STUDIES IN
BATTLE COMMAND

By the Faculty
Combat Studies Institute

U.S. Army Command and General Staff College
Fort Leavenworth, Kansas

CSI publications cover a variety of military history topics. The views expressed herein are those of the authors and not necessarily those of the Department of the Army or Department of Defense.

In response to the recent Battle Command initiative at Headquarters, U.S. Army Training and Doctrine Command, the faculty of the Combat Studies Institute at the U.S. Army Command and General Staff College wrote a series of essays analyzing various combat engagements and military leaders throughout history. The unifying theme of these essays was provided by the direct or indirect application to each case of the five Battle Command "competencies:"

·Seeing the enemy
·Seeing yourself
·Visualizing the battle
·Seeing into the future

The battles, operations, and leaders discussed in the chapters that follow range over the historical landscape from Gustavus Adolphus in the seventeenth century to Hamburger Hill in Vietnam. They include examples of brilliant success and dismal failure. Most of all, they offer today's military professional perspective and insight into the essence of their calling: command and leadership.

JERRY D. MORELOCK
Colonel, Field Artillery
Director, Combat Studies Institute

The military innovations of Gustavus Adolphus are well documented. Less studied is his creativity in exploiting opportunities on the battlefield and his refusal to be stayed from a course of action. Though one of his least famous actions, the passage of the Lech River is a shining example of his ability to recognize his army's condition, establish its goal, and concentrate decisive combat power - all the while protecting his soldiers. The Swedish King's prescience in utilizing modern military techniques over 360 years ago is also remarkable.

On the morning of 16 April 1632 (new calendar), Johann Tserclaes, Count Tilly, commander of the Austrian Imperial forces, looked across the Lech River. In the distance to his right, he could hear the crash of artillery and wondered if this was covering fire for a Swedish river crossing. To his front, thick billows of dark smoke rolled across the stream, making any clear observation of the enemy impossible. Unmistakable signs of enemy activity the day and evening before had drawn him to this point on the Lech. He knew that his adversary, the Swedish king, must cross this stream to gain entry into Bavaria. His old soldier's eye and his intuition told him that this was the place such a crossing would be attempted. Tilly had taken every precaution; he and his men were ready. He had only to wait and ponder what the Swedes were doing behind all that smoke.

Gustavus was the latest contestant in a fifteen-year-old war (the Thirty Years' War) that had raged sporadically through Central Europe. The previous September, he had shattered Tilly's forces at the celebrated Battle of Breitenfeld. Despite the vigorous urgings of most of his advisers, especially the capable Axel Oxengtierna, Gustavus refused to follow up that victory with a direct march on the Habsburg capital of Vienna. He, too, had been badly mauled at Breitenfeld, and to make matters worse, his erstwhile ally, the duke-elector of Saxony, had deserted him at the height of that battle, significantly reducing Gustavus' numbers. Gustavus did not feel he was strong enough to make the long, 120-mile march through devastated and hostile Bohemia to get to Vienna; therefore, he decided to move his army to the Rhine River in the friendlier and less ravaged Palatinate, there to await the next campaigning season.

Gustavus, a potent king as well as general, had developed a formidable army that employed improved means of warfare and a new mode of fighting. A student of the organizational and tactical reforms of Maurice of Nassau, the "Lion of the North" adapted these methods to suit his own ideas and situation, thereby producing the first national, professional army. Gustavus abandoned, as had Maurice, the ponderous Spanish "square" in favor of a smaller, more flexible formation that allowed more soldiers to enter combat than was possible with the deep square. Unfortunately, as the German historian Hans Delbrflck points out, even contemporary accounts differ as to Gustavus' tactics and organization.¹ The salient features of Gustavus' innovations, however, are clear.

His basic infantry formation was the squadron, which was ubdivided into platoons. This squadron, at full strength, numbered 408 men: 216 were pikemen, the remainder musketeers. These numbers are exclusive of the greatly increased body of officers and noncommissioned officers upon whom Gustavus relied for greater battlefield flexibility.² Two or three of these squadrons formed a brigade.

Gustavus' innovations in weaponry are many and well-known. He lightened and standardized his artillery, making it truly a "field artillery."³ He also lightened the cumbersome musket, obviating the need for the forked rest. But more important, he regularized the use of (if he did not introduce) the paper cartridge. This sped up loading, allowing the Swedes to reduce the depth of their formations and make them wider so that more firepower was available. In addition, the Swedish cavalry abandoned the dashing but useless tactic of the caracole and drove home its sabers, exploiting shock.

