idea that moral conduct has worldly consequences (de Bary et al. 1960: 150). Ch’in fell, he concluded ‘[b]ecause it failed to rule with humanity and righteousness and to realize that the power to attack and the power to retain what one has thereby won are not the same’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 152). Other Han Dynasty thinkers went a step farther, rejecting the very idea that one can achieve political aims through war. Where Tai Kung had broken with ancient conservatism by urging rulers to take responsibility for their own destiny, these thinkers returned to China’s oldest known texts to condemn self-help as hubris. When historian Pan Piao (AD 3–54) reflected on the fall of Ch’in and its aftermath, he took pains to squelch the idea that Han Dynasty founder Liu Pang (who ruled as Emperor Kao-tzu) might have won his victories through effort and initiative, like a hunter in a ‘deer chase in which success goes to the luckiest and swiftest’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 177–8). Those who see politics as a deer chase, Pan Piao continues ‘do not understand that this sacred vessel, the rule of the empire, is transmitted according to destiny and cannot be won either by craft or by force’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 178). Pan Piao goes on to relate anecdotes about men who humbly passed up opportunities to seize political power, and thus avoided disaster (de Bary et al. 1960: 178–9). In conclusion, he reiterates that ‘the sacred vessel of rule must be given from on high’ and warns those who would obtain it through their own efforts not to ‘covet that which they could never hope for’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 180). In his essay, Pan Piao repeatedly invokes passages from the mystical text known as the I Ching (de Bary et al. 1960: 178–80). According to Chinese legend, the I Ching dates back to 2953 BC (Baskin 1972: 27). Confucius and his followers admired it and commented upon it extensively (Baskin 1972: 27). Both the I Ching and its Confucian interpreters support Pan Piao’s suggestion that restraint – and, indeed, passivity – is an end in itself. ‘[I]f he take the initiative’, the I Ching warns, ‘he will go astray’ (Legge 1972b: 30). Since the I Ching applies this comment to ‘the superior man’, one may infer that ordinary mortals should be even more circumspect (Legge 1972b: 30). A later section emphasizes that even the ‘superior man’ keeps ‘his excellence under restraint’ (Legge 1972b: 30). Many of the classic commentaries on the I Ching elaborate upon these passages (Legge 1972b: 31; Legge 1972b: 37).

The nature of war 117 Nevertheless, neither the I Ching nor its admirers address the arguments which Tai Kung’s adherents might make on their own behalf. Although Pan Piao cites examples of people who overreached themselves and paid the price, a pragmatist might respond that one can find equally stark examples of state leaders who erred through their refusal to act. Later centuries of Chinese history provide a vivid case in point. Pan Piao could only have applauded the Ming Dynasty bureaucrats who prohibited maritime commerce and allowed the Chinese empire’s fleet of formidable ocean-going ships to disintegrate at their docks. Those bureaucrats’ decision exposed the Chinese empire to swift punishment at the hands of wokou buccaneers and later humiliation at the hands of Britain’s Royal Navy.

Beyond realism and idealism Thus, although the Han Dynasty idealists were in a position to consider Ch’inera strategic thought with the benefit of hindsight, their appraisal of it seems less than definitive. The debate between realism and idealism has gone stale in contemporary international relations scholarship, and it appears to have been equally fatuous in ancient China. Fortunately for those who accept the premise that state rulers can take charge of their own affairs but shrink from what the Legalists presented as this idea’s logical conclusions, other pre-Ch’in strategists took Tai Kung’s line of thinking in other directions. After Ch’in’s fall, later generations of strategists were able to return to these alternative themes. Sun Tzu, for instance, acknowledged war’s value as a political instrument, but he saw no need to advocate unlimited aggression, nor did he assume that military policy would always take precedence over other social and political concerns. In fact, Sun Tzu prefers to err on the side of caution. Even those ‘skilled in war’, he warns, cannot ‘cause an enemy to be certainly vulnerable’ (Tao 1986: 101). Sun Tzu emphasizes prudence and conservation of resources at least as powerfully as he emphasizes boldness, and he implies that strategists face an imperative – perhaps of a moral nature – to minimize the ravages of war (Tao 1986: 97–8, 125–6). To be victorious, Sun Tzu notes, one must not only know when one can fight, but when one cannot (Tao 1986: 100). At this point, readers are entitled to ask how to tell the difference between times when fighting is wise and times when it is better to refrain. Although Sun Tzu offers pithy responses to this question, neither theorists nor war-fighters are likely to find his rejoinders satisfactory. Sun Tzu’s full thinking on the subject, however, may be more complex than short quotations from his work would suggest. When one examines his ideas in greater depth, one encounters a more nuanced, and perhaps more insightful, approach to the problem of discriminating between wise and unwise uses of force. The way in which Sun

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Tzu approaches this problem illuminates his more general thinking about the nature and purpose of war. In Chapter 11 of The Art of War, Sun Tzu seems to propose a simple formula for determining when to use force and when to hold back: ‘[A]t first you should pretend to be as shy as a maiden. When the enemy gives you an opening, be swift as a hare and he will be unable to withstand you’ (Tao 1986: 123). Ch’in, readers of Chapter 2 might recall, followed much this approach, with great initial success. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu’s critics may note that Ch’in fell in the end, and that the line about maidens and hares does not explain where the Legalist state went wrong. Michael Handel further criticizes Sun Tzu’s opportunism. In Handel’s view, Sun Tzu’s strategy is one of ‘mini-max’ (minimum risk, maximum gain) (Handel 1996: 174). Clausewitz, Handel notes, rejected this approach in favour of unhesitating audacity (Handel 1996: 175). Handel concludes his own discussion of this topic in the Prussian’s words: Whenever boldness encounters timidity, it is likely to be the winner, because timidity itself implies a loss of equilibrium. Boldness will be at a disadvantage only in an encounter with deliberate caution, which may be considered bold in its own right and is certainly just as powerful and effective; but such cases are rare [the emphasis is Handel’s]. (Handel 1996: 176) For an admirer of Sun Tzu, Clausewitz’s warning about losing equilibrium is particularly challenging. Those who go into battle ‘shy as a maiden’, Clausewitz implies, are unlikely to receive the ‘opening’ they hope for. To the contrary, they are presenting such an ‘opening’ to their enemies. Add to this the difficulties of recognizing and seizing opportunities in the chaos of military operations, and it is easy to see why successful mini-max strategies might be as rare as Handel and Clausewitz say that they are. Sun Tzu himself acknowledges similar points. When you fritter away your country’s resources on ‘protracted campaigns’, he notes, ‘the chieftains of the neighbouring states will take advantage of your crisis to act’ (Tao 1986: 97). This observation suggests that allowing military operations to drag on indefinitely while one shyly waits for the enemy to offer an ‘opening’ can only be a mistake. If Sun Tzu’s way of balancing the apparent uses of war as a political instrument against the moral and practical risks of reckless aggression is merely to advocate a cautious strategy of mini-max, his theory is not only militarily dubious but internally contradictory. Sun Tzu may not, however, be as neurotically committed to mini-max as Handel implies. The Art of War’s propositions about caution seem better-founded when one considers them in the context of the surrounding material. The advice about being ‘shy as a maiden’, for instance, does not stand alone as a universal

The nature of war 119 precept of strategy. Sun Tzu introduces it at the end of a paragraph in which he not only acknowledges the theoretical importance of seizing the initiative but suggests concrete ways of doing so: ‘Therefore when the time comes to execute the plan to attack, you should close the passes, rescind the passports, have no further intercourse with the enemy’s envoys …’ (Tao 1986: 122). These types of measures disrupt communications between one’s own state and the enemy country, presumably hampering the enemy’s ability to get accurate reports on one’s activities. Having done one’s best to obscure one’s movements, one should ‘[s]eize the place which the enemy values without making an appointment for battle with him’ (Tao 1986: 122). It is ‘[i]n executing this plan’ that one should ‘change according to the enemy situation in order to win victory’, and it is to this end that one should ‘pretend to be as shy as a maiden’ (Tao 1986: 123). In other words, a bold act at the strategic level of warfare – a surprise attack cloaked by an information blackout – creates a situation in which it is possible to await and exploit enemy mistakes at the tactical level. Sun Tzu’s use of strategic-level acts to create tactical opportunities initially seems to confirm one of Handel’s other conclusions. According to Handel, Sun Tzu views strategy as fundamentally more important than tactics. ‘Sun Tzu is primarily concerned with the conduct of war on the highest strategic level’ (Handel 1996: 33). This proposition, however, may fail to reveal Sun Tzu’s actual line of thinking. Although Sun Tzu’s scenario for launching a surprise attack puts strategy ahead of tactics, there are other passages in which The Art of War reverses this approach. Only two paragraphs before discussing his hypothetical surprise attack, Sun Tzu raises some discouraging points about grand strategy. ‘One ignorant of the plans of neighboring states cannot make alliances with them; if ignorant of the conditions of mountains, forests, dangerous defiles, swamps and marshes, he cannot conduct the march of an army …’ (Tao 1986: 122). The Art of War does not elaborate, but accurate descriptions of foreign terrain would have been difficult to come by in ancient China and reliable information about ‘the plans of neighbouring states’ has been elusive in every age. In other words, aspiring grand strategists will practically never have the kind of information The Art of War tells us that they need. Sun Tzu’s next paragraph suggests that there may be a way around the difficulties of basing one’s plans entirely upon grand expeditions and diplomacy: It follows that there is no need to contend against powerful combinations, nor is there any need to foster the power of other states. [The wise strategist] relies for the attainment of his aims on his ability to overawe his opponents. (Tao 1986: 122)

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Sun Tzu goes on to discuss technical – i.e. tactical – ways of overawing one’s enemies (Tao 1986: 122). Just as he used a strategic approach to create a tactically advantageous situation in his hypothetical surprise attack, he uses tactical ploys to overcome grand strategic problems. Most of his suggestions concern techniques for motivating one’s one troops to fight desperately. Sun Tzu himself reminds readers that these ideas are not universal prescriptions, and that one must change one’s plans according to the circumstances (Tao 1986: 123). For those who wish to understand ancient Chinese views of the nature of war, the most interesting part of this section is not Sun Tzu’s prescriptions for psychological warfare but the way in which Sun Tzu relates high-level planning to low-level planning. Sun Tzu does not, in fact, appear to prefer one level of warfare over another. Rather, he advises strategists to circumvent whatever problems they happen to be facing at one level of warfare by acting on another. Sun Tzu himself would have explained his approach in different terms. The Art of War does not explicitly distinguish between tactics, operations, strategy and grand strategy in the contemporary sense of these terms. Masters of War observes that Sun Tzu sees strategy and grand strategy as ‘integral parts of the same activity’ (Handel 1996: 37). This author would add that The Art of War seems to blend operations and tactics into that single activity as well. On these grounds, Handel contrasts Sun Tzu’s approach with that of Clausewitz, who insisted that the art of war must be ‘broken down’ into subordinate concepts (Handel 1996: 24). In fact, however, Sun Tzu also subdivides his ideas for purposes of analysis – he merely uses different analytical categories. ‘In battle, there are only the normal and the extraordinary forces’, Sun Tzu declares (Tao 1986: 103). The difference between the two concerns the role they play in a particular battle plan. ‘[U]se the normal force to engage and use the extraordinary to win’ (Tao 1986: 103). Sun Tzu’s surprise attack scenario uses a normal (or, at least, clearly defined) invasion strategy to throw the enemy into disarray, giving one’s troops extraordinary opportunities to exploit the enemy’s confusion. The discussion of alliances and terrain notes that conventional methods are unlikely to prove adequate for foreign expeditions but suggests extraordinary psychological tactics to address that problem. One notes that the same troops performing the same operation could constitute a normal force in one context and an extraordinary force in another. A similar observation applies to contemporary analytical concepts. The same unit of troops that plays a minor tactical role in one battle may achieve objectives of far-reaching strategic significance in another, possibly by performing almost identical activities. A sniper attack on an enemy patrol is a matter of tactics; a sniper attack on the enemy head of state may be a matter of strategy.

The nature of war 121 Once one becomes aware of Sun Tzu’s analytical system, one is in a better position to see how he identifies limits to the utility of war. Sun Tzu’s method of analysis parallels more general metaphysical writings found in Lao Tzu’s Tao Te Ching. As Chapter 1 noted, Sun Tzu may have consciously emulated Lao Tzu’s work. Even if he did not, the two authors based their work on roughly the same body of cultural understandings, historical experience and classic texts. Therefore, the connections between the two are probably significant, and Lao Tzu’s work has the potential to clarify areas of Sun Tzu’s thought. Just as Sun Tzu advises strategists to use ordinary operations to prepare the way for the extraordinary, Lao Tzu reflects on the way in which opposite qualities support one another. ‘Long and short contrast each other; high and low rest upon each other’ (Lao 1972: 2). One quality may be useful in certain circumstances, while another may be appropriate in another. ‘Movement overcomes cold. Stillness overcomes heat’ (Lao 1972: 45). Having considered such relationships, Sun Tzu continues ‘the musical notes are only five in number, but their combination gives rise to so numerous melodies that one cannot hear them all … [i]n battle there are only the normal and extraordinary forces, but their combinations are limitless; none can comprehend them all’ (Tao 1986: 103). On these grounds, Sun Tzu repeats Tai Kung’s statement that the resources of a skilled strategist are inexhaustible (Tao 1986: 103). Lao Tzu also observes that a small number of factors can produce an unfathomably huge range of outcomes. ‘One begot two. Two begot three. And three begot the ten thousand things’ (Lao 1972: 42). Initially, Lao Tzu and Sun Tzu seem to disagree about the proper response to these observations. Where Sun Tzu enthusiastically encourages strategists to use their inexhaustible resources in order to win victories, Lao Tzu holds that ‘the sage goes about doing nothing’ (Lao 1972: 2). Three lines later, however, the sage turns out to be ‘[w]orking, yet not taking credit’, indicating that Lao Tzu is also interested in achieving practical goals (Lao 1972: 2). The sage’s apparent idleness is not the passivity advocated in Pan Piao’s interpretation of the I Ching – it is the precision of a tailor who shapes cloth into garments with but a few well-placed cuts, the modesty of one who avoids arousing envy, the invisible mastery of one who can perform mental arithmetic without counting tools and the wisdom of one who knows when to wait (Lao 1972: 27–8). Like T’ai Kung, Lao Tzu and Sun Tzu advance the modernistic idea that people can study their world and use what they learn in a practical way. Unlike Confucius, neither of them ask their followers to forgo effective methods on the basis of idealism. ‘Give up sainthood’, the Tao Te Ching advises, ‘and it will be a hundred times better for everyone’ (Lao 1972: 19). The Art of War condemns those who go to war impulsively, but this is as much a practical injunction as an ethical one. For Sun Tzu and Lao Tzu, anything may be possible and anything may be permissible. These thinkers do, however, suggest grounds

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for rejecting the megalomania of more purely modernistic strategists such as the Legalists. Because Lao Tzu and Sun Tzu hold that the interaction between opposing principles can produce so many outcomes, they warn that no mortal can appreciate the full range of possibilities inherent in any situation. Where Sun Tzu exulted that the five musical notes produce so many melodies that one cannot hear them all, Lao Tzu rephrased the same statement as a warning: ‘The five tones deafen the ear’ (Lao 1972: 12). Sages and strategists may assemble a few of the resources nature presents to them to produce a desired pattern – such as an advantageous position on the battlefield. This may – as Handel and Clausewitz note – require bold action. An unknowable number of other factors, however, will always be at play, and it is ‘better to stop short than fill to the brim’, for new patterns are always in the process of emerging (Lao 1972: 9). High winds do not last all morning. Heavy rain does not last all day. Why is this? Heaven and earth! If heaven and earth cannot make things eternal, How is it possible for man? (Lao 1972: 23) Sun Tzu echoes these sentiments. ‘Of the five elements [water, fire, metal, wood and earth], none lasts forever; of the days, some are long and some short, and the moon waxes and wanes. That is also the law of employing troops’ (Tao 1986: 107). This does not dampen Sun Tzu’s faith in war as a political instrument, nor does it stop him from claiming to have developed an infallible method for achieving victory. ‘The general who heeds my counsel is sure to win’ (Tao 1986: 95). Nevertheless, despite his remarkable confidence in what a strategist educated in his theories could accomplish, Sun Tzu warns commanders not to push their luck. ‘Leave a way of escape to a surrounded enemy, and do not press a desperate enemy too hard’ (Tao 1986: 110). Here, Sun Tzu’s warnings against hubris seem less than resounding. The injunction not to press a desperate enemy too hard can only apply to certain specific and unusual situations. Sun Tzu repeatedly discusses the psychological phenomenon in which cornered troops fight all the harder, but he understood that the reverse can also be the case (Tao 1986: 122). Another passage of The Art of War instructs strategists to ‘avoid the enemy when his spirit is keen and attack it when it is sluggish and the soldiers are homesick’ (Tao 1986: 92). Twentieth-century general Tao Hanzhang notes that this piece of advice will often conflict with the first, and concludes that ‘the latter principle is, without a shadow of a doubt, the correct one’ (Tao 1986: 92).

The nature of war 123 Thus, on the subject of restraint, Sun Tzu’s affinity with Lao Tzu appears weak but real. Lao Tzu stressed the importance of humility, whereas Sun Tzu’s praise for this trait is so equivocal that his twentieth-century admirers can dismiss it as a mistake. Nevertheless, The Art of War’s warnings about pursuing defeated enemies follow the same line of reasoning laid out in the Tao Te Ching. Just as high winds eventually exhaust themselves, advancing armies eventually lose their momentum and retreating armies eventually turn and fight. The Art of War’s injunctions against fighting long wars suggest a more general appreciation for the dangers of overextending oneself in an everchanging world – Sun Tzu opposes protracted campaigns even when they succeed (Tao 1986: 97–8). Once ‘your weapons are dulled and ardor dampened, your strength exhausted and treasure spent’, the fact that you have defeated your initial enemy will not save you from the future crises which are bound to follow (Tao 1986: 97–8). The Warring States-era general Sun Pin, reputedly one of Sun Tzu’s descendants, inferred even broader warnings from such passages. In a commentary on The Art of War, he noted, ‘[O]ne who takes pleasure in the military will perish, and one who finds profit in victory will be insulted. The military is not something to take pleasure in; victory is not something through which to profit’ (Sawyer 1996: 265). In another passage, Sun Pin adds that the army’s ‘wealth lies in a speedy return. Its strength lies in giving rest to the people. Its injury lies in frequent battles’ (Sawyer 1996: 266). Later generations of Chinese military thinkers reiterated these points. These thinkers drew explicit connections between Lao Tzu’s writings on these topics and those of Spring and Autumn-era strategists. One Hundred Unorthodox Strategies, a work dated to the later years of the Southern Sung Dynasty (AD 1127–79), includes a chapter warning against becoming ‘enthralled with warfare’ (Sawyer 1996: 264). This chapter begins with an unmistakable, if unattributed, quote from Lao Tzu: ‘The army is an inauspicious instrument, warfare a contrary Virtue’ (Sawyer 1996: 264). A few lines later, the author acknowledges a quote from Sun Tzu’s near contemporary, the fourth century BC author of the Ssu-ma fa: ‘A principle from the Ssu-ma fa states: “Even though a state may be vast, those who love warfare will inevitably perish” ’ (Sawyer 1996: 264). Thus, although Sun Tzu may have overstated what his strategic method could accomplish, his work provided later thinkers with a basis for tempering such overconfidence. Put another way, The Art of War expresses a modernist faith in the possibility of achieving one’s ends through applied rational inquiry, but incorporated ideas that supported later thinkers in their postmodern reflections on the limits to that approach. The fact that different combinations of even a relatively small number of factors can produce an incomprehensibly great number of outcomes, Sun Tzu tells us, is both a strategist’s greatest strength and a strategist’s greatest weakness. A strategist who appreciates

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this point may circumvent previously insuperable obstacles, but those who push new methods too far will inevitably fail as the circumstances which once made those methods effective change. This proposition suggests a way to reconcile the idea that the Legalists might have discovered objectively superior methods with the fact that the Ch’in Empire collapsed at a point when it appeared to be on the verge of perfecting them. Similar concepts appear in Western writings on strategic theory. Clausewitz acknowledges that ‘often, even victory has a culminating point’, and later explains himself in terms reminiscent of Lao Tzu (Clausewitz 1976: 566). As a general pushes an attack past the culminating point, Clausewitz writes ‘thousands of wrong turns running in all directions tempt his perception; and if the range, confusion and complexity of the issues are not enough to overwhelm him, the dangers and responsibilities may’ (Clausewitz 1976: 573). For Clausewitz, however, these points are afterthoughts to his discourse on The Attack, which is itself but part of a much longer work. Lao Tzu – and, by extension, Sun Tzu – elevate these ideas to the status of fundamental principles.

The social and economic costs of war Sun Tzu, Lao Tzu and their later interpreters attempt to clinch their argument about the dangers of overusing force by discussing the social and economic burdens of warfare. For them, the cost of war translates Lao Tzu’s abstract warnings about inevitable change into concrete strategic reality. In this regard, Sun Tzu, Lao Tzu and their followers follow the ancient conservative approach, treating the economic and social costs of war as an insuperable external limit on military operations. These authors discuss these limits at length. Sun Tzu devotes an entire chapter to the monetary expense of war (Tao 1986: 97–8). In Chapter 13, he notes that these expenses also affect social relations: Now when an army of one hundred thousand is raised and dispatched on a distant campaign, the expenses borne by the people together with disbursements of the treasury will amount to a thousand pieces of gold daily. In addition, there will be continuous commotion both at home and abroad … (Tao 1986: 126) Having noted this point, Sun Tzu returns quickly to economic concerns, warning that this ‘commotion’ will prevent people from attending to agriculture (Tao 1986: 126). Other thinkers, however, devoted more explicit attention to the danger that prolonged wars may disrupt social order, clearing the way for coups, uprisings, factional disputes and criminal anarchy. ‘In antiquity the form and spirit governing civilian affairs would not be found

The nature of war 125 in the military realm’, notes the Ssu-ma-fa (Sawyer 1993: 131). ‘If the form and spirit [appropriate to the] military realm enter the civilian sphere, the Virtue of the people will decline’ (Sawyer 1993: 131). Lao Tzu expressed this thought with a metaphor: ‘Thorn bushes spring up wherever the army has passed’ (Lao 1972: 30). Elsewhere, the Tao Te Ching describes a state in which tyrants and warriors have become dominant. When the court is arrayed in splendour, The fields are full of weeds, And the granaries are bare. Some wear gorgeous clothes, Carry sharp swords, And indulge themselves with food and drink; They have more possessions than they can use. They are robber barons. This is certainly not the way of Tao. (Lao 1972: 53) Thus, the Ssu-ma-fa advises commanders not to grant victorious fighters too much status, even in times of emergency: ‘If the upper ranks cannot boast they will not seem arrogant, while if the lower ranks cannot boast no distinctions will be established among the men’ (Sawyer 1993: 132). The Three Strategies of Huang Shih-kung, a work attributed to T’ai Kung but more likely written in the early Han Dynasty, details methods for restoring civilian authority after a prolonged war: When the soaring birds have all been slain, then good bows are stored away. When enemy states have been extinguished, ministers in charge of planning are lost. Here ‘lost’ does not mean they lose their lives but that [the ruler] has taken away their awesomeness and removed their authority [ch’uan] He enfeoffs them in court, at the highest ranks of his subordinates, in order to manifest their merit. He presents them with excellent states in the central region in order to enrich their families and bestows beautiful women and valuable treasures on them in order to please their hearts. Now once the masses have been brought together they cannot be hastily separated. Once the awesomeness of authority [ch’uan] has been granted it cannot suddenly be shifted. Returning the forces and disbanding the armies [after the war] are critical stages in preservation and loss. Thus weakening [the commanding general] through appointment to new positions, taking [his authority] by granting him a state, is referred to as a ‘hegemon’s strategy’. Thus the hegemon’s actions incorporate a mixed approach [of Virtue and power]. Preserving the altars of state, gathering

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The nature of war those of character and courage – both are encouraged by the strategic power [shih] of the ‘Middle Strategy’. Thus [to exercise such] power, the ruler must be very secretive. (Sawyer 1993: 302)

Lao Tzu expresses similar sentiments: When the Tao is present in the universe, The horses haul manure. When the Tao is absent from the universe War horses are bred outside the city. (Lao 1972: 46) These ideas are grounded in historical experience. The ancient Chinese were familiar with numerous instances in which states had bankrupted and corrupted themselves through war. As Chapter 2 noted, Chou emperors experienced these problems in their campaigns against nomadic raiders as early as the eighth century BC. The third century BC king of Han considered it possible to halt Ch’in’s conquests by tricking the Legalist state into overstretching itself financially. Nevertheless, other Chinese thinkers suggested that the social and economic limits on military activity might not be as insurmountable as Sun Tzu and Lao Tzu suggest. Chinese discourse on the relationship between war and economics did not begin with Sun Tzu. Discussion of this topic goes back at least as far as T’ai Kung. As Chapter 2 noted, T’ai Kung author urged King Wen to ‘profit the people’ so that they would support him and the state would be wealthy enough to buy the loyalty of feudal lords (Sawyer 1993: 43, 47). Much of the time, T’ai Kung implied, this would mean leaving the common people in peace: When the people do not lose their fundamental occupations, you have profited them. When the farmers do not lose the agricultural seasons, you have completed them. [When you reduce punishments and fines, you give them life.] When you impose light taxes, you give to them. (Sawyer 1993: 43) This is compatible with Sun Tzu’s warnings about the costs of war, and even more compatible with Taoist ideas about the wisdom of non-intervention. Lao Tzu echoes T’ai Kung’s pleas for low taxes, mild penal codes and nonintrusive state policies (Lao 1972: 75). Up to this point T’ai Kung, Sun Tzu and Lao Tzu appear to agree. Nevertheless, the fact that the Taoists and the strategists concurred on these points does not necessarily mean that all of them would have drawn the same conclusions.

The nature of war 127 T’ai Kung advocates non-intrusive methods of government as a means to achieving military power. Lao Tzu has different ends in mind. The Tao Te Ching includes a passage on what life in a state governed according to such principles might be like: The people take death seriously and do not travel far. Though they have boats and carriages, no one uses them. Though they have armor and weapons, no one displays them. Men return to knotting rope in place of writing. Their food is plain and good, their clothes fine but simple, their homes secure; They are happy in their ways. Though they live within sight of their neighbors, And crowing cocks and barking dogs are heard across the way, Yet they leave each other in peace while they grow old and die. (Lao 1972: 80) This vision may strike some as too utopian to be plausible. For a ruler with an interest in conquest, Lao Tzu’s scenario is worse even than that. Shang Yang might well have agreed that common people would be content to enjoy good plain food while leaving their neighbours in peace and living out their natural lifespans, but he would not have wished to encourage such behaviour. To the contrary, he wanted to structure society so that people’s happiness would depend on achieving fame in war (Hughes 1972b: 140). Under those circumstances, he noted approvingly, ‘they will fight to the death’ (Hughes 1972b: 140). One cannot know whether T’ai Kung himself would have supported Shang Yang’s approach. Nevertheless, one may observe that the Legalists appear to be following T’ai Kung’s intellectual tradition. Like T’ai Kung, they wish to preserve and expand the state’s territory (Sawyer 1993: 46–7). They merely contended that they had found a more effective way of doing so. T’ai Kung had encouraged strategic thinkers to use their intellect to overcome military problems. The Legalists suggested that one might use the same process to overcome economic and socio-political problems as well. A state that managed to solve such problems would become less vulnerable to the costs of war than its neighbours. Since Sun Tzu, Lao Tzu and their admirers were right to note the tremendous long-term importance of those costs, the Legalist approach offered states a way to achieve a tremendous advantage and sustain it over extended periods. Neither Sun Tzu nor his commonly cited interpreters offer a direct response to this aspect of Legalism. There is no particular reason why they should – they may have simply accepted that the Legalists were right. There is no contradiction in admiring the bulk of Sun Tzu’s teachings while

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acknowledging the Legalist insight about economics and social systems as a corrective supplement. Nevertheless, for those who wish to explore ancient Chinese ideas on war, these thinkers’ silence is unfortunate. One reason why one might wish that ancient Chinese strategists had expanded on this point is that Legalist government eventually failed. If, as Taoist writings might suggest, Ch’in collapsed because it mistook its success at solving certain problems for general mastery over processes which, by their very nature, can never be permanently mastered, it would be useful to see how Legalist attempts to master economic and social affairs fit into this model. Another reason why one might wish that more ancient Chinese strategists had expanded on these matters is that Warring States China experienced other strategically significant economic and social developments, that neither Legalism nor Sun Tzu’s quasi-Taoism fully address. Ancient Chinese strategists took advantage of these developments in practice, but did not fully explore them in theory. T’ai Kung himself appears to have appreciated the practical uses of these developments. Although he advised King Wen to follow an economic policy of non-intervention, he reputedly took more active measures to enrich his own state of Ch’i. Kuan Chung had revived these policies with even greater success. Neither T’ai nor Kuan, however, applied the Legalist formula of persecuting merchants in order to promote agriculture. To the contrary, Ch’i’s statesmen encouraged commercial and financial activities of every description ‘so that men and goods poured in from every side’ (Szuma 1979: 411). The ancient Chinese understood that this proto-liberal approach to trade differed from prominent theoretical prescriptions. Not only was it incompatible with Confucian injunctions against material greed and Legalist attempts to suppress the commercial class, it exposed obsolete ideas within Taoism. The historian Ssu-ma Chen noted that Lao Tzu’s propositions about economic behaviour had turned out to be wrong. When Ssu-ma Chen discusses commerce, he quotes the previously cited paragraph in which Lao Tzu claims that citizens in a well-governed state will hear their neighbours’ barking dogs but feel no need to travel to their neighbours’ countries, whether for trade or for war. To that, the historian responds ‘if we tried to set the world right today by stopping up the eyes and ears of the people, it would prove wellnigh impossible’ (Szuma 1979: 410). This is technically a non sequitur, since Lao Tzu did not propose stopping up anyone’s eyes or ears, but the historian’s point remains. If people are to enjoy the good food and fine but simple clothes that Lao Tzu envisions for them, they will probably need to produce a surplus and trade abroad. Ssuma Chen’s thoughts become more compatible with Taoism when he suggests ways for rulers to promote prosperity (‘let matters take their own course’) and when he claims that material contentment will promote non-material virtue and happiness (‘when the granaries are full, men learn propriety’) (Szuma

The nature of war 129 1979: 410, 412). The historian does not, however, comment on the economic themes in The Art of War as directly as he comments on the economic themes in the Tao Te Ching, and we can only speculate about how ancient Chinese military thinkers might have developed their insights into the social and economic costs of war to account for the social and economic revolutions which they themselves exploited for strategic purposes..

Culture and strategy Up until this point, this chapter and the various works it examines have proceeded on the assumption that the nature of war is the same at all times and places. Handel endorses this approach: [M]uch as the laws of gravity operated irrespective of their discovery by Newton, the universal logic of war still exists even if not codified. In the absence of a formal strategic theory, political groups or states have had to construct one based on their own historical experiences and particular strategic and geographic environments. As this book [Masters of War] shows, however, despite the fact that each political group or state developed its own strategic concepts, none could defy the as yet unarticulated universal logic of strategy with impunity, and this in turn meant that each independently and ineluctably arrived at very similar conclusions. (Handel 1996: xiii) Others, however, would question such statements (Van Creveld 1991: passim). Not only do certain military historians deny that any culture’s understanding of war is universal, numerous China scholars have proposed that there the Chinese understanding of war is distinctive, and that it may affect the performance of Chinese strategists. Kierman, for instance, claimed that cultural beliefs interfered with Chinese strategists’ ability to understand their topic (Handel 1996: 80). Alistair Ian Johnston acknowledges that influential Chinese thinkers such as Confucius promoted an irrational approach to statecraft but observes that the Chinese tradition also encompasses what he calls cultural realism (Johnston 1995: passim). The ancient Chinese themselves debated many of the same issues. Writers on war and politics commonly cited the acts of China’s semi-mythical prehistoric rulers as models of wise and virtuous policy. One may, for purposes of this discussion, assume that the alleged practices of China’s legendary sage-kings are synonymous with what contemporary writers would describe as Chinese strategic culture. Many ancient Chinese thinkers took it for granted that traditional approaches would always be the best ones, even when considerable evidence pointed to the contrary.

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Ancient Chinese debates over these issues are particularly interesting from a twenty-first century point of view because they illuminate ancient Chinese thought concerning the moral status of war. Moreover, these subjects bring out ancient Chinese ideas concerning the relationship between a strategy, state power and a state’s mode of government. The ancient Chinese never developed the diversity of political systems found in ancient Greece, but they did dispute the proper ends of state policy and the proper attitude of rulers towards their people. These disputes tended to take the form of arguments about tradition, and they often touched upon the question of how different methods of governing affected a state’s fortunes in war. T’ai Kung ranked among those who held up ancient practice as a model for wise statecraft. Nevertheless, he did not blindly assume that one collection of customs was self-evidently better than another. The advantage of Chinese culture, he suggested, was that it could accommodate other cultures. This made it possible for Chinese rulers to use foreigners for their own purposes. ‘The Sage does not cast light upon himself so he is able to maintain a glorious name. The Sages of antiquity … promulgated the government’s instructions and accorded with the people’s customs’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). T’ai Kung goes on to emphasize that ‘although the customs of the various states were not the same, they all took pleasure in their respective places’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). One should note that is not preaching passive cultural noninterference. To the contrary, he assumes that rulers will wish to modify all of their subjects’ ways to conform to a ‘Great Outline’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). One works with existing traditions so that people will cheerfully support this larger programme of transforming the ‘crooked into the straight’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). The fact that T’ai Kung’s pupils Wen and Wu used support from so-called barbarians to establish a new and more culturally diverse empire suggests that they found these ideas useful. Later strategic thinkers developed related themes. Wu Ch’i (c. 440 to c. 361 BC) emphasized the importance of securing popular support by adhering to publicly accepted customs: In antiquity those who planned government affairs would invariably first instruct the hundred surnames and gain the affection of the common people. There are four disharmonies. If there is disharmony in the state, you cannot put the army into the field. If there is disharmony within the army, you cannot deploy into formations, you cannot advance into battle. If you lack cohesion during the conduct of the battle, you cannot score a decisive victory. For this reason, when a ruler who has comprehended the Way [Tao] is about to employ his people, he will first bring them into harmony and only thereafter embark on great affairs. He will not dare rely solely on

The nature of war 131 his own plans, but will certainly announce them formally in the ancestral temple, divine their prospects by the great tortoise shell, and seek their confirmation in Heaven and the seasons. Only if they are all auspicious will he proceed to mobilize the army. Because the people know the ruler values their lives and is sorrowed by their deaths, when such circumstances arises and they must confront danger with him, the officers will consider death while advancing glorious, but life gained by retreating disgraceful. (Sawyer 1993: 207) Wu Ch’i does not, one notes, claim that tortoise shell divination can foretell the future. Rather, he argues that this practice reassures people and reinforces their willingness to perform culturally prescribed but militarily useful roles. Wu Ch’i does not take up the subject of leading multi-cultural forces, perhaps because he lived in an age when the Chou dynasty’s barbarian subjects had largely adopted the ways of the original Chinese. Nevertheless, one may assume that he would have been willing to support foreign customs as long as those customs helped him to maintain unity in war. Not only did Wu Ch’i write on this subject, he devoted personal effort to establishing himself as a man of culture. Despite Confucius’ tendency towards anti-military idealism, Wu studied with prominent Confucians and urged rulers to follow Confucian teachings (Sawyer 1993: 191). Apparently, many found his ideas compelling. Ssu-ma Chien ranked Wu Ch’i alongside Sun Tzu in his influence on ancient Chinese military thought (Sawyer 1993: 195). The latter thinker, however, did not share Wu Ch’i’s concern for custom. The Art of War tersely dismisses divination as ineffective, without a word for its psychological importance (Tao 1986: 126). Sun Tzu goes on to reject appeals to tradition more generally. Not only does he deny the validity of fortune-telling, he denies the validity of ‘analogy with past events’ (Tao 1986: 126). Like Michael Handel, Sun Tzu seems to believe that any principles of strategy worthy of the name are independent of culture. The twentieth-century Chinese general Tao Hanzhang explores this theme in The Art of War at length (Tao 1986: 80–9). Sun Tzu shares Wu Ch’i’s concern with unifying the people and the army, but he does not believe that one achieves this goal through blind adherence to custom. Rather, he speaks of a tao, or way, of government and military leadership (Sawyer 1993: 157). The twentieth-century scholar Yuan Shibing translates the word tao in this passage as ‘politics’ (Tao 1986: 94). Whereas tradition can influence politics, politics need not involve deference to tradition. Indeed – as the ancient Chinese were well aware – one’s political interests can often be at odds with one’s culturally assigned obligations. A few sentences later, Sun Tzu discusses methods of keeping troops organized throughout the stresses of a military

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campaign. These methods turn out to be ‘the organization of the gradations of rank among the officers, the regulation of supply routes, and the provision of military materials to the army’ (Tao 1986: 94–5). Again, Sun Tzu portrays the problem as one of rational planning and material preparation, not one of cultural propriety. In so doing, Sun Tzu appears to offer his support for the more comprehensive rationalism of the Legalists. ‘To claim certainty without corroborating evidence is stupid; to refer to anything that one cannot be certain of is selfdeceptive’, wrote Han Fei Tzu, one of the most articulate representatives of that movement (de Bary et al. 1960: 125). On these grounds, Han categorically rejects all appeals to ancient practice. Han doubted that any of the thinkers who invoked the revered rulers of China’s semi-mythical golden age actually knew what policies those prehistoric rulers had pursued (de Bary et al. 1960: 125). Furthermore, even if he had been willing to grant that it was possible to determine how those sage-kings had managed their affairs, he saw no reason to assume that their methods would remain valid in other circumstances: ‘[T]he sage does not seek to follow the ways of the ancients, nor does he regard precedents as the rule. He examines the circumstances of his own time and plans his course of action accordingly’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 130). There was once a man of Sung who tilled his field. In the midst of his field stood the stump of a tree, and one day a hare, running at full speed, bumped into the stump, broke its neck, and died. Thereupon the man left his plow and kept watch at the stump, hoping that he would get another hare, and was only ridiculed by the people of Sung. Now those who try to rule the people of the present age with the conduct of government of the early kings are all doing exactly the same thing as that fellow who kept watch by the stump. (de Bary et al. 1960: 130) Just as the Legalists held that it was possible to implement new and more advantageous economic systems, they believed that it was possible to implement new and more advantageous systems of human relations. One implements such systems, not by performing culturally hallowed rituals, but by manipulating the impulses people from all cultures share – the desire for material goods and the fear of physical harm (de Bary et al. 1960: 133). The latter is generally easier to stimulate, and thus generally more useful. ‘To attempt to apply a benevolent and lenient government to the people of a desperate age is about the same as trying to drive wild horses without reins or whips. This is the affliction of ignorance’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 131–2). Where Wu Ch’i advised rulers to maintain traditional forms in order to win public support, Han Fei Tzu argued:

The nature of war 133 Those who are ignorant about government insistently say: ‘Win the hearts of the people.’ If order could be procured by winning the hearts of the people, then even the wise ministers Yi Yin and Kuan Chung would be of no use. For all that the ruler would need to do would be just to listen to the people. Actually, the intelligence of the people is not to be relied upon any more than the mind of a baby. (de Bary et al. 1960: 128–9) As Han Fei Tzu develops this analogy, he suggests an uncharacteristic concern for the people’s collective well-being: If the baby does not have his head shaved, his sores will recur; if he does not have his boil cut open, his illness will go from bad to worse. However, in order to shave his head or cut open the boil someone has to hold the baby while the affectionate mother is performing the work and yet he keeps crying and yelling incessantly. (de Bary et al. 1960: 129) The ‘affectionate mother’ actually has the baby’s best interests at heart, and Han Fei Tzu goes on to suggest that the high taxes, restrictive economic legislation and draconian penal codes may ultimately ‘relieve famine’ and ‘repre[ss] the wicked’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 129). On the subject of war, however, the Legalist thinker reveals less in the way of parental affection. The ruler ‘insists upon universal military training’ in order to ‘take the enemy captive’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 129). Whereas capturing enemy prisoners is obviously useful to the state, anti-war thinkers such as Lao Tzu and Mo Tzu would have been fully capable of observing that its value to the common people is less than self-evident. Later in this essay, Han Fei Tzu obliquely suggests that unpopular government policies may play a role in ‘maintaining peace’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 129). One may reasonably speculate that Han Fei Tzu is suggesting that a large reserve of people who have undergone universal military training will deter enemies from attacking, but he never draws these connections himself, nor does he enjoin rulers to refrain from using their well-trained troops for more aggressive purposes. Other Legalists displayed even fewer scruples. As Chapter 2 noted, the work attributed to Shang Yang openly advocated conquering other states in order to exploit their resources. Li Ssu, the Legalist scholar who became chief adviser to First Emperor Shih Huang-ti, spelled out the ultimate goals of Legalist methods as follows: [T]he ruler will by himself control the empire, and will not be controlled by anyone. Then he can enjoy himself to the utmost. How can a talented and intelligent ruler afford not to pay attention to this point? (de Bary et al. 1960: 142)