After occupying Nuremberg on 21 March 1632 and then Donauwörth on 8 April, Gustavus marched toward Bavaria, intent on preventing the concentration offilly's forces and those of Albrecht von Wallenstein, the formidable Duke of Friedland. Tilly, based in Ingolstadt, obliged by failing behind the Danube where that river is met by the Lech, some twenty miles north of Augsburg. He then fortified the line of the Lech with outposts for sixteen miles along its eastern bank, broke all the bridges in the neighborhood, and denuded the countryside for miles around of boats and what could be considered normal bridging material.⁴

Gustavus, therefore, was faced with the formidable undertaking of crossing a water barrier in the face of a dug-in enemy. As for the Lech itself, it is an unimpressive stream most of the year, but in early April 1632, it was a swollen torrent. With no fords, no bridges, and with time being of the essence, Gustavus, steadfast in his intent to get into Bavaria before Wallenstein could make his presence felt (and confident in his ability to do so) decided to build his own bridge in the teeth of his enemy. The Lech was too swift to allow a pontoon system, so a proper bridge was the only answer. What followed marks Gustavus as a great and bold battlefield innovator, a commander with a will of iron, and a gambler of no mean stature.

To supply the necessary bridging material, Gustavus ordered his men to pull down a number of "huts in the neighboring villages."⁵ While this was being done, the king performed a personal reconnaissance for a crossing site. His expert eye rested on a salient in his lines caused by a sharp, westward bend in the Lech. The three- to four-foot banks were firm, and the bend in the river would safeguard his flanks. Meanwhile, Swedish engineers were busy prefabricating sections of the bridge in the small village of Oberemdorf, about a mile and one-half from the river.⁶

On the evening of 15 April, Gustavus brought forward a party of troops and began to entrench the bank at the crossing site, positioning seventy-two cannon of various caliber along the angle made by the river's bend to cover his workmen and the eventual crossing. As soon as dawn broke, he ordered distant batteries to open fire at a false crossing site a mile upstream.⁷ He also commanded that enormous piles of wet straw be set afire, which caused a dense cloud, borne on a friendly breeze, to cover the Swedish activity.

Tilly was one of the most superb and noble commanders of his day. Convinced that the Swedes would cross at the bend, he fortified a copse of trees at that point and dug a trench line about a "musket shot" (traditionally figured as 250 yards) to his front.⁸ The ground was to his liking. The area from the riverbank to the Imperial position was marshy and promised slow going for the attackers. Before this work was completed, however, Gustavus, foreseeing this possibility, sent a party of Finns (sources disagree as to the actual number; figures vary from 300 to 1,000) to the far shore in boats brought down from Donauwörth.⁹ There, they started construction of earthworks to protect the crossing site. The Finns, of course, were immediately and savagely pressed by the Imperial troops but hung grimly on until relieved by the king's Life Guard.¹⁰

On the morning of the sixteenth, prefabricated sections having been brought forward, bridge construction commenced. It must have been something to see: "In lieu of arches [there] were wooden trestles with stones or other heavy weights attached to their legs to sink them and keep them in position. The length of the legs varied up to a maximum of four yards, according to the depth of the channel; and the floor of the bridge was only just above the surface of the stream."¹¹

Due to the smoke screen, the covering fire from both the flanking batteries, and the musketry from the forward position, the carpenters and other workers were able to finish the bridge by about five that evening. Some five hours before, however, an advance guard of Swedish troops crossed over what there was of the bridge and waded the rest of the stream to succor the hard-pressed soldiers in the forward position. During the sharp fighting that resulted, the Imperial forces suffered serious losses, Count Tilly, as always close to the action, was struck in the knee by a solid shot from a falconet. Removed to Ingolstadt, the seventy-three-year-old Fleming died two weeks later. The Bavarian king, Maximilian, who was at the scene with the Imperial forces, was unnerved by the wounding of Tilly, abandoned the position, and withdrew the Imperial army.

When the Swedish main body crossed the next morning, Gustavus, to his shock and relief, found that the strong and extensive enemy positions were devoid of enemy troops. He voiced his admiration for Tilly's preparations and contempt for Maximilian's unsteadiness, saying: "If I had been the Bavarian, never - even if a cannonball had carried away my beard and my chin - would I have abandoned such a post as this..."¹²

Gustavus' passage of the Lech, may have been his tactical masterpiece. He himself considered it as important as the Battle of Breitenfeld.¹³ His bold leadership, strong will, and command of the situation took his army across the Lech and into Bavaria. Ironically, in the long run, his decisive leadership would prove his undoing, for Gustavus Adolphus was slain, fighting with sword in hand, at the Battle of Lutzen the following November.