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It is, perhaps, more than a coincidence that Li Ssu wrote these lines to win a particular ruler’s favour. Other Legalists condemned all personal selfindulgence, even on the part of the ruler (Gernet 1972: 92). China scholar Arthur Waley is, however, unassailable when he declares: It is assumed [by the Legalists] that the object of every ruler is to become a ‘hegemon,’ that is to say, to make his state paramount over all States, or, at the best, to become ruler of all China. This can only be done if his state is stronger in war and richer than all the other States put together, and these ends can only be achieved if Law is substituted for morality and the whole energy of the State is concentrated on war and agriculture. (Waley 1939: 232) The interests of the people are, at best, incidental to this process. Sun Tzu never endorses these aggressive Legalist positions concerning the ultimate goals of the state. Still, his insistence on placing rationality ahead of tradition undercuts one of ancient China’s most influential arguments against Legalism. Therefore, it seems significant that this strategist’s reputation survived the reaction against Ch’in tyranny intact. Ssu-ma Chien concludes his biography of Sun Tzu with unqualified praise. ‘When men speak of military strategy, reference is nearly always made to the thirteen chapters of Sun Wu’s treatise’ (Szuma 1979: 35). Sun Tzu’s success at retaining his good name appears even more noteworthy when one observes that others were not so fortunate. Wu Ch’i, despite his defence of traditional pieties, attracted moral criticism. Ssu-ma Chien notes the irony of this strategist’s fall from grace. ‘Wu Chi, who assured the marquis that virtue was more important than strategy, acted with such cruelty and ruthlessness that finally he brought about his own death. The pity of it!’ (Szuma 1979: 35). Wu Ch’i’s harshness appears to have been more than a private vice. Sun Tzu reputedly had two royal concubines beheaded in order to demonstrate his ideas about army discipline, thus indicating that he was personally capable of cruelty as well. Most Chinese strategists, however, seemed to accept the idea that a commander might use such methods for military purposes. Even the relatively soft-hearted author of the Ssu-ma fa endorses capital punishment for deserters, while the fourth century BC strategist Wei Liao-tzu writes that ‘in antiquity those who excelled at employing the army could [bear to] kill half their officers and soldiers’ (Sawyer 1993: 138, 276). (The date of Wei’s writing is in question – Sawyer 1993: 229.) Wu Ch’i became notorious, not merely because he committed atrocities, but because of what his atrocities symbolized. Although Wu Ch’i differed with the Legalists about the role of tradition, he agreed with them on other issues. To the ancient Chinese, his Legalist

The nature of war 135 tendencies would have seemed more obvious than they may appear today. ‘What most struck their contemporaries and men of the Han period about the idea of the Legalists’, twentieth-century scholar Jacques Gernet notes: [w]as the equality before the law which they wished to impose on everyone. ‘They do not distinguish’, writes Ssu-ma T’an in the second century B.C., ‘between kin and strangers, they make no difference between nobles and the common people: they let them all be judged by the law, so that relationships based on affection and respect are abolished’. (Gernet 1972: 93) Han Fei Tzu develops this theme with enthusiasm. Although Confucius praised a man who deserted from the army in order to care for his aged father, Han condemned the filial deserter as a traitor (de Bary et al. 1960: 133–4). The Legalist went on to observe that the concepts of public and private are, by definition, opposites (de Bary et al. 1960: 134). Public interests will always be at odds with private interests and public morality will always be at odds with private morality. The idea that things might be otherwise is ‘an affliction due to ignorance’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 134). In a similar spirit, Wu Ch’i ‘ignored his mother’s mourning rites – a heinous offense in Confucian eyes – in order to keep a vow, clearly emphasizing trustworthiness over filial emotion and its respectful expression’ (Sawyer 1993: 191). Wu Ch’i faced another such dilemma when his ruler, the duke of Lu, went to war with the state of Ch’i (Szuma 1979: 32). Since Wu Ch’i’s wife came from Ch’i, his own loyalties appeared uncertain (Szuma 1979: 32). According to Ssu-ma Chien, the strategist proved his determination to place his public loyalties ahead of his private ones by killing his spouse (Szuma 1979: 32). The Legalist thinkers themselves acknowledged Wu Ch’i as one of their own. Han Fei Tzu writes approvingly of his conduct on several occasions (Sawyer 1993: 196–7). Han also tells the story of the strategist’s parting from his wife differently. According to the Legalist’s account, Wu Ch’i instructed his wife to weave a silk band. When she finished, he measured it, and, finding the band to be narrower than he had requested, divorced her (Sawyer 1993: 197). Han Fei Tzu goes on to present Wu Ch’i’s act as a Legalist parable: [Wu Ch’i’s ex-wife] asked her older brother to seek her readmission, but her brother said: ‘Wu Ch’i is a man of law. He works with the laws so that he may attain great achievements in a large state. Therefore he must first put the laws into practice with his own wife, and thereafter implement them [in government]. You have no hope of seeking to return’. (Sawyer 1993: 197)

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Other writers present other versions of the story, all illustrating Wu Ch’i’s adherence to various Legalist principles (Sawyer 1993: 197). This seems to explain why those who rejected Legalism rejected Wu Ch’i as well. The fact that Sun Tzu escaped such rejection suggests that, despite his agreement with the Legalists on the subject of culture and rationality, the political thinkers of the post-Ch’in period felt that the bulk of his teachings inclined in a more morally acceptable direction. Since Han Dynasty writers did not expand upon the moral themes within The Art of War, one cannot know what they actually thought about this subject. One can, however, identify points at which Sun Tzu’s ideas diverge from those of the Legalists on the relationship between strategy, culture and right conduct. Not only do Sun Tzu and the Legalists both begin their discussion of this topic by rejecting the idea of basing policy on culturally determined formulas, they share this position with Lao Tzu. When the way is lost, Lao Tzu tells us, people attempt to compensate for its loss with goodness (Lao 1972: 38). When goodness disappears as well, people substitute kindness, and when even kindness has faded, people introduce the concept of justice (Lao 1972: 38). Only when society has become so degraded that justice goes the way of the higher virtues do people turn to ritual (Lao 1972: 38). ‘Now ritual is the husk of faith and loyalty, the beginning of confusion’ (Lao 1972: 38). Lao Tzu and the Legalists appear to agree on other points too. ‘The wise are ruthless, he tells us, ‘they see the people as dummies’ (Lao 1972: 5). Like Han Fei Tzu (and unlike Wu Ch’i), Lao Tzu advises rulers to concern themselves with the population’s material conditions rather than expecting people to respond to high-minded ideals. ‘The wise therefore rule by emptying hearts and stuffing bellies’ (Lao 1972: 3). The Tao Te Ching does not, however, encourage rulers to use these observations as a pretext for subjugating and exploiting the population. Lao Tzu calls for benign restraint in government on much the same grounds that Sun Tzu and his later interpreters used when they called for prudence in war. There are more possibilities in any given situation than the mind can imagine, Lao Tzu suggests. The more one attempts to impose one’s own order upon this complexity, the more one exposes oneself to reversal. Lao Tzu warns that attempts to ‘use force to conquer the universe’ will ‘only cause resistance’ (Lao 1972: 30). Not only does he apply this idea to warfare, he applies it to government. ‘When the country is ruled with severity, the people are cunning’ (Lao 1972: 58). Therefore those who ‘would guide the people’ must ‘serve with humility’ (Lao 1972: 66). ‘In this way, when the sage rules, the people will not feel oppressed’ (Lao 1972: 66). Lao Tzu may overstate his case when he says that when such a ruler stands before the people, they will be safe from all harm (Lao 1972: 66). Nevertheless, he makes a more compelling point when he claims that this type of ruler will enjoy broader and more reliable support (Lao 1972: 66). Thus,

The nature of war 137 although Lao Tzu rejects culturally prescribed propriety, he reconstructs the idea that rulers have duties beyond the drive to seize and exercise power. Indeed, he reconstructs the idea that these duties involve compassion. ‘Mercy brings victory in battle and strength in defense’ (Lao 1972: 67). Moreover, Lao Tzu advances these arguments on pragmatic grounds. Sun Tzu devoted little space to civil government, and less to mercy. Nevertheless, he contradicted Li Ssu’s claim that ‘talented and intelligent’ rulers need not consider any imperatives beyond those of using the empire for their own enjoyment (de Bary et al. 1960: 142). To the contrary, Sun Tzu sternly reminded his readers that rulers must never wage war out of personal pique (Tao 1986: 125). ‘If not in the interests of the state do not act. If you cannot succeed, do not use troops. If you are not in danger, do not fight a war’ (Tao 1986: 125). Sun Tzu’s comments on state interest imply further disagreement with the Legalists’ more ruthless conclusions. Not only does Sun Tzu tell us that it is a mistake to use troops if you cannot succeed, he tells us that it is wrong to fight a war if you are not in danger. This would appear to rule out wars of conquest, even if they are profitable. Since he is talking about the interests of the state, this seems to imply the corollary that the state’s goals are the goals of its people, and not merely the leaders’ goal of extending their power. Sun Tzu’s reasons for taking these positions contain a mixture of pragmatic caution – ‘a state that has perished cannot be restored’ – and human feeling – ‘nor can the dead be brought back to life’ (Tao 1986: 125). The Taoists, the Legalists and the followers of Sun Tzu agreed on the necessity of rationally re-assessing cultural assumptions about the moral and practical nature of war, but they disagreed on the implications of such re-assessment. Han Fei Tzu declared that the interests of the state were, by definition, inimical to the interests of private citizens. Lao Tzu stated something close to the opposite. Sun Tzu’s position on this issue will remain forever ambiguous, but he seemed to share at least some of Lao Tzu’s attitudes. Earlier sections have noted that Sun Tzu’s ancient Chinese admirers interpreted his position on the political uses of war in a Taoist fashion, and they would have been on solid ground in interpreting his position on the ethics of war as being more Taoist than Legalist as well.

Long-term strategy The popular concept of Chinese strategic thought typically features wily geopolitical conspirators planning their moves centuries in advance. Mao Zedong played on this theme when he dismissed Richard Nixon’s concerns about the Taiwan question by saying that the People’s Republic could afford to postpone that issue for 100 years (Kissinger 1994: 727). ‘The small issue is Taiwan; the big issue is the world’ (Kissinger 1994: 726). Sun Tzu and

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like-minded ancient thinkers might, indeed, have applauded Mao’s policy, but their enthusiasm for long-term approaches is not as self-evident as the stereotype of forward-thinking Chinese strategists might suggest. Sun Tzu’s claim that ‘those adept in waging war do not require a second levy of conscripts or more than two provisionings’ seems to rule out plans which will not come to fruition for generations (Tao 1986: 97). Since, as earlier sections have discussed, Sun Tzu’s understanding of war emphasizes complexity and the inevitability of change, one would expect him to be sceptical of such activities. To the contrary, one would expect him to support British Prime Minister Harold Wilson’s observation that a week is a long time in politics (Fabricant 2000). One would expect him to take this position on the grounds that, to borrow from yet another former resident of 10 Downing Street, government policy is eternally hostage to ‘events, dear boy, events’ (Fabricant 2000). Since Sun Tzu did not address the issue of long-term strategy directly, his full thinking on the matter must remain a mystery. Earlier sections, however, have noted close parallels between this strategist’s concept of war and the more general discussions of complexity and change in the Tao Te Ching. The latter work deals briskly with grandiose schemers. ‘Do you think you can take over the universe and improve it? I do not believe it can be done’ (Lao 1972: 29). Lao Tzu does not, however, conclude that state leaders should limit their thinking to the crises of the moment. To the contrary, he holds: The mother principle of ruling holds good for a long time. This is called having deep roots and a firm foundation, The Tao of long life and eternal vision. (Lao 1972: 59) Lao Tzu took this position, not in spite of his concerns about change, but because of them. In his view, long-term policies involve less exposure to the vagaries of fate than short-term ones. By patiently but consistently adhering to an ‘eternal vision’, one may take advantage of Lao Tzu’s oft-repeated principle that ‘a journey of a thousand miles starts under one’s feet’ (Lao 1972: 64): In the universe great acts are made up of small deeds. The sage does not attempt anything very big, And thus achieves greatness. (Lao 1972: 63) Lao Tzu continues this line of reasoning to advocate dealing with potential enemies while they are still at the stage of performing ‘small deeds’:

The nature of war 139 Peace is easily maintained; Trouble is easily overcome before it starts. The brittle is easily shattered. The small is easily scattered. Deal with it before it happens. Set things in order before there is confusion. (Lao 1972: 64) Although Sun Tzu does not dwell on these themes, his predecessor T’ai Kung does. ‘No one realizes the transforming influence of government; moreover no one realizes the effects of the passing of time’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). Since wise rulers exert this discreet but transforming influence through minimal action ‘what is exhausted?’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). As Chapter 2 noted, T’ai Kung explained the strategic importance of economics in these terms, advising rulers to develop wealth within their states so that they can win support from their vassals so that they will be in a position to block ‘trickling streams’ before they grow into ‘great rivers’ (Sawyer 1993: 46–7). The Legalists took a similar approach. Like T’ai Kung, they viewed cultivating wealth as a way of improving one’s ability to act at propitious moments. The Legalists also held that their programme of controlling society through draconian legal codes provided similar benefits. Legalist military thinker Wei Liao-tzu made the link between strategic readiness and long-term domestic policy particularly clear. Sawyer discusses Wei’s status as a Legalist at Sawyer 1993: 229. In one extended passage, Wei explains how effective agricultural policy allows the ruler to establish well-fortified cities which, in turn, can support the operations of powerful armies (Sawyer 1993: 248–9). Such preparations, Wei states, also confer a militarily invaluable psychological advantage. ‘Being precise about laws and regulations, making rewards and punishments clear, improving weapons and equipment, causing people to have minds totally committed to fighting, this is victory through awesomeness’ (Sawyer 1993: 234). T’ai Kung, for his part, discussed the corresponding principle that it is possible to undermine one’s opponents over the long term by patiently encouraging corruption within their states (Sawyer 1993: 56–9). Ancient Chinese military thinkers appear to deserve their reputation for favouring long-term approaches. Since T’ai Kung and the Legalists both guided their protégés to power, one must conclude that they had met the challenges of implementing such strategies amidst the confusion of real life. One also notes that T’ai Kung, Lao Tzu and Legalists present this issue in similar terms, despite the fact that they lived in different centuries and disagreed on other important issues. The ancient Chinese appear to have believed, with considerable justification, that these ideas had passed the test of time.

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Conclusion Although numerous ancient Chinese writers discussed the nature of war, Sun Tzu’s work on the topic remains the most influential. The reason appears to be that his quasi-Taoist concepts allowed his writings to remain clearly relevant both in the modernist intellectual climate of the early Warring States and in the postmodern reaction which followed the fall of Ch’in. One is entitled to wonder whether this is due to the original authors’ brilliance or to the fact that subsequent generations of writers anonymously revised the older works. One is also entitled to ask whether the quasi-Taoist view fully accounts for the social, economic, cultural and moral complexities of its own time, let alone the present one. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu’s characterization of effective military operations as the timely combinations of ‘normal’ and ‘extraordinary’ forces allows him to address some of the most difficult questions about what war can accomplish – and what it cannot.

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Waging war

Despite the importance of theory, warfare is a subject in which the most meaningful knowledge is often that of practicalities. ‘Amateurs study strategy, professionals study logistics’ (Pierce 1996: 74). Since, as Clausewitz, Sun Tzu and T’ai Kung would agree, the circumstances of each military encounter are unique, this is true even for those who investigate war as a purely intellectual endeavour. Although it is difficult to generalize intelligently about warfare in the abstract, those who possess some knowledge of what common types of military forces are physically capable of can speak authoritatively about a wide range of military situations. Thus, it is no surprise that ancient Chinese military writers comment extensively on the specific techniques of waging war. Although their points on these topics may seem obsolete (‘dust spurting upwards in straight columns indicates the approach of chariots’), the manner in which they relate these points to their more general theories of war is critical to understanding the manner in which they intended people to apply their ideas (Tao 1986: 114). Moreover, as ancient Chinese strategists attempted to theorize about practical matters, they encountered many of the same challenges as their twentyfirst century counterparts. Then, as now, political and technological change repeatedly brought traditional assumptions about the business of waging war into question. Therefore, it is interesting to see how ancient Chinese military writers attempted to maintain their relevance in the midst of change. Ancient Chinese strategists devoted particular attention to the problems of intelligence, logistics, organization, command and what today might be called asymmetrical warfare. This chapter explores their writings on each of these topics in turn. Moreover, ancient Chinese writers experienced both revolutionary civil unrest and dramatic advances in military technology. Although the strategists surveyed in this volume did not address these topics as straightforwardly as they addressed, for instance, the topic of command, one must assume that they were aware of their importance. Therefore, two final sections explore ancient Chinese writings for observations on the subjects of insurgency and technological progress.

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Intelligence Writers have quoted The Art of War’s passages on intelligence for centuries. (For proof that this is more than a contemporary phenomenon, see Sawyer 1996: 92–7.) Therefore, Michael Handel is at his most provocative when he accuses Sun Tzu of ignoring ‘the fact emphasized by Clausewitz that even if perfect and timely intelligence were to exist in war, the pervasive effect of friction makes the accuracy of all calculations and forecasts doubtful at best’ (Handel 1996: 138). Indeed, Handel tells us, Sun Tzu forgets his own teachings on the importance of deception, listing various signs indicating various forms of enemy activity without acknowledging that one’s opponents may be manufacturing these signs in order to conceal their actual operations (Handel 1996: 136). Handel excuses Sun Tzu’s apparent lapses on the grounds that Sun Tzu’s ‘insistence on obtaining the highest quality intelligence must be seen as an ideal that contributes to the educational value of his work’ (Handel 1996: 133). If one interprets all of Sun Tzu’s statements literally, one must concede that Handel’s criticisms are accurate. Handel catches the ancient Chinese writer in a number of unsupportable statements. Sun Tzu claims, for instance, that proper intelligence work is enough to ‘forecast which side will be victorious and which defeated’ and, moreover, that an accurate assessment of ‘the enemy situation’ is ‘sufficient’ to guarantee victory (Handel 1996: 133). ‘There is no more to it than this’ (Handel 1996: 133). Since no one who has experienced war could expect matters to be this easy, such claims can only be deliberate oversimplification. This leads Handel to conclude: Sun Tzu’s belief in the importance of relying on intelligence should therefore be understood as part of a learning process, as an ideal and not simply as a description of reality; and the quest for optimal intelligence should be considered part of the normative [emphasis in original] desire to make the most rational decisions possible. (Handel 1996: 146–7) In other words, Handel has departed from his usual method of allowing authors to ‘speak for themselves’ (Handel 1996: 3). Chapter 1 contrasted Handel’s literal approach with Jon Tetsuro Sumida’s more imaginative style of interpretation. Here, Handel seems to adopt Sumida’s method. As Chapter 1 noted, Lao Tzu explicitly invited readers to interpret his work imaginatively. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that Sun Tzu’s work also contains a meaningful subtext, and that this subtext may explain anomalies in the surface arguments. This leaves us to consider whether Handel has interpreted Sun Tzu’s comments on intelligence correctly. Having strayed from the path of taking

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authors completely at their word, Handel seems to go to the opposite extreme, claiming that lines which sound like simple declarations of fact are actually ‘normatively’ salutary fables. Sun Tzu seems to have become like the philosopher kings of Plato’s Republic, who instil virtue in their subjects by telling noble lies. One may test this proposition by considering what we know about the reasons why Sun Tzu (or whoever wrote these lines in his name) chose to theorize about strategy. One may go on to ask whether Handel’s interpretation is compatible with other major themes in The Art of War. Handel suggests that Sun Tzu has distorted reality for purposes of teaching. Given the fact that ancient Chinese strategists earned their livelihood as freelance professionals competing for positions in royal courts, it is equally possible that Sun Tzu distorted reality for purposes of advertising. Sun Tzu lived, one must remember, in an age when the very idea of basing one’s plans on rational analysis of empirically derived information was in question. When even a ruthless and relatively modernistic thinker such as Wu Ch’i endorsed divination, Sun Tzu may not have felt that he could afford to admit that his methods were fallible (Sawyer 1993: 207). According to Handel, Sun Tzu is constructing an edifying fiction. The alternative interpretation suggests that Sun Tzu, attempting to attract patronage, is overstating his case. This is an important distinction, since an edifying fiction can be purely fanciful as long as it expresses the right sentiments. If, however, Sun Tzu is merely indulging in overstatement, he presumably believed a suitably qualified version of what he wrote. The latter interpretation is attractive, because the rest of The Art of War implies that Sun Tzu meant ‘know the enemy and know yourself’ as literal, practical advice (Tao 1986: 100). As the previous chapter noted, Sun Tzu conceived of war in terms of continuously evolving relationships among continuously changing factors. A strategist succeeds by seizing the opportunities these relationships throw up – or, better yet, by introducing new combinations that produce superior opportunities. Strategists fail by exhausting their resources on one opportunity and thereby leaving themselves unable to respond to future developments. Sun Tzu’s admirers suggested that this concept allowed one to use the military developments of the Warring States period effectively while avoiding the hubris that brought down Ch’in. Whatever the virtues of these ideas, they are hopelessly vague in the abstract. To use Sun Tzu’s approach, one must determine what the factors and relationships in a given situation actually are. ‘It is not possible to formulate them in detail beforehand’ (Tao 1986: 96). One must, therefore, rely on specific and timely reports – i.e. intelligence. Lao Tzu develops a similar theme when he advises his readers to understand things in their own terms:

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This leaves one to ask whether The Art of War equips readers to ‘look’ at things as perceptively and objectively as the rest of Sun Tzu’s theory demands. If Sun Tzu is encouraging his audience to expect easy access to perfect knowledge, the answer may be negative. Therefore, Sun Tzu’s admirers may take comfort from the fact that The Art of War tentatively suggests more realistic possibilities. At one point, Sun Tzu alludes to the possibility that one might have to wage war with incomplete information. The less one knows, Sun Tzu warns, the more one must leave in the hands of chance. ‘When you are ignorant of the enemy but know yourself, your chances of winning and losing are equal’ (Tao 1986: 100). Sun Tzu’s statements on intelligence would have been more accurate if he had admitted this point more prominently and developed it more comprehensively. One will always have gaps in one’s knowledge and chance will always play a role in war. The question is how great the gaps must be and how effectively one can position oneself to accommodate the unforeseen. That being said, if a Clausewitzian had told Sun Tzu that strategically useful knowledge is utterly unattainable, it seems likely that the Chinese strategist would have simply disagreed. ‘One who ignores my counsel is certain to be defeated. Such a one should be dismissed’ (Tao 1986: 95). Handel admits that Clausewitz’s flat rejection of intelligence-gathering efforts (or, rather, his own depiction of Clausewitz’s position) is also dangerously unrealistic (Handel 1996: 143). For the most useful discussion of intelligence, Handel suggests that we turn to Jomini, who acknowledges, in Handel’s words: In other words, since intelligence is rarely perfect (it is probabilistic in nature), all pieces of intelligence received must be carefully corroborated, and uncertainty must be dealt with through operational contingency plans and the correct application of the principles of war. (Handel 1996: 152) If one will indulge Sun Tzu in his moments of hyperbole, one sees that his view of intelligence is similar. Sun Tzu acknowledges that intelligence may be probabilistic, although he would do well to do so more fully. When Sun Tzu

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lists the ‘five points by which victory may be predicted’ he notes, not only the importance of intelligence, but the importance of being ‘well prepared’ and keeping one’s ranks ‘united in purpose’ (Tao 1986: 100). These ideas correspond to the ideas of contingency planning and applying the principles of war. Sun Tzu is acutely aware of the fact that intelligence is difficult to analyse effectively. ‘[O]nly the enlightened sovereign and the wise general who are able to use the most intelligent people as spies can achieve great results’ (Tao 1986: 127–8). This leaves Sun Tzu to explain how one might attain such enlightenment and wisdom. Handel is unimpressed with Chinese strategist’s efforts in this regard: Sun Tzu is definitely concerned about the need to avoid being [emphasis in original] deceived, but unfortunately cannot advise military leaders more specifically than this: ‘When he pretends to flee, do not pursue’ [emphasis in original] or ‘Do not gobble proffered baits’ [emphasis in original] … While this is good general advice, how is a military leader to know, in the heat of battle, whether an enemy is really retreating or is only pretending to withdraw? (Handel 1996: 124) It is hard to blame Sun Tzu for being vague on this topic. One suspects that generals in such situations will always have to rely on a certain degree of personal judgement. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu writes more on the subject of intelligence analysis than Handel chooses to mention. In a chapter with the somewhat misleading title ‘On the March’, Sun Tzu offers further tips on interpreting the enemy’s actions. ‘When the enemy’s envoys speak in humble terms, but their army continues preparations, that means it will advance. When their language is strong and the enemy pretentiously advances, these may be signs that the enemy will retreat’ (Tao 1986: 114). If Handel found Sun Tzu’s advice about avoiding ‘proffered baits’ excessively general, these suggestions seem excessively specific. Even Sun Tzu admits that they only apply in certain circumstances. Strong enemy language only ‘may’ be a sign that the enemy will retreat. As simple recipes, these suggestions have limited value. Sun Tzu’s tips do, however, suggest a more broadly applicable method. Here and elsewhere, Sun Tzu compares multiple pieces of information and looks for anomalies. (For further examples, see Tao 1986: 115.) When different observations seem to contradict each other, he falls back on worldly assumptions about enemy methods and psychology to resolve the discrepancy. ‘When without previous understanding the enemy asks for a truce, he must be plotting’ (Tao 1986: 114). With imagination, one may apply this approach to a wide range of situations.

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To compare multiple pieces of information, one must have a variety of preferably independent means of collecting it. ‘Although Sun Tzu dwells at length on the role of spies’, Handel himself notes, ‘he does not ignore other intelligence-gathering methods … [t]hese include basic intelligence (maps, information on climate etc.), detailed reconnaissance, and topographical data … [w]hat today are called “signals and indicators” represent another source of direct and indirect information on the enemy’s situation and intentions’ (Handel 1996: 135–6). These signals and indicators include such tricks for detecting enemy activity as looking for distant clouds of dust and observing the presence or absence of birds (Handel 1996: 136). One finds similar lists of signals and indicators in the works attributed to T’ai Kung and Wu Ch’i (Sawyer 1993: 61–2, 72–4, 212–13). Other ancient Chinese strategic thinkers discuss intelligence analysis as well, sometimes expanding upon points which The Art of War merely hinted at. Sun Tzu, for instance, presented examples of commanders using their knowledge of enemy psychology to resolve apparent contradictions between intelligence reports, but he never explicitly tells readers what these commanders are doing. T’ai Kung describes the same method in more general terms: ‘Indications of victory and defeat will be first manifest in [the enemy’s] spirit’ (Sawyer 1993: 73). The Six Secret Teachings goes on to suggest ways of gauging the intentions, methods and mental state of mind of enemy troops and commanders (Sawyer 1993: 73–4). The Methods of the Ssu-ma also states the principle that different intelligencegathering techniques play different but mutually supporting roles: ‘In general, to wage war: Employ spies against the distant; observe the near …’ (Sawyer 1993: 135). Like the Six Secret Teachings, the Methods proposes ways of assessing enemy psychology (Sawyer 1993: 142). Wu Ch’i further develops the idea that one may test one’s theories about the opposing commander’s skill, intent and favoured ruses by staging probing attacks to see how he responds (Sawyer 1993: 219). The Art of War offers yet another suggestion for those concerned with the problems of gathering useful intelligence, interpreting it correctly and seeing through enemy ruses. Sun Tzu bases his principles of espionage on the use of what he calls double spies. Double spies are ‘enemy spies whom we employ’ and if one succeeds at recruiting well-placed members of the enemy’s own secret services as doubles, one can use them to place other kinds of secret agents wherever they might be most useful, bypassing enemy deception attempts in the process (Tao 1986: 127). It is by means of the double spies that native and internal spies can be recruited and employed. And it is by this means that the doomed spies, armed with false information, can be sent to convey it to the enemy. It is by

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this means also that surviving spies can come back and give information as scheduled. (Tao 1986: 127) Those who use double spies have the potential to take on the role of the proverbial fox who guards the chicken coop. The fact that the double spies are presumably no longer carrying out their original missions against you adds to the advantages of this method. Handel would be entitled to respond that the technique of using double agents introduces its own risks and difficulties. Those who appear to be betraying your enemies may actually be pretending to betray their own side in order the more effectively to betray you. Even if this was not their original mission, as it may well have been, the enemy may learn of their treason and induce them to change sides another time. ‘The sovereign must have full knowledge of the activities of the five sorts of spies’, Sun Tzu notes, thus acknowledging that the sovereign often may not. The ‘key’ to maintaining full knowledge, the ancient Chinese strategist continues, is to use other spies to operate – and presumably to spy upon – one’s own agents (Tao 1986: 127). This may also be the reason why Sun Tzu emphasizes the importance of limiting knowledge of spy operations to the minimum number of people (Tao 1986: 127). Also, in general: It is the business of a general to be serene and inscrutable, impartial and self-controlled. He should be capable of keeping his officers and men in ignorance of his plans. He changes his methods and alters his plans so that people have no knowledge of what he aims at. (Tao 1986: 121) Not only do secrecy, unpredictability and compartmentalization of knowledge help to prevent the enemy from detecting one’s activities, they help to limit the amount of damage any double spy who goes on to become a triple spy can inflict. In a similar vein, Sun Tzu emphasized the importance of investigating and, where possible, suborning, the entire network of people responsible for the enemy’s own security and counter-intelligence efforts – ‘the garrison commander, the aides-de-camp, the ushers, gatekeepers and bodyguards’ (Tao 1986: 127). Such efforts reduce the enemy’s ability to detect your double spies, increase your ability to verify those spies’ loyalty to yourself and assist your agents’ efforts at setting up other types of secret operations on your behalf. Finally, Sun Tzu advises paying spies generously (Tao 1986: 127). This, he hopes, will ensure that they will find working for you more attractive than working for the enemy. None of these methods are foolproof. Nevertheless, they help to explain how Sun Tzu might have justified his claim that, Handel’s pessimism not withstanding, those who devote thought, effort and resources

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to developing their intelligence-collection networks can reasonably expect a return on their investment.

Logistics The ancient Chinese strategists devote more space to the political and economic problems of financing war than to the logistical problems of sustaining troops in the field, but they acknowledge the critical importance of latter issue. ‘When the store of accumulated foodstuffs is not substantial’, Wei Liao-Tzu noted, ‘the soldiers do not set out’ (Sawyer 1993: 249). Wu Ch’i lists strong chariot axles, secure axle pins and well-suited boat rudders among the elements which make up the ch’i or life-energy of the army (Sawyer 1993: 218). When T’ai Kung tells King Wu how to organize his army, he mentions the need for quartermasters, officers in charge of military engineering, medical officers and accountants (Sawyer 1993: 61–2). The anonymous author of the Methods of the Ssu-ma suggests a general approach to assessing the strategic implications of one’s own supply situation vis-à-vis that of the enemy. ‘Horses, oxen, chariots, weapons, relaxation, and an adequate diet are the army’s strength. Instructions are simply a matter of preparation; warfare is only a question of constraints’ (Sawyer 1993: 134). Although these statements are elliptical, they dovetail with Sun Tzu’s quasiTaoist view of strategy. Given the fact that ancient Chinese strategists tend to agree on the topic of logistics – and the fact that the works we ascribe to those strategists contain elements of pastiche – the idea that The Art of War and the Methods are developing a common theme here is plausible enough to explore in depth. The Ssu-ma’s first assertion, that ‘instructions are simply a matter of preparation’ reminds us of the point which armchair generals often forget – that the main challenge in war is not that of coming up with a good plan, but that of developing the material capabilities to put good plans into effect. Sun Tzu discussed how various factors combine, like musical notes, to produce a unique backdrop for every military operation. Logistical issues are among the most important of these factors, and, happily, those who exercise forethought have some control over them. The Ssu-ma’s second assertion is less encouraging but perhaps equally salutary: ‘[W]arfare is only a question of constraints’. One should think about strategy, not in terms of opportunities, but in terms of limits. This should temper the enthusiasm of those who, like Liddell Hart, turn to ancient Chinese strategists hoping to learn some cunning method of winning swift and relatively bloodless victories. Sun Tzu is thinking along similar lines when he emphasizes the importance of capturing enemy supplies (Tao 1986: 120). This method of supply, as military historian Martin Van Creveld observed in his seminal work Supplying War, is

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risky and time-consuming (Van Creveld 1977: 5–39). The material one needs may prove unavailable, enemy irregulars may ambush foraging parties and troops who have dispersed in order to gather rations are in no position to fight foes who have concentrated for battle. Sun Tzu advocates this method, not because he likes it, but because ‘carrying supplies for great distances renders the people destitute’, and this, in turn, will destroy any state in the end (Tao 1986: 98). Sun Tzu’s concern about conserving material and psychological resources also helps to explain one of his more controversial arguments about campaign objectives. The Art of War warns commanders not to attack enemy cities except as a last resort (Tao 1986: 99). Handel finds Sun Tzu’s warning dubious, noting that Clausewitz rated the goal of capturing the enemy’s capital second only to that of destroying the enemy’s army (Handel 1996: 43). Later, Handel softens his criticism by allowing that ‘Clausewitz’s emphasis on taking a capital … should be considered in the context of his time, when major cities had become national centres controlling large states. Clausewitz was not referring to limited wars between feudal kings and smaller warring states or cities’ (Handel 1996: 44). Neither, in fact, was Sun Tzu. As Chapter 2 described, the rise of major cities as economic, administrative and transportation centres of territorially extensive states was also a distinctive feature of the Spring and Autumn period in Chinese history. According to Ssu-ma Chien, Sun Tzu won one of his own most famous victories by capturing Ying, the capital city of the state of Ch’u (Szuma 1979: 29). Therefore, it seems unlikely that Sun Tzu failed to appreciate the value of cities. For an explanation of why Sun Tzu warns against attacking cities, one may turn to The Art of War itself. Sun Tzu presents his concerns about siege warfare in terms of logistics. ‘And the worst policy is to attack cities. Attack cities only when there is no alternative because to prepare big shields and wagons and make ready the necessary arms and equipment require at least three months, and to pile up earthen ramps against the walls requires an additional three months’ (Tao 1986: 99). Even if one has the time and materiel for such a project, Sun Tzu holds, the delay will tax one’s subordinate officers psychologically, thus affecting their judgement. ‘The general, unable to control his impatience, will order his troops to swarm up the wall like ants, with the result that one-third of them will be killed without taking the city’ (Tao 1986: 99). Those concerned with this particular scenario are entitled to ask whether it might be possible to promote less impulsive generals. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu’s argument is consistent with the Ssu-ma’s proposition that strategy is a matter of recognizing constraints. To the extent that opportunities exist in war, they arise when the enemy fails to treat material limitations with due respect. ‘Generally, he who occupies the field of battle first and awaits his enemy is at ease, and he who comes

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later to the scene and rushes into the fight is weary’ (Tao 1986: 105). Wisdom, Sun Tzu tells us, lies in tempting or forcing one’s enemies to expend their energy and resources more recklessly than oneself (Tao 1986: 105). Ssu-ma Chien narrates an episode in which a general named Li To-cheh developed a strategy designed to take advantage of such principles. This incident took place during the wars between the various rebels who fought to take control of China after the collapse of Ch’in: Han Hsin and Chang Erh with a few tens of thousands of men planned to march east by way of Chinghsing against Chao. When the king of Chao and Chen Yu, lord of Chengan, heard of their approach, they sent an army, said to be two hundred thousand strong, to the Chinghsing Defile. Li To-cheh, lord of Kuangwu, advised the lord of Chengan saying, ‘We know that General Han Hsin of Han crossed the river in the west, captured the king of Wei and General Hsia Yueh, then caused a blood bath at Yuyu. Now he means to conquer us with the support of Chang Erh. A force like this, coming from a distance and flushed with victory, should not be met head-on. They say, “when supplies must be shipped a thousand li, the soldiers will go hungry. When fuel must be gathered before a meal is cooked, the troops will sleep on empty stomachs.” Now the Chinghsing Defile is so narrow that two chariots cannot drive abreast nor cavalry ride in formation. After advancing for several hundred li, they must have outdistanced their supplies. Let me take thirty thousand men by a different route to cut off their baggage train, while you heighten your ramparts, deepen your trenches and stand firm without giving battle. ‘When they can neither advance to fight nor withdraw, my troops will cut off their rear so that they get no provisions from the countryside. In less than ten days I shall send the heads of their two generals to your army headquarters’. (Szuma 1979: 271) Lord Chen Yu of Chengan happened to be a scholar with an intellectual’s knowledge of Sun Tzu (Szuma 1979: 271). As a good Confucian moralist, he found the scheme for taking advantage of the enemy’s logistical difficulties distasteful, and he quoted Sun Tzu’s advice ‘if you have twice [the enemy’s] number you should give battle’ to justify his own more chivalrous plan for a frontal attack (Szuma 1979: 271). Chen Yu went on to lead his troops straight into an ambush, losing both the battle and his head (Szuma 1979: 271–3). Li Tocheh, the author of the more promising plan, fared better. The victorious Han Hsin captured him alive and treated him respectfully (Szuma 1979: 273). Han Hsin and his aides went on to converse about the difference between repeating Sun Tzu’s sayings and applying Sun Tzu’s ideas (Szuma 1979: 273).