Frederick the Great's Leuthen campaign of 1757 demonstrated the ability to synchronize, to a remarkable degree, the attributes of successful leadership and battle command. He had a realistic vision based on knowledge. He was a strict disciplinarian who cared for and protected his force. He also had a truly remarkable knowledge of the terrain. When it counted, he clearly explained what was required to every officer and soldier. These attributes allowed him, even though outnumbered, to concentrate decisive combat power at the right time and place.

On 5 November 1757, Frederick the Great decisively defeated a Franco-German army near Rossbach in Saxony. Even with this victory, however, Prussia's only ally was Great Britain, and Prussia still faced the overwhelming alliance of France, Russia, the Holy Roman Empire, and Sweden. The war had been going on for two years, and Prussia's 4.5 million inhabitants faced a coalition of some 70 million inhabitants. In addition, while Frederick was away at Rossbach, an Austrian army had swept into the province of Silesia, defeated a smaller Prussian army, and seized the fortified towns of Breslau and Schweidnitz.¹

The king of Prussia, despite this bleak situation, remained focused on his strategic goal: not to be overwhelmed by the allied coalition. He knew that he still possessed the advantage of interior lines. And although his army was rather small, Frederick knew that it was more skilled and highly trained than those of his opponents. According to conventional wisdom, the campaign season had already ended, it being winter. Yet Frederick decided to turn that disadvantage on its head, for the enemy would not expect him to continue operations. On 13 November, he left most of his army as a covering force in Saxony under command of his brother Prince Henri and, with only 13,000 men, marched southeast to retake the province of Silesia. He also directed Marshal Keith to make a demonstration into Bohemia in order to divert Austrian forces.²

Frederick moved his small force 170 miles, arriving on 28 November in the small village of Parchwitz. There he replaced the general who had been defeated in Silesia with his trusted subordinate, General Hans von Ziethen. He directed the latter to assemble at Parchwitz on 2 December. The king allowed the army to rest and refit at Parchwitz, providing wine, bread, and meat to the soldiers. He slept in the open like any common soldier and warmed himself at their campfires. The king ate, drank, and conversed with the soldiers as an equal. He spoke separately to the officer corps, in the celebrated "Parchwitz Address," delivered in German:

The enemy hold the same entrenched camp of Breslau which my troops defended so honourably. I am marching to attack this position. I have no need to explain my conduct or why I am determined on this measure. I fully recognise the dangers attached to this enterprise, but in my present situation I must conquer or die. If we go under, all is lost. Bear in mind, gentlemen, that we shall be fighting for our glory, the preservation of our homes, and for our wives and children. I will look after their families. If anybody prefers to take his leave, he can have it now, but he will cease to have any claim on my benevolence.³

On the morning of 4 December, Frederick moved his army east from Parchwitz. Riding with the Hussars in the advance guard, he was amazed when local peasants told him Austrian troops and a bakery were ahead in Neumarkt. Several Prussian squadrons enveloped the village, while other Hussars dismounted and stormed the Austrian position. They killed 100 Croats and captured another 500, along with enough bread for Frederick's forces. Two regiments of Austrian light cavalry managed to flee east. The Prussian Army camped at Parchwitz, where Frederick teamed that Prince Charles of Lorraine had quit his fortified camp at Breslau and moved his army across the Weistritz River and camped in the snow without baggage and tents. The king probably had already decided to attack, out of strategic necessity and opportunity. He had trained his army on these very fields during the peacetime fall maneuvers, so the Prussians had an intimate knowledge ofthe terrain. Frederick estimated that Prince Charles had about 39,000 men.⁴

Prince Charles had in fact some 65,000 men, which, along with his recent victories, undoubtedly bolstered his confidence. Nevertheless, upon crossing the Weistritz, he was surprised to learn that Frederick was encamped at Neumarkt. Suddenly, his numbers became a hindrance when he decided to deploy this large force in a line some four miles long, from Nippern south to Sagschuetz. Darkness came too early, hindering the deployment and leading to confusion.⁵