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Command, control and communications The tactical revolution that revived mobile warfare at the end of the First World War and permitted it to take place on an even grander scale in the Second World War was largely a revolution in organization and command doctrine (Habeck 2003: passim; Lupfer 1981). One of the critical developments that has allowed theorists to entertain the possibility that the twenty-first century might see an information-based revolution in military affairs has been the appearance of improved communications technology. Therefore, those who wish to compare ancient Chinese strategic writings to more recent thought will be intrigued to note that T’ai Kung, Sun Tzu, the Ssu-ma, Wu Ch’i and Wei Liao-tzu all wrote extensively on principles of organizing troops, communicating orders and exercising command. Their writings on these subjects agree on both practical and theoretical details. The essential purpose of command, organization and communications, Sun Tzu tells us, is to increase the supreme commander’s control over his forces while reducing his administrative concerns. This maximizes the supreme commander’s freedom to combine the capabilities of different types of forces at critical moments and in devastating ways. Generally management of a large force is the same as management of a few men. It is a matter of organization. And to direct a large force is the same as to direct a few men. This is a matter of formations and signals. That the army is certain to sustain the enemy’s attack without suffering defeat is due to operations of the extraordinary and normal forces. Troops thrown against the enemy as a grindstone against eggs is an example of a solid acting upon a void. (Tao 1986: 103) Where Sun Tzu hoped to manage the army as easily as one might manage a few men, T’ai Kung went further, metaphorically describing the king and his military establishment as a single organism (Sawyer 1993: 60). Like Sun Tzu, T’ai Kung expects commanders to achieve this level of unity through organizational planning. ‘Thus the general has seventy-two “legs and arms” and “feathers and wings” in order to respond to the Tao of Heaven. Prepare their number according to method, being careful that they know its orders and principles’ (Sawyer 1993: 60). The Six Secret Teachings goes on to list the responsibilities of the 72 officers who make up the legs, arms, feathers and wings. Wei Liao-Tzu also portrayed the elements of a military organization as limbs of a single living body (Sawyer 1993: 270). This author supplemented T’ai Kung’s advice by noting the importance of developing procedures to replace individual members of such organizations whenever this should become necessary (Sawyer 1993: 251). Wu Ch’i concurred. Although he saw

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logistics as the ch’i, or vital point, of strength, he saw the means by which ‘the masses of the Three Armies – the million soldiers of the forces – are strategically deployed in appropriate formations according to varying degrees of strength by one man’ as the ch’i of the ch’i (Sawyer 1993: 217). Organizational schemes give armed forces unity on paper, but troops need training and discipline to achieve this cohesion in practice. ‘It is not forming a battle array that is difficult’, the Ssu-ma notes ‘it is reaching the point that the men can be ordered into formation that is hard’ (Sawyer 1993: 120). T’ai Kung advises beginning by assigning troops from different backgrounds to roles which exploit both their aptitudes and their motivations for undertaking military service (Sawyer 1993: 97–8). The Ssu-ma adds the contrasting but compatible point that one may also wish to suppress differences between recruits through training (Sawyer 1993: 97–8). ‘Now men constantly perish from their inabilities and are defeated by the unfamiliar’ observes Wu Ch’i (Sawyer 1993: 215). This author goes on to explain how those responsible for mobilizing troops may train large numbers of men in relatively short periods by teaching their first recruits to become cadres and instruct future recruits (Sawyer 1993: 209). Elsewhere, he discusses methods for selecting and training troops for specialist branches of services such as the cavalry (Sawyer 1993: 211, 216). T’ai Kung suggests many of the same techniques, as does Wei Liao-Tzu. (Sawyer 1993: 98–9, 267, 270). All of these authors write at length on the importance of discipline, and of the commander’s relationship with his troops. Wei Liao-Tzu is noteworthy for his draconian views on the former. ‘If a drummer misses a beat he is executed’ (Sawyer 1993: 267). This author also advocated making troops mutually responsible for each other’s crimes and failures (Sawyer 1993: 263). Wu Ch’i was no stranger to such methods, but he earned special attention for his efforts to build a rapport with his men by sharing their hardships and treating them with paternal affection: In the field, Wu Chi ate and dressed like the rank and file. He slept without a mat, marched on foot instead of riding on horseback or in a chariot, carried his own rations and shared all his troops’ hardships. When one of his men had a boil, Wu Chi sucked the pus from it. The soldier’s mother wept when she heard of this. ‘Why do you weep?’ someone asked her. ‘Your son is a common soldier, yet the commander has sucked pus from his boil.’ ‘You don’t understand,’ said the woman. ‘Some years back Lord Wu did the same for the boy’s father, who then fought without giving ground until he fell. Now Lord Wu has cured my son, the boy too will surely die in a strange place. That is why I am weeping’. (Szuma 1979: 32–3)

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T’ai Kung joins these authors and discusses both the importance of sternly enforced regulations and of winning the men’s respect by sharing their fate (Sawyer 1993: 65, 71). The Ssu-ma notes the need to use both generosity and harshness judiciously, in order to keep troops’ respect without undermining their morale (Sawyer 1993: 121, 138). Sun Tzu summarizes: If troops are punished before their loyalty is secured, they will be disobedient. If not obedient, it is difficult to employ them. If troops have become attached to you, but discipline cannot be enforced, you cannot employ them. Thus, command them with civility but keep them under control with iron discipline, and it may be said that victory is certain. If orders are consistently carried out to instruct the troops, they will be obedient. If orders are not consistently carried out to instruct them, they will be disobedient. (Tao 1986: 115) Not only do these authors emphasize the importance of conditioning soldiers to obey orders and fight fiercely, they advise commanders to manoeuvre their forces into tactical situations in which the troops have no alternative. ‘The business of a general is to kick away the ladder behind soldiers when they have climbed up a height’ (Tao 1986: 121). Like so many military axioms, this is better advice in some situations than in others. Although one wishes one’s troops to fight with the single-minded ferocity of doomed men, one does not actually wish to doom them. In a similar vein, one does not wish to push them past desperation into panic or despair. Sun Tzu understands these points. When discussing offensive strategy, he notes ‘[A] small force is but booty for one more powerful if it fights recklessly’ (Tao 1986: 100). When discussing manoeuvre, he notes that ‘an army may be robbed of its spirit and its commander deprived of his confidence’ (Tao 1986: 109). One may assume that he expected readers to understand that these warnings take precedence over his advice about kicking away ladders, although he does not directly say so The Methods of the Ssu-ma is more explicit about the need to balance the psychological advantage of putting troops in danger against the material imperative of maintaining a strong position. This work also pays more attention to the problems of encouraging frightened troops, suggesting that troops find it easier to face danger when gathered in tight formations and warning commanders not to push already-terrified troops past their breaking point by threatening them with execution (Sawyer 1993: 138). Even the best-ordered troops can only obey the orders they receive. Hence, the ancient Chinese strategists emphasized the importance of communications. Even in Sun Tzu’s time, military thinkers had already written on this subject. The Art of War cites an earlier work known as The Book of Military

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Administration for a list of techniques that allow battlefield commanders to transmit clear messages amidst the noise and confusion of combat (Tao 1986: 109). T’ai Kung discusses communication over longer ranges, suggesting ways for commanders to send encrypted queries and instructions by messenger (Sawyer 1993: 67–8). Not only does Sun Tzu discuss means for communicating with troops, he discusses the principles behind his methods. ‘Now gongs and drums, banners and flags are used to unify the action of the troops. When the troops can be thus united, the brave cannot advance alone, nor can the cowardly withdraw’ (Tao 1986: 109). In other words, Sun Tzu sees communications as a part of his larger project of organizing and conditioning the troops to maximize their unity. Wu Ch’i echoes this advice, placing even greater stress on the role of signalling as a means for inspiring troops with the correct spirit: Now the different drums, gongs, and bells are the means to awe the ear; flags and banners, pennants and standards the means to awe the eye; and prohibitions, orders, punishments, and fines the means to awe the mind. When the ear has been awestruck by sound, it cannot but be clear. When the eye has been awestruck by color, it cannot but be discriminating. When the mind has been awestruck by penalties, it cannot but be strict. If these three are not established, even though you have the support of the state you will invariably be defeated by the enemy. Thus it is said that wherever the general’s banners are, everyone will go, and wherever the general points, everyone will move forward – even unto death. (Sawyer 1993: 218) These are valuable and insightful points, but they are not the only points these authors could have made. Sun Tzu, in particular, might well have explored other avenues. Given his overriding interest in the unique circumstances that arise in each military encounter, one might have expected him to discuss ways of using ‘gongs and drums, banners and flags’ to issue timely new orders in response to battlefield developments. Given his interest in combining the capabilities of different types of forces, one might have expected him to discuss ways of using communications technology to co-ordinate the operations of various sorts of units. Given his interest in intelligence, one might have expected him to discuss ways of receiving information as well as transmitting it. Sun Tzu may have taken it for granted that readers would understand the importance of these activities. Nevertheless, the fact that he – along with other ancient Chinese strategic thinkers – focus so exclusively on the goal of achieving central control suggests that these authors have neglected or rejected the potential uses of de-centralization. These authors commonly

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observe that the supreme military commander needs to be independent from the ruler and his court. Sun Tzu made this point by example when he defied royal orders and executed the king of Wu’s favourite concubines (Szuma 1979: 29). The Art of War does not, however, encourage middle-ranked officers to act independently from the commander-in-chief. To the contrary, Sun Tzu portrays mid-level initiative in scathing terms. ‘When officers are angry and insubordinate, and on encountering the enemy rush into battle with no understanding of the feasibility of engaging and without awaiting orders from the commander, the army is in distress’ (Tao 1986: 117). The Art of War does not suggest the alternative possibility, which is that the officers at some particular spot on the battlefield might understand the ‘feasibility of engaging’ in their tactical situation more clearly than a distant general. Certainly, Sun Tzu does not encourage generals to delegate important decisions downward. ‘[A] skilled commander seeks victory from the situation and does not demand it of his subordinates’ (Tao 1986: 104). T’ai Kung advises generals to dictate subordinate officers’ actions in detail, even when the king ‘has dispersed the Three Armies to several locations’: The commanding general should first set the place and day for battle, then issue full directives and particulars to the generals and commanders setting the time, indicating whether to attack cities or besiege towns, and where each should assemble. [He should] clearly instruct them about the day for battle and even the quarter hour by the water clock. (Sawyer 1993: 96) The Methods of the Ssu-ma advocates similar ideas. ‘As for the army’, this work notes approvingly, ‘when the [power of the] law lies solely with oneself, it is termed “centralized”’ (Sawyer 1993: 137). The Ssu-ma implicitly acknowledges that low-level initiative may achieve ‘small advantages’ (Sawyer 1993: 137). Nevertheless, he maintains that a situation in which officers resist the temptation to chase after such opportunities is to be ‘termed “The Tao” ’ (Sawyer 1993: 137). This opposition to low-level initiative is compatible with the more general teachings of the Legalists. Han Fei Tzu writes: Though in a hundred generations there is neither an arrow that is straight of itself nor a wheel that is circular of itself, yet people in every generation ride carts and shoot birds. Why is that? It is because the tools for straightening and bending are used. Though without the use of such tools there might happen to be an arrow straight of itself or a wheel circular of itself, the skilled carpenter will not prize it. Why? Because it is not just one person who wishes to ride, or one shot that archers wish to shoot. Similarly, though without the use of rewards and punishments

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Therefore, no one need be surprised that the Legalist Wei Liao-Tzu advocates centralization in particularly emphatic terms. Wei Liao-Tzu suggests a system of checkpoints and passes to insure that each unit camps precisely where the supreme commander has ordered it to camp (Sawyer 1993: 264). The penalty for troops who stray from their assigned location is to be death. Later, he notes: If anyone oversteps the bounds of their responsibility to seek the intercession of higher ranks, he shall be put to death. Within the army, there cannot be two [sources of] orders. Anyone who issues a second order shall be executed. Anyone who delays the implementation of an order shall be executed. Anyone who disobeys an order shall be executed. (Sawyer 1993: 267–8) One may speculate about reasons why ancient Chinese strategic thinkers were so uniformly in favour of rigid central control. Some of these reasons may have been technological. Low-level initiative endangers an army’s unity of effort in any age, and Sun Tzu’s gongs, drums, banners and flags could never have compensated for this problem as effectively as field radios. The fact that Warring States armies consisted primarily of infantry armed with hand-tohand weapons and crossbows might seem to increase the tactical power of massed forces. Other reasons may have concerned human factors. The fact that all the ancient Chinese strategists write so extensively about the problems of forcing troops to fight on one hand and the problems of restraining aspiring heroes from impulsively charging the enemy on the other suggests that the soldiers of the time might not have been reliable enough for commanders to trust them to take independent action. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu’s own discussion of unorthodox operations implies that independent detachments played a decisive role in warfare, all the previous points notwithstanding. Such detachments undoubtedly needed independent commanders. Although ancient Chinese theorists were reticent about the matters of cultivating capable subordinates and empowering them to make use of their capabilities, ancient Chinese generals appreciated the importance of these issues in practice. Ssu-ma Chien tells of an incident in which the warlord Liu Pang admitted that he was no equal to his rival Hsiang Yu (Szuma 1979: 268). Liu Pang’s general Han Hsin bluntly agreed (Szuma 1979: 268). Nevertheless, Han Hsin went on to say that the enemy leader had a fatal weakness (Szuma

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1979: 268). ‘When Hsiang Yu bellows with rage a thousand men are rooted to the ground, but since he cannot appoint worthy commanders all he has is the courage of a single man’ (Szuma 1979: 268). Han Hsin went on to become one of Liu Pang’s most brilliant strategists, and Liu Pang went on to found the Han empire. Han Hsin eventually became disgruntled with his lot in the new realm. Liu Pang, now enthroned as Emperor Kao Tzu, stripped him of his command and arrested him to prevent him from attempting a revolt. Kao Tzu went on to pardon him. In the period that followed, Han Hsin confessed that Liu Pang’s gifts were superior even to his own. ‘How many troops would you say I could command?’ asked the emperor. ‘Not more than a hundred thousand’, was Han Hsin’s reply. ‘How about yourself?’ ‘In my case, the more the better.’ ‘The more the better!’ The emperor laughed, ‘Then how is it that you let me capture you?’ ‘You are not a good general sir, but a good commander of generals’. (Szuma 1979: 284) Neither the emperor nor the historian, however, bequeathed later generations with detailed advice about how those who aspire to become good commanders of generals might organize their forces.

The acme of skill? ‘For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the supreme excellence. Thus, what is of supreme importance in war is to attack the enemy strategy’ (Tao 1986: 99). These lines from The Art of War capture what many of Sun Tzu’s most ardent admirers have found so alluring about his work and what many of his harshest critics have found so empty. In Handel’s view, Clausewitz ‘demolishes’ Sun Tzu’s claims about winning without fighting, adding that, even in the unlikely event that one managed to perform such a feat, ‘Clausewitz would not consider such a victory as war’ (Handel 1996: 87–8). Not only would Clausewitz allegedly decline to acknowledge such a victory as such, but so might the enemy. If one fails to fight and destroy opposing armed forces, one leaves one’s opponents free to strike back at whatever point they feel inclined to do so. If they do not, this is only because they are relatively content with the outcome and with the means by which it was reached – conditions which may change at any moment (Handel 1996: 87). Handel summarizes the implications of this point:

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Moreover, Handel accuses Sun Tzu of presenting his arguments for subduing the enemy without fighting in the form of platitudes. Regarding a passage in The Art of War which advises commanders to avoid unnecessary engagements by choosing the ‘indirect approach’, Handel writes: Unfortunately, Sun Tzu does not explain in concrete terms how [emphasis in original] to identify the ‘best’ indirect approach … It reminds one of the advice the old businessman gave his son: ‘My son, let me give you the secret of my success. Buy cheap, sell high – and you will succeed.’ Like all truisms, such advice is too vague to be of much practical value. (Handel 1996: 77) Handel balances his criticism with suitable qualifications. He notes, correctly, that Clausewitz recognized numerous circumstances in which commanders might achieve meaningful goals at reduced cost (Handel 1996: 219). Regarding Sun Tzu’s writing style, he grants that ‘truisms can make some positive contribution by fostering an appreciation for certain attitudes, “formulas”, or actions that are not as self-evident as they first appear or that are not easy to put into practice’ (Handel 1996: 77). Overall, however, Handel presents what Sun Tzu described as the supreme excellence as an unfortunate aberration in an otherwise interesting work. Although Handel accepted Sun Tzu’s position on intelligence as a valid instructional device, he dismisses the Chinese strategist’s enthusiasm for winning without fighting as a mere cultural artefact: Why, then does Sun Tzu, in apparent contrast to Clausewitz, praise the virtues of winning without having to do battle, and to what degree does he realize that this is rarely possible in practice? Sun Tzu’s emphasis on the use of force only as a last resort reflects Confucian idealism and the political culture it spawned. (Handel 1996: 74) Handel goes on to quote Fairbanks and Kierman on the anti-military culture of ancient China. ‘Chinese youth were given no equivalents of Alexander, Caesar, or Napoleon to admire or emulate. There was no youthful worship

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of heroism like that in the West’ (Handel 1996: 75). Sun Tzu, Handel implies, was blinkered by this pacifistic culture, and one could not have expected him to have appreciated the importance of confronting the enemy in bloody battle as fully as a martial Westerner. If, however, the ancient Chinese strategist’s maxims were as unrealistic as Handel claims, one cannot excuse his errors so easily. Had Sun Tzu been inclined to take a more pugnacious approach, ancient Chinese culture would have provided him with ample support and inspiration. Although Confucius, Lao Tzu and Mo Tzu disparaged militarism, they were arguing against others who glorified war and personal derring-do in terms Alexander and Caesar would have found familiar. The revered Yellow Emperor was famous for his victories (Sawyer 1993: 242). Even Han Fei Tzu – who was no pacifist himself – found it necessary to warn rulers against the rapidly proliferating class of glory-seeking swashbucklers (de Bary et al. 1960: 133). Few youths have worshipped heroism like the young Hsiang Yu, who showed off his strength by lifting heavy bronze cauldrons and lost patience with fencing practice because a swordsman can only take on a few opponents at a time, and he wanted to ‘learn how to fight ten thousand foes’ (Szuma 1979: 205–6). At the height of the Ch’in Dynasty’s power, he fantasized loudly about taking over the empire (Szuma 1979: 205). Precisely because of his unConfucian bravado ‘all the young men in his district stood in awe of him’ (Szuma 1979: 206). Moreover, the Legalists felt free to take many of the same positions that Handel attributes to Clausewitz. ‘One who attacks an enemy but does not invariably seize them’, Wei Liao-Tzu tells us, ‘cannot be said to have “attacked”’ (Sawyer 1993: 251). In Wei’s view, commanders hold back from annihilating the enemy do so because they have failed to achieve sufficient control over their own troops (Sawyer 1993: 251). This demonstrates the importance of maintaining discipline at all times. Credibility [must be established] before the moment of need; affairs [must be managed] before the first signs appear. Thus the masses, when once assembled, should not be fruitlessly dispersed. When the army goes forth it should not return empty-handed. They will seek the enemy as if searching for a lost son; they will attack the enemy as if rescuing a drowning man. (Sawyer 1993: 251) When Sun Tzu considered ways of winning without fighting, he ranked the method of attacking the enemy’s alliances through diplomacy second only to that of attacking the enemy’s strategy (Tao 1986: 99). Sun Tzu also preferred to fight demoralized enemies (Tao 1986: 109). Other ancient Chinese military

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thinkers, however, opposed his views. Wei Liao-Tzu raises roughly the same counter-arguments as Handel and Clausewitz. There are armies that are victorious in the court; those that achieve victory in the plains and fields; and those that attain victory in the marketplace. There are those who fight and gain victory; those that submit and are lost and those that are fortunate not to be defeated, as in cases where the enemy is unexpectedly frightened and victory is gained by a turn of events. This sort of victory ‘by turn of events’ is said not to be a complete victory. What is not a complete victory lacks any claim to having effected a tactical imbalance in power. (Sawyer 1993: 251) Although Wei Liao-Tzu also suggests that a sovereign who regulates his armed forces properly will terrify his opponents to the extent that ‘without seeking victory he will then be victorious’, this is compatible with Clausewitz and Handel, who concur: Combat is the only effective force in war; its main aim is to destroy the enemy’s forces as a means to a further end. That holds good even if no actual fighting occurs, because the outcome rests on the assumption that if it came to fighting, the enemy would be destroyed. (Handel 1993: 82; Clausewitz 1976: 97) Han Fei-Tzu had less to say about exclusively military matters, but he shared Handel’s concerns about appealing clichés: Now when witches and priests pray for people, they say: ‘May you live as long as one thousand and ten thousand years!’ Even as the sounds ‘one thousand and ten thousand years,’ are dinning upon one’s ears, there is no sign that even a single day has been added to the age of any man. That is the reason why people despise witches and priests. (de Bary et al. 1960: 128) Lest there be any doubt about his meaning, Han Fei-Tzu went on to emphasize that those who try to bamboozle rulers into accepting impractically abstract advice by promising ‘“if you listen to our words, you will be able to become the leader of all feudal lords”’ are no more than ‘witches and priests’ among state advisers (de Bary et al. 1960: 128). Han Fei-Tzu was specifically criticizing the Confucians, but if Handel is right, his words could apply equally well to The Art of War. Sun Tzu’s ideas about winning without fighting were controversial even when he wrote them, and his audience was not necessarily inclined to accept

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gnomic utterances as a substitute for explanation. One cannot attribute Sun Tzu’s ideas about winning without fighting – or their appeal to other ancient Chinese military thinkers – solely to cultural whimsy, nor can one deny that they are central to The Art of War. Sun Tzu does not merely prefer to win without fighting, he describes it as the supreme excellence; he does not merely say that attacking the enemy’s plan is desirable, he says it is of supreme importance. Therefore, if one’s interpretation of The Art of War seems manifestly unrealistic even from Sun Tzu’s own perspective, it is worth considering the possibility that one has misinterpreted it. One may begin the process of looking for a more plausible interpretation by noting that precursors to Sun Tzu’s statements appear in allegedly earlier works. T’ai Kung addressed King Wu as follows: Thus, one who excels in warfare does not await the deployment of forces. One who excels at eliminating the misfortunes of the people manages them before they appear. Conquering the enemy means being victorious over the formless. The superior fighter does not engage in battle. Thus one who fights and attains victory in front of naked blades is not a good general. One who makes preparations after [the battle] has been lost is not a Superior Sage! (Sawyer 1993: 68–9) One cannot be sure that the Six Secret Teachings actually predates The Art of War, nor can one be sure that any particular line from either work appeared in the original versions of the text. Nevertheless, it is interesting to note that this passage offers support for both Sun Tzu and Wei Liao-Tzu, depending on how one interprets it. The line which states that the superior fighter does not engage in battle is, if anything, more idealistic than Sun Tzu’s discussion of winning victories without fighting. T’ai Kung’s reasons for making this claim, however, seems to be that the superior fighter has dispelled uncertainty about the battle’s outcome (become ‘victorious over the formless’) by building up sufficient strength in advance – which is much the same method advocated by Wei. There is no reason to think that Sun Tzu would have found anything in T’ai Kung’s passage objectionable. The Art of War also emphasizes the importance of preparation (Tao 1986: 97). Nevertheless, where the Legalists take these ideas in one direction, Sun Tzu takes them in another. Wei Liao-Tzu logically – and modernistically – reasons that preparation in the form of disciplinary measures produces combat power and that combat power aggressively deployed cows the enemy into submission. To him, the matter is as simple as that. Sun Tzu – if traditionally accepted dates are accurate – actually lived centuries earlier than Wei, but he harboured postmodern doubts about the proposition that one can reduce military success to such a formula.

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Handel imagines Sun Tzu responding to Clausewitz’s ‘principle of destruction’ by claiming that this emphasis on seeking battle in order to destroy the enemy’s forces neglects ‘other non-violent possibilities that might prevent bloodshed’ (Handel 1996: 217). There are, indeed, passages in which Sun Tzu enjoins strategists not to squander lives unnecessarily, but his preference for subduing the enemy without fighting goes beyond kindly sentiment (Tao 1986: 125). As the previous chapter noted, Sun Tzu aligned himself with the Taoist principle that action of any sort expends resources and provokes opposing reactions, leaving the actor vulnerable to the vicissitudes of an ever-changing world. States that wage war too readily will deplete their treasuries, disrupt their civil societies and expose themselves to future enemies – even when they win. Similar principles apply to the general on campaign. The Ssu-ma held that preparing troops for war is more challenging than deploying them on the battlefield (Sawyer 1993: 120). Wei Liao-Tzu went so far as to write that, with ample supplies, good weapons and proper discipline ‘[the army] will be able to defend any place it secures, and in motion it will be able to attain its objectives’ (Sawyer 1993: 249). As previous sections have noted, Sun Tzu also appreciated the importance of preparation. Nevertheless, he warns that during the entire process of fighting a war, nothing is more difficult than the art of actually executing the operations one has planned and prepared for (Tao 1986: 108). Different translations of Sun Tzu’s work render this point on this subject in slightly different ways. Whereas Yuan Shibing has Sun Tzu claim that the most difficult art is that of ‘maneuvering for advantageous positions’, Ralph Sawyer has him state that the most difficult thing is ‘military combat’ (Tao 1986: 108; Sawyer 1993: 169). Since Sun Tzu goes on to illustrate his idea with examples that include both cross-country marches and clashes with the enemy, it seems reasonable to assume that he is talking about both and more. Military action of all types is challenging even for the most meticulously prepared of forces. Material factors alone dictate that this will be the case. As the section on logistics has noted, Sun Tzu shares the Ssu-ma’s belief that one must appraise strategy in terms of constraints. Moreover, one wages war against thinking opponents, who will exploit one’s difficulties when they can. Michael Handel accuses Sun Tzu of forgetting that what you can do the enemy, the enemy can do to you (Handel 1996: 220). On this subject, at least, Sun Tzu is painfully aware of Handel’s point. ‘One who sets the entire army in motion with impediments to pursue an advantageous position’, Sun Tzu warns, ‘will not attain it’ (Tao 1986: 108). One who bows to the material constraints of time, distance and the load-bearing capacity of one’s forces by abandoning ‘impediments’ and ordering a forced march will reach the battlefield with tired, hungry and under-equipped troops (Tao 1986: 108). In the ensuing battle, any competent opponent will capture one’s commanders (Tao 1986: 108). Where Yuan Shibing writes of losing

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‘commanders’, Ralph Sawyer refers, in a grander tone, to losing the generals of the Three Armies (Tao 1986: 108; Sawyer 1993: 169). One may infer that losing the supreme commanders implies losing the battle. Even those who undertake shorter marches can expect to lose ‘the commander of the van’ and even on the shortest march of all, one will lose one-third of one’s forces (Tao 1986: 108). Although these losses may not be fatal, they will surely be a handicap, both in the immediate engagement and throughout the rest of the war. Since there is no way to make marching, fighting or undertaking other operations easy, the only way to escape such losses is to interfere with the enemy’s ability to do what a properly informed and mentally capable enemy would surely attempt to do. One must, in other words, attack the enemy’s plan. This is why ‘all warfare is based on deception’ (Tao 1986: 95). If one fails to ‘divert the enemy’, all one’s very efforts to ‘contend for advantage’ will, themselves, expose one to disadvantage (Tao 1986: 108). ‘Therefore both advantage and danger are inherent in maneuvering for an advantageous position’, Sun Tzu warns in Yuan Shibing’s translation, and the fact that this statement applies equally well to frontal assaults (Sawyer’s ‘military combat’) is obvious (Tao 1986: 108; Sawyer 1993: 169). Handel dismisses Sun Tzu’s injunction to ‘attack the enemy’s strategy’ as ambiguous (Handel 1996: 41). Whereas Handel is entitled to his opinion, one may note that a substantial proportion of The Art of War discusses specific methods for sabotaging the enemy’s ability to appraise strategic matters intelligently. One may deceive the enemy about one’s location (Tao 1986: 95). One may alter one’s tactics to confound the enemy’s expectations (Tao 1986: 107). One may play on the enemy commander’s personal weaknesses (Tao 1986: 112). One may march by ‘devious routes’ (Tao 1986: 121). One may hold out ‘baits’, simulating weaknesses to entice the enemy into an ill-advised attack (Tao 1986: 104). One may act too quickly for the enemy to respond (‘speed is the essence of war’) (Tao 1986: 120). Yet more of Sun Tzu’s suggestions concern techniques for preventing enemy commanders who have come up with a sensible strategy from putting it into action. One may force the enemy to fight on poor terms by striking against something he cannot bear to lose (Tao 1986: 105). One may fatigue and demoralize the enemy’s troops (Tao 1986: 109). One may avoid contact with enemy forces in terrain where they have the advantage, and one may take up positions that deny them the opportunity to use the tactics they might otherwise have used (Tao 1986: 114, 116–23). One may set fire to the enemy’s stores (Tao 1986: 124). One may intimidate the enemy’s allies into neutrality (Tao 1986: 122). Although Handel does not mention any of these suggestions in his brief discussion of ‘attacking the enemy’s plans’, he does acknowledge them elsewhere, suggesting that Sun Tzu might be able to offer the relatively

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unimaginative Clausewitz some pointers on military guile (Handel 1996: 41, 216–17). Handel refers to Sun Tzu’s gambits as ‘force multipliers’ (Handel 1996: 41, 76, 216–17). This term, however, fails to capture what the ancient Chinese strategist actually suggests. Sun Tzu is not merely looking for a way to adjust one’s strength by some increment. Ralph Sawyer emphasizes this point in a footnote to his translation of The Art of War (Sawyer 1993: 435 n. 13). Sun Tzu is looking for a way to change the entire context in which one’s confrontation with the enemy takes place. ‘Having paid attention to my counsel and plans’, Sun Tzu writes in Yuan Shibing’s translation, ‘the general must create a situation which will contribute to their accomplishment’.1 The character which Shibing translates as ‘situation’ is shih. Sun Tzu devotes his fifth chapter to discussing shih at greater length (Sawyer 1993: 156, 164, 441 n. 57). Achieving a favourable shih requires long and arduous work. If, however, one’s efforts succeed, one will have put oneself in a position to realize some fundamental objective, possibly in a swift and irresistible stroke (Sawyer 1993: 435 n. 13). Creating a shih is like accumulating water behind a dam and then raising the floodgates, it is like what happens when a hawk soars to a great height and then swoops down to snap its victim’s bones, it is like going through the process of loading and drawing a crossbow and then pulling the trigger (Sawyer 1993: 165).2 Critics of Sun Tzu’s work are entitled to respond by asking for specific examples of what shih might mean in practice. Unfortunately, Sun Tzu prefers to discuss this concept in figurative language. If one interprets The Art of War’s lines about winning battles without fighting to refer to situations in which one general achieves such an overwhelmingly advantageous shih that the opposing army instantaneously lays down its weapons without striking a blow, one would have to concede that such events are practically unknown. A general who achieved one would have secured a reputation as a military genius. Others would be foolish to count on duplicating the feat of such a genius. Sun Tzu, however, does not promise commanders this kind of glory. To the contrary, he says that those who apply his teachings successfully may never achieve breathtaking triumphs at all. ‘[T] he victories won by a master of war gain him neither the reputation for wisdom nor merit for courage’ (Tao 1986: 101). One notes that Lao Tzu’s sage also renounces personal fame, apparently for similar reasons (Lao 1972: 66). Sun Tzu’s master of war prefers to fight ‘an enemy already defeated’, and Lao Tzu’s sage chooses, in a more general sense, to avoid competition (Tao 1986: 101; Lao 1972: 66). The Tao Te Ching also notes that ‘great accomplishment seems imperfect’ (Lao 1972: 45). If a similar principle applies to The Art of War, one must conclude that Sun Tzu expects generals to fight battles, suffer casualties and contend with all the other grim realities which Handel and Clausewitz remind us that a general must contend with. Such generals would, however, strive

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to pre-empt enemy operations, bypass the enemy’s most heavily defended points, co-ordinate operations by different types of forces in order to thwart the enemy’s preferred tactics and otherwise do their best to confront the realities of war under the most favourable circumstances possible. Such generals might fail. They might discover that their skills at manipulating shih are inferior to those of their opponents. Nevertheless, it is not wholly naïve to suggest that one is more likely to achieve more lasting successes by trying to implement Sun Tzu’s suggestions than by despairing of the effort entirely. Chinese historical annals of the Warring States period contain detailed accounts of campaigns in which the victors circumvented enemy strong points, practised combined arms tactics, and otherwise put what appears to be a plausible version of Sun Tzu’s theory into practice (Szuma 1979: passim). Few would deny that more recent history includes examples of such things as well.

Insurgency and rebellion From the nineteenth century onwards, revolutionaries, guerrillas, partisans, freikorps, insurgents, terrorists and other fighters operating outside the boundaries of formally recognized state militaries have repeatedly forced military thinkers to reconsider fundamental ideas about war. In the process, these thinkers have discovered and rediscovered the importance of the ideas, popular movements and political organizations that produce such fighters. As Handel observes, these statements apply as much to Clausewitz and Jomini as to Cold War insurgency theorists or to commentators on the twenty-first century’s alleged military counter-revolution (Handel 1996: 63–71). Since T’ai Kung spent his life plotting to overthrow the reigning dynasty, one should not be surprised to learn that the reputed founder of ancient China’s tradition of strategic thought also made revolutionary warfare central to his teachings. T’ai Kung devotes the first chapter of his work to discussing principles of government and grand strategy, remaining relatively circumspect about the politics of his day (Sawyer 1993: 40–52). The second chapter of the Six Secret Teachings opens when T’ai’s pupil King Wen expresses concern for the innocent victims of the Shang Emperor’s tyranny (Sawyer 1993: 53). King Wen then asks a bold question: ‘If you assist me in my concern for these people, how might we proceed?’ (Sawyer 1993: 53). This question allows T’ai Kung to be more openly seditious. In a section titled ‘Opening Instructions’, the strategist describes the preconditions for a successful insurrection: I have observed their fields – weeds and grass overwhelm the crops. I have observed their people – the perverse and crooked overcome the straight and upright. I have observed their officials – they are violent,

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Ultimately, T’ai Kung suggests, the way to rise triumphant from such a situation is to take up the cause of just, effective and compassionate government. ‘He who does not take from the people takes the people’ (Sawyer 1993: 54). The strategist does not, however, assume that the population will initially recognize their need for such a benefactor. As the previous extract noted, he wrote at a time when ‘neither the upper nor the lower ranks have wakened to this state of affairs’ (Sawyer 1993: 54). Only the sage, ‘listening by himself, seeing by himself’ fully comprehends the situation (Sawyer 1993: 54). For obvious reasons, the sage cannot reveal his intentions prematurely: When an eagle is about to attack, it will fly low and draw in its wings. When a fierce wild cat is about to strike, it will lay back its ears and crouch down low. When the Sage is about to move, he will certainly display a stupid countenance. (Sawyer 1993: 54) The sage can afford to do this, because ‘the myriad things all naturally realize their positions’, and the corrupt government is presumably already in the process of destroying itself (Sawyer 1993: 54). ‘[M]oreover, no one realizes the effects of the passing of time’ (Sawyer 1993: 55). Over time, the sage can befriend the people even as the government progressively alienates them (Sawyer 1993: 55). Over time, the sage can organize his new supporters into a cohesive body (Sawyer 1993: 55). Meanwhile, the sage can accelerate the government’s collapse by launching what T’ai Kung, in Ralph Sawyer’s translation, calls a ‘civil offensive’ (Sawyer 1993: 56–7). The term which Sawyer translates as ‘civil’ encompasses a range of measures including deceit, espionage, propaganda and diplomacy (Sawyer 1993: 404 n. 30). Most of T’ai Kung’s specific suggestions concern court politics. One aims to undermine the ruler’s reputation, promote disputes among his followers, bring his ‘talented people’ under the influence of foreign states, learn his secret plans, ‘block up his access’ to competent officials with direct authority over meaningful state activities, support the careers of his less effectual ministers and divert him with licentious entertainment, ideally while masquerading as one of his closest supporters (Sawyer 1993: 56–7). Then, when the ‘proper signs’ are visible, one can ‘attack him’ (Sawyer 1993: 57). Even the phase of open warfare with government forces will require ‘unorthodox’ tactics (Sawyer 1993: 70). T’ai Kung warns his pupil to be mindful of his army’s limitations: ‘[Even the] ancients who excelled at warfare

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were not able to wage war above Heaven, nor could they wage war below Earth’ (Sawyer 1993: 70). Here, T’ai Kung offers a sober counterpoint to other ancient Chinese military writers, who commonly referred to armies attacking with such power that it was as if they were swooping down from the heavens, and to cloaking their movements so perfectly that they seemed to have sunk into the depths of the earth (Sawyer 1993: 403 n. 52). Sun Tzu, Sawyer notes, was fond of these expressions (Sawyer 1993: 403 n. 52). Sun Tzu would, however, have almost certainly agreed with the rest of what the Six Secret Teachings has to say on this subject. T’ai Kung goes on to suggest a variety of guerrilla tactics: ‘Deep grass and dense growth are the means by which to effect a concealed escape’ (Sawyer 1993: 70). ‘Disguising some men as enemy emissaries is the means by which to sever their supply lines’ (Sawyer 1993: 71). Although T’ai Kung ends his explicit discussion of ‘the unorthodox army’ after a single section of a single chapter, Ralph Sawyer notes that he continues to exhibit similar sensibilities even in his chapters on conventional operations (Sawyer 1993: 406 n. 54). Other Chinese thinkers from the Taoists to the Legalists reminded rulers that good government fostered domestic tranquillity while misrule provoked banditry, factional infighting, political opportunism, evasion of unpopular laws, and open revolt. Wu Ch’i advises generals to ‘frighten the enemy and resolve doubts’ (Sawyer 1993: 218). (The ‘doubts’ to be firmly resolved presumably concern the general’s commitment to follow through on promises and threats. Wu Ch’i stresses the importance of maintaining one’s credibility in this regard throughout his work.) Such measures both insure the general obedience from his own troops and to guarantee that ‘rebels will not dare oppose him’ (Sawyer 1993: 218). A state with such generals will grow strong, and a state that loses them will ‘perish’ (Sawyer 1993: 218). Beyond this, however, few ancient Chinese writers presented civil offensives or guerrilla tactics as distinct analytical categories within the subject. One may speculate that such topics were dangerous to discuss. One may also note that Sun Tzu, at least, made ‘unorthodox’ methods so basic to his concept of warfare that his admirers may have found attempts to divorce the guerrilla operations from what others might call conventional warfare misleading. Certainly, subversion, unorthodox tactics and irregular forces remained staples of Chinese military and political life. Ssu-ma Chien’s histories present numerous accounts of people who fomented and suppressed rebellions, using methods T’ai Kung and Wu Ch’i would have found familiar (Szuma 1979: 258–9, 284–7, 294-311, 312–38). Ssu-ma Chien also suggests further ideas about insurgency. Where T’ai Kung and his protégés enlisted disgruntled noble families as confederates, later rebels found bandit gangs equally useful as allies (Szuma 1979: 206). The fact that the bandits in question possessed secure marshland hideouts undoubtedly increased their value. Where T’ai Kung held that states became

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ripe for insurrection when their leaders fell into corruption, later conspirators noted that states also become vulnerable when their armies are occupied with campaigns in distant lands (Szuma 1979: 289). Ssu-ma’s annals imply parallels between rebellion, simple crime and barbarian attacks. The official Chih Tu cultivated a fearsome reputation in order to awe the rebellious clan of Chien into submission (Szuma 1979: 438). One may recall that Wu Ch’i recommended precisely this approach. Chih Tu’s policies had the secondary effect of making people so scrupulously law-abiding that ‘no one in the province dared to pick up anything that had been dropped in the road’ (Szuma 1979: 438). When Chih Tu’s enemies in the imperial court arranged to have him reassigned to a frontier province, his reputation travelled with him, and the Huns stopped raiding the area under his control (Szuma 1979: 439). ‘They even carved an effigy of him and made their mounted archers use it as a target, but such was the awe in which they held him that none of them could hit it’ (Szuma 1979: 439). An entire chapter of Ssu-ma Chien’s work deals with individuals who set out to avenge slights and injustices by assassinating rulers, sometimes on behalf of those rulers’ foreign enemies and sometimes purely on their own (Szuma 1979: 385–402). Ssu-ma Chien depicts these assassins favourably: ‘[S]ome succeeded in their mission while others failed but all were equally determined and loyal to their cause’ (Szuma 1979: 402). Even the successful ones, however, failed to accomplish anything of lasting political importance. Ssu-ma Chien drew no explicit lessons from this, but his account of the rebellion against Ch’in seems to repeat the lesson that the mere will to do great deeds is not enough. ‘Whoever strikes first becomes a leader’, provincial governor Yin Tung observed in an attempt to win the wily Hsiang Liang and Hsiang Yu’s support for an insurrection, ‘while those who delay are led’ (Szuma 1979: 206). Ssu-ma Chien quotes these words, but those who have read his earlier chapters will note that Chen Sheh, the romantically inclined peasant who actually struck first against Ch’in, died within six months of his rebellion (Szuma 1979: 204). Neither Chen Sheh’s associates nor the kingdom he founded survived him. As for governor Yin Tung, the Hsiangs followed his advice to the letter, cutting off his head and proceeding to lead the rebellion themselves (Szuma 1979: 206). If Hsiang Liang and his nephew Hsiang Yu made better use of their opportunity, it was because they had studied the art of war, and because their personal connections to provincial officials allowed them to take command of a trained army (Szuma 1979: 205–6). Yet ultimately, even they failed, leaving Liu Pang – a lesser soldier, perhaps, but one with a superior ability to make use of his subordinates and a superior ability to win support from the general population – to found the next empire. T’ai Kung, who stressed the importance of military knowledge, political acumen, trained troops, a well-organized command staff and a sound political programme, would not have been surprised.