Frederick ordered his army to rise at 0400, and an hour or so later, he marched them in column, led by his light forces. The day was clear but quite cold, with a thin dusting of snow on the ground. A force of Austrian and Saxon light cavalry obstructed them at the village of Borne, but the Prussian Hussars routed them quickly and Frederick directed that the 600 prisoners be marched past his army. He rode on to a crest from which he could see the entire Austrian Army lined up before him. He looked with care. Swamp and peat bogs blocked the Austrian north flank, but the southern flank hung in the air. Furthermore, two rises in the ground would hide a Prussian movement to the south. But the king knew that he needed to distract the Austrians during the concealed march. He consequently deployed forces in front of Borne, giving the Austrians the impression he would attack their north flank. The deception worked, and Prince Charles dispatched his reserves to the north, rather than the south. ⁶

In the late morning, while the Austrians were mesmerized by the demonstration north of Borne, Frederick began moving his main effort south down the concealed approach. Shortly after noon, the lead column emerged west of Lobetinz. There the King directed them east, past the Austrian flank. General von Ziethen halted them past Schriegwitz and formed them into line. As his right and center continued to deploy, Frederick rode down the line explaining what was required of each commander. He even went so far as to tell two ensigns who would lead the opening attack not to march too quickly.⁷

The Prussians used a unique march technique, the oblique order, to deploy against Sagschuetz. By 1300, although outnumbered more than 2 to 1, Frederick had concentrated his combat power at a 45-degree angle to strike the exposed Austrian left flank. His gunners had laboriously hauled ten super-heavy cannon (die Brummer) all the way from Glogau and deployed them on a knoll overlooking Sagschuetz.⁸

The commander of the Austrian left wing, General Franz von Nadasdy, was a competent professional who had arranged his defense with skill. But near 1300, Frederick attacked. His heavy cannon destroyed the abatis in front of Sagschuetz and silenced the Austrian guns. Like a well-oiled machine, the Prussian infantry moved forward, striking the Austrian line at a 45-degree angle. The defenders fired one good volley, saw the line of Prussian bayonets, and fled. Nadasdy requested more troops, but Prince Charles had sent the reserve to the opposite flank. Nadasdy attempted to make stands as individual battalions from the second line marched up, and he ably fenced with his cavalry-but his great heart and skill would not avail him that cold afternoon as the Prussians rolled up the Austrian flank.⁹

About 1430, Prince Charles attempted to reform his line, pivoting his broken left on the village of Leuthen, Frederick had, however, generated far too much combat power. An hour later the Prussian infantry and artillery reached this improvised position. For the next hour, the stiffest fighting of the day took place about Leuthen, with the Prussian infantry eventually storming the village. Near 1630, the commander of the Austrian right wing, Count Joseph Lucchesi, observed the Prussian reserve marching toward Leuthen and brought the cavalry reserve forward to strike the Prussian flank and, he hoped, save the day. But hidden in a hollow was General Georg von Driessen's Prussian cavalry reserve. Driessen let the Austrian cavalry pass them and then, on his own initiative, charged their flank and rear. The Austrian cavalry fled back towards the Weistritz, some of them riding through their own infantry. Confronted by this and the approaching Prussian infantry and cavalry, the Austrians broke, with entire battalions surrendering or following their cavalry off the field. The battle was largely over by 1730, and soon after, snow began falling. The Prussian Army suffered 6,382 casualties, in all probability most being light wounds. Prince Charles lost some 10,000 men killed and wounded. The Prussians captured an additional 12,000.¹⁰

Frederick's victory in fact destroyed Prince Charles' army, and subsequently the Prussians recaptured the province of Silesia, taking an additional 17,000 prisoners. In this campaign, Frederick managed to synchronize to a remarkable degree the attributes of successful leadership and battle command. His vision of liberating Silesia was based on knowledge of his force and the enemy. Although his army was disciplined, experienced, and confident, he nevertheless clearly expressed what was required of every officer and man, both in camp and on the battlefield. He cared for and protected his force even though he was of royal blood. But undoubtedly one of the greatest advantages he possessed was his intimate knowledge of the terrain. These attributes allowed him, even though outnumbered, to concentrate decisive combat power at the right place and time.¹¹

Even the "Great Captains" had bad days. So it was with Frederick the Great of Prussia. Though considered the foremost commander of his day, he still had his share of setbacks and defeats. Frederick's worst day, undoubtedly, came at Kunersdorf during the Seven Years' War. There, on 12 August 1759, his army was routed by a combined Austrian and Russian force, with almost half of Frederick's army killed or wounded.