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Technology The Legalists emphasized the point that people are continually discovering improved methods of doing things, and that one must embrace useful inventions rather than clinging to obsolete practices. Thinkers from other schools of thought were less enthusiastic about progress, but they acknowledged its existence. Mo Tzu, for instance, describes the history of society as one of progressive innovation (de Bary et al. 1960: 36). Nowhere did the ancient Chinese witness more dramatic examples of progress than in the development of weaponry, metallurgy, transportation systems and other branches of strategically relevant technology. The military writers of the Chou Dynasty and Warring States period discussed the uses of these various inventions, but they offered relatively few comments on the process of invention in general. Certainly none suggested that any particular invention had rendered earlier works on strategy obsolete, or that it had ushered in a new age of warfare. Some of the most detailed discussions of technology and its uses appear in T’ai Kung’s Six Secret Teachings. T’ai Kung was interested in the possibility of economizing on military preparations by adapting civilian tools to wartime use: ‘Digging sticks serve as chevaux-de-frise and caltrops’ (Sawyer 1993: 74). In other sections, T’ai Kung shows his enthusiasm for more flamboyant and exclusively military devices, such as the ‘Martial Protective Large Fuhsu Chariots’ with their eight-foot wheels and the smaller Martial Flanking Large Covered Spear and Halberd Fu-hsu Chariots with their multiple winchpowered linked crossbows (Sawyer 1993: 76). The Six Secret Teachings prescribes a plethora of techniques for using specific types of equipment to take advantages of specific tactical developments and specific types of terrain. ‘For fighting in wild expanses and in the middle of tall grass, there is the square-shank arrow-shaped spear … The method for deploying these spears is to have them stick out of the ground, one foot, five inches’ (Sawyer 1993: 78). The Six Secret Teachings also recommends a list of for deploying chariots, infantry and mounted cavalry in various situations (Sawyer 1993: 101–5). Methods of the Ssu-ma discusses similar issues, with an added commentary on the proper way to distribute long and short weapons among one’s troops (Sawyer 1993: 130). Wu Ch’i’s work also features such tactical suggestions, although his do not tend to focus so narrowly on instruments (Sawyer 1993: 219–23). The Chinese did not develop either crossbows or cavalry until centuries after the rise of the Chou Dynasty. Therefore, even if T’ai Kung actually existed and wrote the original Six Secret Teachings, he cannot have written the passages addressing these topics. The fact that later authors amended his work is hardly surprising. Most ancient texts contain elements of pastiche. Nevertheless, the fact that Chinese writers attached so many references to

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technology to the work in which they seem least historically plausible is curious. Sun Tzu’s text has been through the same process of annotation and anonymous revisions as the Six Secret Teachings. Nevertheless, although the historical Sun Tzu certainly knew about crossbows and may have encountered cavalry as well, The Art of War offers little specific advice about using either in battle. It is possible that all this is pure coincidence, and that the reason why current versions of T’ai Kung’s work contains the passages on cavalry and crossbows is merely that whoever felt inspired to write this material happened to be transcribing the Six Secret Teachings at the time. Another reason may be that T’ai Kung’s work already contained other detailed discussions of military equipment, and that later writers found it relatively easy to fit such material into that text. This leads one to wonder whether T’ai Kung was actually more interested in technology than later writers, and whether this reflects anything about his approach to broader problems of crafting effective strategy. Again, one can only guess. One can, however, note that T’ai Kung’s enthusiasm for hardware is compatible with his suggestion that rational preparation will allow one to achieve victory over the irrational ‘formless’ (Sawyer 1993: 68–9). Sun Tzu’s greater respect for the incomprehensibly vast range of possibilities that make each military encounter unique does not allow one to ignore technology, but it forces one to be more sceptical about generic recipes for using it. Sun Tzu’s ideas often parallel those found in the Tao Te Ching, and that may be the case in this instance. Lao Tzu is cool towards technological progress. Although he assumes that people in a happy state will develop ‘machines that can work ten to a hundred times faster than man’, he adds that such machines will not be needed (Lao 1972: 80). The people of this state will also have armour and weapons, but they will not need to display them (Lao 1972: 80). Sun Tzu’s readers have presumably degenerated beyond the point at which they can benefit from these particular sayings. Nevertheless, Lao Tzu’s writings still suggest that one’s mental capacity for using technology creatively and in ways that suit particular situations is more significant than the technology itself. The Taoist author Chuang Tzu – who was, himself, a military officer – touches upon this theme (Baskin 1972: 149). There once was a man of Sung who had a recipe for salve for chapped hands, his family having been silk washers for generations. A stranger heard of this and offered him one hundred ounces of gold for the recipe. His clansmen all came together to consider this proposal and agreed, saying: ‘We have been washing silk for generations. What we have gained is but a few ounces of gold. Now in one morning we can sell this technique for one hundred ounces. Let the stranger have it.’ So, the stranger got it

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and spoke of it to the King of Wu. When Wu and Yueh were at war, the King of Wu gave him command of the fleet. In the winter, he had a naval engagement with Yueh, in which the latter was totally defeated. [The salve allowed his sailors to keep their hands nimble in the harsh weather, and this made it possible for them to fight and sail more effectively.] The stranger was rewarded with a fief and a title. Thus, while the efficacy of the salve to cure the chapped hands was the same, yet in the one case a man thereby gained for himself a title, while in another, those silk-washers had to keep on washing silk with its help. This was due to the difference in the use of the thing. (de Bary et al. 1960: 67) ‘When the block is carved’, Lao Tzu notes in a more abstract vein, ‘it becomes useful. When the sage uses it, he becomes the ruler’ (Lao 1972: 28). This passage emphasizes, not the block itself, but the using of it. Lao Tzu advises his readers themselves to ‘return to the state of the uncarved block’, which still has the potential to take on whatever shape one desires (Lao 1972: 28). The fact that Sun Tzu’s writings on the specific uses of specific technology seem less ‘carved’ than those, for instance, of T’ai Kung may reflect a reluctance to offer rigid prescriptions about a topic which changes, not only with each new invention, but with each encounter with the realities of war.

Conclusion Handel’s criticisms notwithstanding, the ancient Chinese strategic thinkers appear to discuss the practical aspects of military operations in a realistic and sophisticated way. Moreover, their writings on this topic continue the debate over the way in which one must understand the relationship between ends and means in war. Scholars may never know whether the Six Secret Teachings actually predates ancient China’s other works on military theory, but this work raises a number of fundamental ideas. Other writers develop those ideas in contrasting ways, with the self-acknowledged Legalists tending towards what this book calls modernism, and Sun Tzu offering postmodern second thoughts. Virtually all the writers surveyed follow T’ai Kung’s lead when discussing the importance of centralized control, the leadership techniques used to achieve such control, and the importance of material preparation. Legalist writers such as Wu Ch’i and Wei Liao-Tzu were broadly prepared to treat these principles as formulas for success, although all of them offered their own wellconsidered qualifications. Nevertheless, important as these considerations are, reality proved more complex than this formulaic approach would suggest, and ancient Chinese historical annals suggest that some military commanders recognized this at the time.

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Sun Tzu follows the formulaic approach on some topics, such as the importance of centralization. On other subjects, he offers inadvisably rigid prescriptions of his own. Nevertheless, Sun Tzu is noteworthy for acknowledging the fact that, critical as organization, leadership and preparation are, the greatest challenge in war remains that of mastering the contingencies that arise when one commits one’s forces to action. The fact that no formula can predict the fluid mix of obstacles and opportunities which manifest themselves in every campaign compels Sun Tzu to place his famous emphasis on intelligence and unorthodox tactics. Although his statements on these topics expose him to criticism, he remains entitled to respond that a commander is better off trying to follow his suggestions than ignoring them entirely.

Notes 1 The character which Yuan Shibing translates as ‘situation’ is ‘shih’. Sawyer translates this term as ‘strategic configuration of power’ and, more simply, as ‘strategic power’. Sawyer’s version focuses more specifically on military issues, but for these purposes, the meaning remains the same. Whether one refers to the situation or the configuration of power, one is referring to the web of circumstances that set the stage for a military event (Sawyer 1993: 156, 158, 435). 2 Sawyer’s text is useful here because it emphasizes that Sun Tzu uses the same term in these analogies as he used when he discussed creating a situation.

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Having reviewed ancient Chinese writings about the nature of war and the practicalities of waging it, one may return to the question of where these writings might inform contemporary debates. Chapter 3 began its survey of nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first century strategic debates by considering the use of war as a political instrument, the mobilization of society for military purposes, and the implications of these issues for civil life. As Chapter 4 documents, the ancient Chinese offered detailed analyses of strikingly similar points from a range of pre-modern, modernistic and postmodernistic perspectives. Sun Tzu’s quasi-Taoist approach stands out for its at least partially successful attempt to accommodate both the truths and the undeniable pitfalls of simple modernism, and later generations of Chinese strategists have promoted it on those grounds. Twentieth-century strategists hoped to overcome some of the problems arising from the simplest versions of military modernism through such innovations as manoeuvre warfare, nuclear deterrence and information warfare, along with the technologies that presumably supported these concepts. One finds resonant themes in ancient Chinese works, notably those of T’ai Kung and Sun Tzu. Nevertheless, ancient Chinese approaches diverge from more recent thinking on such topics, even when one accounts for the enormous differences in circumstances. One cannot be surprised that writers in the fourth century BC failed to account for twentieth-century inventions, but the fact that they seemed to downplay even their own era’s inventions suggests a difference in mindset. A similar point applies to insurgency, guerrilla tactics and political warfare. The ancient Chinese knew and discussed these things, but, with the partial exception of T’ai Kung, they did not seem to find them as extraordinary as their present-day counterparts. Sun Tzu’s discussion of intelligence is more sophisticated than Handel suggests, but it does not directly address the problems of analysis that have plagued twenty-first century strategists. The fact that certain twenty-first century ethicists have rediscovered the value of formal etiquette in warfare bears a passing resemblance to Pan Piao’s rediscovery

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of the I Ching, although the military writers of ancient China unsurprisingly directed their moral speculation in sharply different directions. On all these issues and many others, both the ancient Chinese and more recent thinkers have repeatedly discovered that reality is more complicated than their theories initially allowed for. Ralph Peters’s ‘The Counterrevolution in Military Affairs’ is only a recent manifestation of what appears to be an eternally recurring phenomenon. Sun Tzu might have considered Peters’s ‘will’ to engage in great clashes of ‘flesh and blood’ self-destructive, but he was concerned with many of the same problems (Peters 2006). One of his main reasons for emphasizing timely intelligence is that he expects previously reliable assumptions to lose their validity. One of his main reasons for emphasizing unorthodoxy and unpredictability is that he expects apparently revolutionary techniques to encounter counter-revolutionary complications. Readers must make up their own minds about the logic and insightfulness of the various thinkers’ arguments concerning specific issues. One may, however, raise broader questions about whether one can possibly apply millennia-old concepts to the type of problems that arise in war. Indeed, one may ask how it is possible to apply even more up-to-date concepts to such problems. The ‘human intellect’, Martin Van Creveld tells us, is insufficient both for understanding war and for waging it (Van Creveld 1977: 236). To suggest otherwise, he adds, is ‘to give proof of a hubris like that evinced by those who built the Tower of Babel and deserving similar punishment’ (Van Creveld 1977: 236). Richard Betts raises related questions in articles titled ‘Should Strategic Studies Survive?’ and ‘Is Strategy an Illusion?’ (Betts 1997: passim; Betts 2000: passim). This author does not claim to have a definitive answer for Betts’s question. One may note, however, that the ancient Chinese themselves debated similar issues. As Chapter 2 noted, China’s tradition of strategic theorizing began among professional intellectuals who competed for the attention of royal patrons. In order to win this attention, they not only had to establish the merits of their favourite theories, they had to explain what the process of abstract theorizing could contribute to such a practical endeavour as military strategy. Confucius’ teachings directly inspired many of ancient China’s intellectuals, and his career shaped Chinese society’s expectations for all of them. This sage, as previous chapters have noted, typically disparaged force and its uses. Moreover, he freely admitted his ignorance on the topic. Once, a nobleman named Duke Ling asked him about warfare. ‘“I know something about sacrificial vessels,” said Confucius, “but I have never studied military science”’ (Szuma 1979: 14). Duke Ling promptly lost interest in Confucius’ teachings, and the sage sought an audience elsewhere (Szuma 1979: 14–15). Nevertheless, despite Confucius’ antipathy to warfare and despite his selfdeclared unfamiliarity with military affairs, the sage did not hesitate to advise

Conclusion: thinking about strategy 175 one of his patrons to take military advisers to a meeting with a foreign prince, nor did he refrain from urging the same patron to attack a trio of upstart noblemen (Szuma 1979: 7–8). Moreover, Confucius’ admirers maintained that his teachings were generally relevant to the subject of strategy. The following year, Jan Chiu, given the command of the army by Chi Kang-tzu, defeated Chi at Lang. ‘Have you studied the arts of war?’ Chi Kang-tzu asked him. ‘Or are you naturally gifted?’ Jan Chiu replied, ‘I learned this from Confucius.’ ‘What kind of man is he?’ ‘He wants his actions to correspond to his principles. In applying his principles to govern the people he tries to carry out the wishes of the gods. This is what he wants, not to possess the wealth of a thousand villages’. (Szuma 1979: 20–1) Chi Kang-tzu then asked whether he could convince Confucius to advise him. ‘If you do’, Jan Chiu replied ‘you must not let petty-minded men obstruct him’ (Szuma 1979: 21). Confucius himself continued to rebuff rulers who approached him for military advice (Szuma 1979: 21). Nevertheless, Jan Chiu had outlined a general argument for applying Confucian methods of reasoning to strategy. There are, he had asserted, principles that bear upon the consequences of one’s actions. Those who have studied such principles in the abstract are in a better position to act effectively. Those who ignore principles do not escape their consequences – they merely relinquish the opportunity to assess those consequences in an informed manner. Jan Chiu would undoubtedly have appreciated John Maynard Keynes’ observation that ‘practical men, who believe themselves to be quite exempt from any intellectual influences, are usually the slaves of some defunct economist’ (Anonymous, ‘Keynes, John Maynard’ undated). The Legalist Han Fei-Tzu responded on behalf of the practical men: Practically every family keeps copies of the books of Sun Wu and Wu Ch’i on the art of war, and yet the army is becoming weaker and weaker. This is because many talk about warfare but few put on armor. (de Bary et al. 1960: 135) Han also attacked the very idea that abstract thinkers have special insights into state affairs: ‘[W]hat the world … regards as wisdom consists of subtle and mysterious words. Such subtle and mysterious words are hard even for the wisest of men to understand’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 134). Since a ruler

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must concern himself with larger populations of less erudite people, esoteric theoretical concepts are beside the point: Just as men who have not even chaff and bran to fill their stomachs would not aim at wine and meat, and just as those who have not even rags to cover their bodies would not insist upon silk and embroidery, so, in the conduct of government, if the ruler is unable to handle affairs that are most urgent, he should not strive after matters of only distant concern. Now the business of government consists of the affairs of the people. If in dealing with them the ruler should leave alone the ideas that ordinary men and women plainly understand and adopt the theories of the wisest of men, he would be accomplishing just the opposite of proper government. Assuredly, subtle and mysterious theories are no business of the common people. (de Bary et al. 1960: 134)

Although the preceding paragraph refers specifically to civil legislation, Han’s points apply equally well to the study of strategy. ‘The knowledge required in war is very simple’, Carl von Clausewitz reminded his readers (Clausewitz 1976: 146). Those who forget this have produced ‘obscure, partially false, confused and arbitrary notions’ which ‘have made theory, from its beginnings, the very opposite of practice, and not infrequently the laughingstock of men whose military competence is beyond dispute’ (Clausewitz 1976: 169). As earlier chapters have noted, the Legalists would have been quick to place Jan Chiu’s ideas about placing the alleged wishes of the gods ahead of material interests in the category of confused and arbitrary notions. Nor did Han Fei Tzu accept the Confucian suggestion that rulers should mollycoddle virtuous and enlightened advisers in order to attract more of them to their courts. ‘[O]rdinary people, clad in plain cloth’ might have to rely on trust and reciprocal affection to ‘make friends among themselves’, but this is only because they have ‘neither the wealth to benefit one another, nor the authority to intimidate one another’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 134). The ruler, who does possess such resources, has more direct ways of commanding others’ support. This is fortunate, Han Fei Tzu continues, because ‘today one cannot count even ten men of devotion and faithfulness, yet official posts in the country are counted by the hundreds’ (de Bary et al. 1960: 135). For similar reasons, the ruler should not depend on the ‘wisdom of men’. Instead, the ruler should institute standardized procedures that make exceptional wisdom unnecessary (de Bary et al. 1960: 135). Han Fei Tzu implicitly praises the ‘well-informed’ policymakers who introduced improved techniques for dredging rivers and cultivating mulberry trees, but he respects them for their demonstrable

Conclusion: thinking about strategy 177 technical expertise, not their ineluctable facility with metaphysical concepts (de Bary et al. 1960: 129). Unsurprisingly, China’s explicitly military thinkers tend to present their teachings as practical knowledge of the sort which even Han Fei Tzu might have appreciated. One may recall that Wu Ch’i and Wei Liao-Tzu appear to have thought of themselves as Legalists, and that Han Fei Tzu discussed the former in favourable terms. Han’s swipe at those who keep the books of Sun Wu and Wu Ch’i but never put on armour need not imply criticism of the books themselves. Han Fei Tzu advocated reducing the art of managing state affairs to standardized procedures, and most of ancient China’s military authors devoted significant portions of their works to attempting exactly that. T’ai Kung, for instance, devotes most of his writings to specific prescriptions. Some passages, to be sure, are more poetic than practical. The ruler ‘should be like the height of a mountain – when looked up to – cannot be perceived’ (Sawyer 1993: 44). Normally, however, T’ai Kung takes pains to explain his methods in specific and tangible terms. The Six Secret Teachings not only comments on the uses of various weapons, he indicates the exact number of each that one should procure for one’s forces (Sawyer 1993: 77–9). T’ai Kung not only opines about the importance of selecting trustworthy and effective commanders, he suggests eight techniques for identifying them. These range from methods that would be routine in a contemporary job interview – ‘verbally confound and perplex them and observe how they change’ – to more probing approaches – ‘get them drunk to observe their deportment’ (Sawyer 1993: 64). When possible, T’ai Kung explains exactly how he would handle various tactical situations: Every day have the vanguard go forth and instigate skirmishes with them to psychologically wear them out. Have our older and weaker soldiers drag brushwood to stir up the dust, beat the drums and shout, and move back and forth – some going to the left, some to the right, never getting closer than a hundred paces from the enemy. (Sawyer 1993: 83) T’ai Kung stresses the point that generals must ultimately depend on their own skill – not mere recipes. ‘The Sage takes his signs from the movements of Heaven and Earth; who knows his principles?’ (Sawyer 1993: 69). Even if formulaic tactics were otherwise adequate, they would become a liability as soon as the enemy learned them and developed ways of countering them. ‘In planning, nothing is more important than not being knowable’ (Sawyer 1993: 69). Thus, the commander must take advantage of emerging situations as they develop, relying on personal qualities such as decisiveness – ‘of the many harms that can beset an army, vacillation is the greatest’ – and insight – ‘when

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things are not manifest but he discerns them, he is enlightened’ (Sawyer 1993: 69). Nevertheless, even when T’ai Kung leaves matters up to readers’ personal judgement, he does his best to help commanders assess situations as precisely and objectively as possible. To this end, he devotes a chapter to quantifying the combat power of particular forces in particular tactical situations. An extract reads: Thus when chariots and cavalry are not engaged in battle with the enemy, one cavalryman is not able to equal one foot soldier. However, after the masses of the Three Armies have been arrayed in opposition to the enemy, when fighting on easy terrain the rule is that one chariot is equivalent to eighty infantrymen, and eighty infantrymen are equivalent to one chariot. … The rule for fighting on difficult terrain is that one chariot is equivalent to forty infantrymen, and forty infantrymen are equivalent to one chariot. (Sawyer 1993: 99) T’ai Kung analyses the value of favoured stratagems in the same numerical terms. ‘To be the first to gain victory, initially display some weakness to the enemy and only afterward do battle. Then your effort will be half, but the achievement will be doubled’ (Sawyer 1993: 69). Handel, adopting a phrase from contemporary military terminology, refers to Sun Tzu’s unorthodox tactics as ‘force multipliers’ (Handel 1996: 217). We will never know whether Sun Tzu himself would have described ch’i methods in such terms, but it appears that T’ai Kung would have. Quantitative approaches to strategic analysis and strategic planning have mind-boggling potential. If one’s techniques for measuring combat power are consistently valid in practice, one can use them to forecast the results of battles which have yet to take place. One can also use them to identify optimal means of preparing for war and optimal strategies for waging it. This view of warfare might also seem to support a Legalist approach to government, since it would allow one to calculate the military implications of various civil measures and optimize state policy accordingly. Sun Tzu notes all these points but the last. In his opening chapter, he identifies himself with the quantitative approach and all its promise: Now, if the estimates made before a battle indicate victory, it is because careful calculations show that your conditions are more favourable than those of your enemy; if they indicate defeat, it is because careful calculations show that favourable conditions for a battle are fewer. With more careful calculations, one can win; with less, one cannot. How much

Conclusion: thinking about strategy 179 less chance of victory has one who makes no calculations at all! By this means, one can foresee the outcome of a battle. (Tao 1986: 96) Masters of War sums up Sun Tzu’s approach as a ‘highly systematic decision-making process’ in which ‘rational calculations are considered a virtual guarantee of success’ (Handel 1996: 59–60). Handel goes on to note: Clausewitz, however, appears to be more conscious of the difficulty of relying on rational calculations. As a result, he assigns a greater role to the unpredictable influence of elements such as friction, chance, unreliable intelligence and sheer complexity. In his more limited expectations of the benefits flowing from rational calculations, Clausewitz is considerably more realistic than Sun Tzu. (Handel 1996: 61) The collapse of vast, well-organized Ch’in and the ultimate success of Liu Pang – who, by most quantitative measures, would have appeared considerably weaker than his rivals – confirms Handel’s point. Moreover, Sun Tzu’s claims regarding calculations fit uneasily with other ideas in his work. If quantitative analysis works as well as Sun Tzu asserts, one ought to be able to use this method to overcome Sun Tzu’s reservations about belligerent national policies and excessively ambitious military operations. If one can foresee the outcome of hypothetical battles with any degree of precision, surely one can calculate the amount of extra troops, money and materiel one will need to compensate for the equally calculable losses entailed in seemingly reckless actions, and plan accordingly. This apparent contradiction suggests that it may be worth scrutinizing The Art of War’s passages on calculation at greater length. Such scrutiny reveals that even as Sun Tzu proclaims the omniscience and corresponding omnipotence of the quantitative approach, he hints at the limitations of this method. To begin with, his calculations promise to be exceptionally complicated ones. Other Chinese thinkers suggested that it was possible to measure combat power in terms of a single variable. T’ai Kung, for instance, held, ‘in general, as for the Tao of the military, nothing surpasses unity’ (Sawyer 1993: 51). In a similar vein, Wu Ch’i could identify central organization as the ch’i of the ch’i (Sawyer 1993: 217). Sun Tzu, by contrast, requires strategists to account for a total of 12 factors divided into two separate categories (Tao 1986: 94–5). Some of Sun Tzu’s factors, such as weather, are themselves difficult to predict, and would have been more so in ancient China (Tao 1986: 94). Others, such as ‘politics’, are difficult to assess numerically (Tao 1986: 94). Sun Tzu’s definition of politics as ‘the thing which causes the people to be in harmony with their ruler’ scarcely simplifies the problem (Tao 1986: 94). Moreover,

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immediately after Sun Tzu discusses these factors, he adds that they are merely a starting point: ‘Having paid attention to my counsel and plans, the general must create a situation which will contribute to their accomplishment’ (Tao 1986: 96). One notes the sequence of events in this sentence – the process of creating a situation begins after the process of considering Sun Tzu’s ‘counsel’ (which, up until that point, has dealt with calculations based on the various factors) – has run its course. Sun Tzu goes on to discuss the art of strategic planning in a less formulaic tone: ‘By “situation” I mean he should take the field situation into consideration and act in accordance with what is advantageous’ (Tao 1986: 95). Sun Tzu’s next sentence returns us to the theme that ‘all warfare is based on deception’ (Tao 1986: 95). After a paragraph on psychological warfare, he contradicts his claims about the certainty of predictions derived in advance through exacting calculations. ‘Attack the enemy where he is unprepared and appear where you are not expected. These are the keys to victory for a strategist. It is not possible to formulate them in detail beforehand’ (Tao 1986: 96). Elsewhere, Sun Tzu adds ‘in war, numbers alone confer no advantage’ (Tao 1986: 115). Sun Tzu does not attempt to reconcile his enthusiasm for calculations with his implied critique of such techniques. Perhaps, as his phrase ‘having paid attention to my counsel …’ implies, he thought calculation could provide the beginnings of a useful strategy, even if commanders need to draw on other sources of inspiration to produce the finished product. Perhaps Handel’s belief that he knowingly took an untenable position on intelligence for instructional purposes is relevant here, and he hoped to provoke readers into considering the quantitative approach in greater depth on their own. Perhaps the original version of The Art of War was more consistent, and subsequent authors added contradictory material at later dates. Whatever the case, the passages in which Sun Tzu instructs readers to go beyond simple calculations hint at the mindset they might adopt in doing so. This mindset is the mindset of one who shares his concerns about the selfdefeating nature of direct action, and of one who hopes to win battles without fighting. T’ai Kung observed that factors such as mounts, vehicles, surprise tactics, and favourable terrain could allow troops to fight as effectively as double, quadruple or eighty times their number. Nevertheless, his approach assumes that once one has identified the circumstances under which the battle will take place and accounted for the appropriate force-multiplying variables, one can get back to measuring troop strength numerically again. The Art of War, by contrast, advises readers not to limit themselves to accepting the circumstances in which they happen to find themselves. Sun Tzu’s general does not merely assess the situation, he ‘creates’ it (Tao 1986: 95). Sawyer’s translation of this phrase includes a note emphasizing that the general produces this situation

Conclusion: thinking about strategy 181 from ‘outside the normal realm of tactics’, using original and perhaps unorthodox methods (Sawyer 1993: 435 n. 12). Here, Sun Tzu’s observations about how even a small number of variables can combine to produce an unfathomable number of possibilities become relevant once more. Since generals can drive events in so many radically different ways, even when beginning from the same starting point, attempts to compare the relative power of various tactics in numerical terms are futile. Different situations (shih) do not merely increase or reduce the strength of one’s forces by a fixed and knowable factor. Different situations are incommensurable. Anecdotes from Ssu-ma Chien’s histories suggest that the generals who used The Art of War most effectively were those who considered the unique circumstances they found themselves in first, and then selectively adapted Sun Tzu’s ideas to suit the situation. In the words of the Han Dynasty orator Kuai Tung: ‘When listening to advice one should show discrimination’ (Szuma 1979: 282). The successful generals’ calculations, if the term applies at all, were creative rather than formulaic: The officers presented their captives and the heads of the slain, and congratulated Han Hsin on the victory. ‘According to The Art of War,’ they said, ‘an army should keep hills to its rear or right, and a river in front or to the left. When you ordered us to form ranks before the river and promised us a feast after Chao’s defeat, we could hardly believe our ears. Yet we won after all. What strategy was this?’ ‘This is in The Art of War too, if only you knew it,’ answered Han Hsin. ‘Does it not say, “Put them in a death trap and they will come out alive; send them to destruction and they will survive”? Besides, I had no well-trained officers and men but only street rabble rounded up to fight. Circumstances compelled me to put them in a death trap and force them to fight for their lives. Had I left them in a safe place, they would have all run away. What use would that have been to me?’ ‘Quite right!’ agreed the officers. ‘This was beyond us’. (Szuma 1979: 273) Chapter 1 discussed Jon Tetsuro Sumida’s Wittgensteinian interpretation of Alfred Thayer Mahan. Generals such as Han Hsin applied Sun Tzu’s advice in a similar spirit. As Chapter 1 also noted, this approach to making and using theory is also compatible with the Tao Te Ching. Therefore, it is reasonable to assume that Sun Tzu and whatever authors amended his text consciously intended readers to understand The Art of War in this way. This Taoist approach values the contributions of intelligent commentators such as strategic thinkers. Lao Tzu routinely refers to sages whose superior insight allows them to understand and explain things that others cannot (Lao

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1972: 15). The Taoists also share the Legalist scepticism regarding theoretical obfuscation. Lao Tzu’s sage is one who ‘learns not to hold on to ideas’ (Lao 1972: 64). As for those who would invent new terminology and refine the definitions of esoteric concepts, Lao Tzu merely says that there are already more than enough names (Lao 1972: 32). Up until this point, the Taoist approach is compatible with Han Fei Tzu’s modernism. Lao Tzu, however, takes these ideas in a different direction. The Tao Te Ching’s ‘ancient masters’ are not creators of theory, but neither are they constructors of standardized systems. Rather, they are those whose ‘open mind[s] allow them to “move with the present”, “watchful, like men crossing a winter stream” ’ (Lao 1972: 14–16). Others may benefit from their discoveries, but only by incorporating their insights into the same process of free-flowing and open-minded reflection that produced them. To use their thought, one must think. Modernist thinkers both ancient and contemporary might prefer more specific instructions, but the Taoist approach appears to have helped the ancient Chinese move beyond the obstacles of more formulaic sorts of strategic thought. Happily for those who would search ancient Chinese works for insights into twenty-first century questions, this approach not only permits readers to adapt texts such as The Art of War to their own time, it demands that they do exactly that.

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Index

Afghanistan 1, 93, 107 America: military use of Sun Tzu 10–11, 17; political philosophy 79–80, 83, 85, 100; Vietnam War 86; recent military thought 86, 89, 97–101, 106; recent history 93–6, 102, 107; and Pearl Harbour 183; and war crimes 104; and military rationalism 81 Bacon, Francis 7 Baier, Annette 109 Baudrillard, Jean 9 Betts, Richard 174 Book of the Lord Shang see Shang Yang Bozeman, Adda 12 Brodie, Bernard 84–5 Bush, George H.W. 1, 93–4 Bush, George W. 93–5, 107 Campbell, David 9 cavalry: general 71, 150, 152, 170; introduction of 37, 68, 169; tactics 60, 178 Ch’i: general 43–4, 66, 135; social, economic and technological development 42, 45, 56, 65, 67–8, 128; strategic tradition 54, 61, 114 Ch’in: general 35, 136, 159; barbarians 43, 109; adoption of Legalism, 16, 62–5; rise 2, 24, 25, 28, 45, 66–9, 126; fall 15, 70–6, 116–18, 124, 128, 134–5, 139, 143, 168, 179 Ch’u: general 47, 56, 61, 65–8, 149; barbarians 42, 52, 54, 109; war with Chin 44, 51; as hegemon 45; navy 50 Chang Han 72–3 Chao 55, 66–8, 150 Chao Kao 70, 73, 75

chariot: general 65, 71–2, 141, 148, 150, 152, 178; technical evolution 31, 38, 44; obsolescence 42, 50, 60–1, 68; tactics 47, 169 Cheng (later Emperor Shih Huang-ti) 68 Chin 35, 44–5, 47–8, 51–2, 55, 109 Ching Ko 67 Chen Sheh 71–5, 96, 168 Chou Dynasty: general 2, 90, 107; founding 33–5, 37–9; social, economic and technological development 40–2, 57, 109; ethics 36, 50–1, 63, 68, 76, 107–9; decline 28, 43, 45–6, 52–5, 66, 126 Chou Hsin 32, 37 Chuang Tzu 170 Clausewitz, Carl von: general 3, 10, 17, 21, 23, 77, 101, 111, 113, 141, 165, 176; contrasted with Sun Tzu 11, 18, 104, 118, 120, 122, 142, 149, 157, 159–60, 164, 179; the evolution of military bureaucracies 48–9; ethics 104, 109; criticized 78, culminating point of victory 124 Cold War: general 1, 8, 83, 87–8, 99, 101; nuclear weapons 91, 105; insurgency 96, 165 communication, military: 89, 119, 151, 153, 159, 162 Confucianism see Confucius Confucius: general 14, 16, 37, 42–3, 63, 74, 103; benevolence 12, 15, 62, 66; ritual and custom 2, 30, 33, 108; influence in China 53–4, 176; pragmatism 18, 52, 58, 131, 159; followers suppressed in Ch’in 69–70; human knowledge 175; idealism of 75, 115–16, 121, 128–9, 135, 150, 160, 174

Index counterinsurgency 72, 80 crossbows general 68, 21, 72, 156, 170, invention of 2, 37, 60–1, 169; metaphor for shih 164 Descartes, René 6 discipline, military: 18–19, 80, 134, 152–3, 159, 162 divination 30, 35, 50–2, 103, 131, 143 Dulles, John Foster 85 economics: general 2, 87; in grand strategy 3, 47, 66–7, 79–80, 83, 97, 128–9, 132–3, 139; cost of war 16, 111, 124, 126–7, 148; development in ancient China 37, 39–41, 43, 53–4, 56, 58–9, 64, 71, 74, 89, 140, 149 effects-based operations 101–2 Eisenhower, Dwight 85 Erh Shih Huang-ti 70–3, 75 ethics: general 25, 35, 83, 103–7, 109, 121, 137, 173; pragmatism and 50; liberalism and 88 Fairbank, John 2 Fairlamb, Horace 6, 90 Fukuyama, Francis 87–8, 94 Fuller, J.F.C. 81–2, 100 game theory 20, 85 Gilbert, Paul 107–8 Gray, Alfred 11 Gray, Colin 91–2, 105 Griffith II, Samuel 11 guerrilla warfare 86, 93, 96, 165, 167, 173 Gulf War (1991) 1, 16, 89, 93, 105–8 Gulf War (2003) 93–5, 100–1, 108 Hamilton, Alexander 79–80 Han 55, 66–7, 126 Han Dynasty 14, 16, 30, 37, 58, 74, 116–17, 125, 136, 157 Han Fei Tzu: general 2, 68, 159, 182; pragmatism 115, 136; human knowledge 132, 160, 177; ethics 133; anti-individualism 135, 137, 155, 176 Han Hsin 150, 156–7, 181 Handel, Michael: general 16–24; maximum use of force 82, 149, 157–160, 162–5, 178; Sun Tzu’s rationalistic approach 118–20, 122, 179; the universality of strategic principles 129, 131; intelligence 142–7

191

Hart, B.H. Liddell 17, 148 Hobbes, Thomas 6 Hsia Dynasty 29, 32, 38–9, 52–3, 58 Hsiang Liang 168 Hsiang Yu 72–5, 156–7, 159, 168 hsien 46 Hsun Tzu 56, 73 Huntington, Samuel 90 Hussein, Saddam 94 India 92, 102 infantry: general 31, 47, 60, 71, 82, 156, 169, 178; growth in importance over time 49–50, 61 information warfare: general 89–90, 92–3, 97, 99, 151, 173; intelligence and 102; ethics of 105–7 intelligence, military: general 41, 141, 148; Sun Tzu 24–5, 154, 158, 172; Handel’s criticism of Sun Tzu 142–7; failure 98, 102–3 Johnston, Alistair Ian 9–11, 129 Kant, Immanuel 7 Kaplan, Robert 12–14, 16–17, 91 Kierman, Frank 18, 34–6, 47, 50–1, 53, 112, 129, 158 Korean War 83, 85 Kuan Chung 43–5, 47, 52, 54, 56, 128, 133 Lao Tzu: general 2, 12, 53–4, 171; human knowledge 23, 26, 142, 144, 181–2; natural limits 109, 138–9, 164; and Sun Tzu 121–4; pacifism 125–6, 159; utopia 127–8, 170; ethics 136–7, 159 Laplace, Pierre 7 Legalism: general 12, 15, 69, 117–18, 137, 167, 171, 178; adopted in Ch’in 62–7; in Ch’in’s rise 14, 74, 114, 124; pragmatism 115–16, 122, 127–8, 175–7, 182; of Han Fei Tzu 68; and Ch’in’s excesses 70–1, 73, 133–6, 155–6 Lenin, Vladimir I. 12, 81–2, 84 Li Ssu 68–70, 73, 75, 133–4, 137 liberalism: general 85, 97–99, 105, 128; and total war 79, 83–4, 100; mechanized warfare 82–3; and Fukuyama 87–8 Liu, Lord of 34, 51, 63–4, 112 Liu Pang 73–5, 116, 156–7, 168, 179

192

Index

logistics 25, 47, 141, 148–9, 152, 162 logocentrism 5, 7, 82, 98 Lu Pu-Wei 59, 67–8 Ludendorff, Erich 80, 99–100 MacArthur, Douglas 83 Mao Tse-tung 12, 86, 94, 137–8 Marx, Karl 29, 82–4, 89–91, 100 Menicus 37, 66, 71 Min River 67 Mo Tzu 53, 55, 61, 114, 133, 159, 169 morale 80, 82, 153 North Atlantic Treaty Organization 1, 92–3, 102 nuclear weapons 1, 84–7, 91–2, 102–3, 105, 173 Operation Desert Storm see Gulf War (1991) Operation Iraqi Freedom see Gulf War (2003) Operational Research 8 organization, military 18, 78, 93, 132, 141, 151–2, 172, 179 Osama bin Laden 93 Pa 66 Pan Piao 116–17, 121, 173 Peters, Ralph 97, 98–101, 107, 174 Popper, Karl 6 pragmatism 50, 52, 76–7, 107, 116 precision-guided weapons 89, 93, 99, 105–7 psychological warfare: general 80, 98, 100, 139, 145, 153, 177; Sun Tzu and 24, 120, 122, 131, 180 quantitative methods 178–9, 186 Revolution in Military Affairs see RMA RMA 1, 11, 89–96, 102, 106 Rumsfeld, Donald 94 Second Emperor see Erh Shih Huang-ti Serbia 1, 93, 106 Shang Dynasty 29–34, 36–9, 44, 50, 52, 75, 165 Shang Yang 11, 62–6, 68–9, 71, 114, 127 shih 24, 126, 164–5, 181 Shih Huang-ti 69–70, 73, 135 shih ke 49, 54, 85 Shinseki, Eric 100 Shu 66–7

siege warfare 26, 61, 149, 155 Six Secret Teachings see T’ai Kung Soviet Union 1, 76, 83–4, 87, 89, 100, 103 Spring and Autumn Annals 47 Spring and Autumn Period 43, 45, 47–50, 52–3, 56–7, 71, 74, 85, 109, 123, 149 Ssu-ma Chien: general 30; on the founding of the Chou dynasty 37–8, 41–2; on Shang Yang 64–5, 67; on the fall of Ch’in 70; rankings of strategists 131, 134–5, 181; on the post-Ch’in period 150, 156; on irregular warfare 167, 160 Ssu-ma fa: general 114; dangers of protracted war 123, 125; discipline and command 134, 151–3, 155, 162; intelligence 146; logistics 148–9; combined arms tactics 169 Stone, Deborah 6, 9 Strauss, Leo 4–5, 13 Summers, Harold 8 Sun Pin 61, 123 Sun Wu 53–4, 13, 175, 177 Sung 44, 47, 52, 132 Sung Dynasty 127 Sumida, Jon Tetsuro 22–3, 142, 181 swords 37, 60, 68, 72 T’ai Kung: general 33, 38, 40–3, 45, 47, 50, 54, 173; social and economic strategy 101, 126–8, 139; reputation 75; the nature of war 112–3, 115–17, 121, 141, 161; intelligence 146; military organization and discipline 151–5, 179; insurgency165–8; technology 169–71, 180; human knowledge 177–8 tanks 78, 82, 83, 95, 102 Taoism see Lao Tzu terrorism 1, 9, 16, 95, 97–9, 101–2, 107–9, 165 Three Strategies of Huang Shih-Kung 125 Tofflers, Alvin and Heidi 89–90 total war 80, 99–100 Totalitarianism 85, 87, 100 United Nations 1, 11, 93, 117 US see America US Constitution 79 USSR see Soviet Union van Creveld, Martin 86, 91, 93, 148, 174

Index van Den Toorn, Rob 109 Vietnam 8, 16, 86–7, 96, 100, 106 Waldron, Arthur 24 Warring States: general 11, 14, 16, 63, 123, 140; political history 55, 66; social, economic and technological development 56–9, 71, 128; military development 60–1, 143, 159, 165, 169 Wei 55, 61–2, 67 Wei Liao-Tzu: general 148, 171, 177; military discipline and organization 134, 151, 156, 162; government 139; the maximum use of force 159–61 Wen, Duke of Chin 47, 52–3 Wen, founder of Chou Dynasty 33, 37–41, 66, 112, 126, 128, 130, 165 Wilson, Woodrow 80–2, 105 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 23, 27, 181

193

World War One 78, 80 World War Two 83, 100, 105, 151 Wu (founder of Chou Dynasty) 33, 37–9, 41, 50, 66, 130, 161 Wu (state) 25, 45, 47, 49–50, 54, 109, 155, 171 Wu Ch’i: tradition 130–2, 134–5, 143; legalism 136, 171, 177; intelligence 146; organization and discipline 151–2, 179; logistics 136, 148, 171, 177; communications 154; government 167; tactics 169; insurgency 168; Han Fei Tzu on 177 Wu Kuang 71–2 Wylie, J.C. 95–6 Yellow Emperor 28, 159 Yen 61, 66–8, 72 Yueh 45, 50, 66, 171