How was an acknowledged master of the battle command so soundly defeated? Certainly, Federick's opponents deserve a share of the credit. They fought a masterful defensive battle based on well-chosen positions, tenacious resistance, and superbly timed counterattacks. Frederick, however, chose to blame the defeat on the failure of his own men.²

Yet the record shows that the Prussian king bears the greatest burden of blame. His ill-considered plan of battle, his failure to measure the combat power of his own forces against that of his enemy, and finally, his insistence on pressing a hopeless attack³ were all critical elements in the Prussian disaster. Thus, the Battle of Kunersdorf provides a compelling example of failure in battle command.

Before the battle, in the summer of 1759, no one could have faulted Frederick for feeling desperate. As the fourth campaign season of the Seven Years' War began, his strategic situation seemed hopeless. Prussia's enemies-Austria, Russia, France, and Sweden-threatened his kingdom from every direction with armies vastly outnumbering his own.

In late July, an especially dangerous threat appeared on the eastern frontier of Prussia, where a Russian army under General Saltikov had combined with an Austrian corps under General Laudon. Together, the Russians and Austrians had more than 64,000 men poised on the Oder River, only a few days' march from the Prussian capital of Berlin.⁴

To face them, Frederick hastily gathered various detachments, creating a force of 50,000 men. But though powerful in numbers, the Prussian troops were not comparable to those Frederick had led to victory at Rossbach and Leuthen. Losses in the early campaigns of the war had decimated the Prussian officer corps and seriously diluted the quality of the rank and file.⁵ Frederick wrote: "I would fear nothing if I still had ten battalions of the quality of 1757. But this cruel war has killed off our finest soldiers, and the ones we have left do not even measure up to the worst of our troops at the outset."⁶

Nevertheless, Frederick resolved to attack Saltikov's army. By 10 August, the Prussian king had concentrated his army and, in a forced march, crossed the Oder near Frankfurt. The journey was exceedingly difficult. The troops were short of food and water, and the midsummer heat sapped the men's strength.⁷ Frederick himself was exhausted by his long days in the saddle and the pressure of holding his state together against overwhelming odds. At the time, he wrote, "A damned soul in hell is in no more abominable situation than this in which I find myself."⁸

As Frederick conducted his initial reconnaissance of the enemy positions, the prospects for a decisive success seemed terribly small. The allied forces had fortified themselves on high ground just north of the village of Kunersdorf, and their positions were reinforced by obstacles and surrounded by marshy ground and forest, making deployment for an attacker extremely difficult. After measuring the strength of the enemy positions, Frederick decided to flank them with his main body, leaving a detachment under General Finck to counter what Frederick believed was the enemy center. Thus, at two in the morning of 12 August, the Prussians began a tiring, eight-hour march around the Austro-Russian entrenchments. Morning found the Prussian main body south of the allied position.⁹

But the king's mental picture of the enemy deployment proved false. The allied positions were oriented to the southeast, not to the north as the Prussians had expected. Instead of facing an exposed flank, Frederick's forces faced the strongest sector of the allied position. To make matters worse, surprise was lost as the weary Prussians spentmost of the morning deploying their infantry and manhandling their artillery into position. Nevertheless, Frederick decided to go ahead with his attack.¹⁰

The essential elements of the ensuing battle may be summarized briefly. At 1130, the Prussians began their bombardment of the Mühlberg, a hill at the extreme eastern, end of the allied lines. Despite fatigue, the initial Prussian assault was launched with considerable Ean. The Mühlberg was overrun, and dozens of enemy guns were captured. This early success seemed to promise decisive results, but Frederick's efforts to exploit the capture of the Mühlberg made little headway. Terrain was the problem. The hill was separated from the rest of the allied position by a ravine called the Kuhgrund. Here, the attacking Prussian infantry were packed into a narrow front and decimated by massed artillery and musket fire from Russian reserves. Over a period of hours, the Prussian attacks were repeatedly repulsed, with heavy casualties.¹¹

The decisive moment in the battle came in the heat of midafternoon. Losses and exhaustion had shaken Prussian morale, while allied resistance remained unbroken. Frederick's subordinates begged him to call off the attack and accept the limited success gained in the initial assault.¹² But Frederick stubbornly insisted on continuing the attack and committed his last reserves. Finck's detachment on the right marched into the fight and was cut to pieces in short order. On the left, desperate Prussian cavalry charges were canalized by ponds and broken up by entrenched Russian artillery. Seeing the Prussians waver, the Austrian general, Laudon, launched a devastating cavalry attack on Frederick's left. Prussian mounted forces were swept from the field, and the morale of the Prussian infantry finally cracked. As evening approached, Frederick's army was reduced to a panic-stricken mob fleeing for the Oder bridges.¹³

At this moment of crisis, the Prussian king showed courage and determination. According to witnesses, he seemed to defy death as he attempted to rally his broken army. Two horses were shot out from under him, and, in the final stages of the fight, Prussian cavalry had to cut their way through a band of Cossacks to extricate Frederick from the battlefield.¹⁴

But bravery could not redeem Frederick's earlier mistakes, which were the key to the outcome of the battle. An analysis of the battle based on our current doctrine indicates the Prussian king made numerous critical errors.

The U.S. Army believes a commander must see the terrain, see the enemy, see his own force, and mass decisive combat power at the right time and place while protecting his force.¹⁵ Frederick failed in each of these areas.

First, he failed to read the terrain correctly, thus sowing the seeds of disaster. His hasty reconnaissance failed to reveal the true layout of the allied position. Thus, the ponds and marshes around Kunersdorf restricted the employment of the superb Prussian cavalry and prevented the king's artillery from supporting the later stages of the attack. Worst of all, the king failed to identify the Kuhgrand as a deathtrap f6r his infantry.¹⁶

Second, Frederick did not "see" his enemy, vastly underestimating his opponents' capabilities. A few months before, he had written that the Russians were "as savage as they are inept, ... not worthy of mention."¹⁷ As for the Austrians, Frederick knew they had improved since his earlier battles with them, yet he refused to believe they could stand against Prussian infantry.¹⁸

Perhaps Frederick's most grievous error was his failure to recognize the depleted condition of his own men, both before and during the battle. The year before he had written to Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick: "The best infantry in the universe can be repulsed and put in disorder where it has to fight terrain, the enemy, and artillery. Our infantry; weakened and debased by its losses and even by its successes, must be led in difficult enterprises with caution..."¹⁹ Yet Frederick showed no such caution at Kunersdorf. He demanded more of his men than they could bear.

Battle command doctrine calls for a leader to protect his force while concentrating combat power at the decisive time and place. Yet delays forced on Frederick robbed him of the element of surprise, key to his battle plan. Further, Frederick's chosen point of attack-into the strength of the enemy-offered little opportunity for decisive results. Finally, by pressing a futile attack against the warnings of his subordinates, Frederick fatally compromised the security of his army.

Frederick's mistakes suggest a larger point in the assessment of the king of Prussia as a battle commander. That point is balance. Out doctrine divides battle command into leadership and decision making. The successful combat commander provides willpower, energy, and personal example, as well as caregul, rational analysis. Leadership and decision making are complementary elements of battle command success.²⁰ On 12 August 1759, Frederick the Great was capable of determined leadership but incapable of fulfilling his role as a competent decision maker for his army.

Perhaps he was feeling the strain of four hard years of campaigning. Perhaps he felt too keenly the need to defeat Saltikov's force quickly so he could turn and deal with the other armies invading his kingdom. Certainly, his capability to think logically was diminished by sheer physical fatigue. He had gone practically sleepless in the week prior to the battle.²¹ Whatever the reason, Frederick's actions on the day of battle indicate he had lost his balance as a battle commander.

Frederick's conduct after Kunersdorf offers further evidence of this point. In the days following the battle, he renounced his command of the army and prepared to give up his throne. He even considered suicide. He wrote his foreign minister, "I have no resources left, and I must confess, I believe all is lost. I don't wish to survive the downfall of my state Adieu for always."²²

Frederick and his kingdom would survive the crisis. With time and rest, the Prussian king recovered his equilibrium. He was cheered by the actions of his enemies who, amazingly, failed to exploit their victory. The Russians, taking stock of their considerable losses, concluded that they were carrying more than their fair share of the war against Frederick and decided not to move against Berlin. Laudon's Austrians opted to leave the Russians and move back into Silesia. Frederick called it "the miracle of the House of Brandenburg."²³

But a modern commander cannot count on miracles. Neither can he afford to lose his balance. He must combine his role as decision maker with that of leader and properly gauge the effects of stress, fatigue, and fear on his own powers of judgment. This, Frederick failed to do. A modern commander must also protect his force. Frederick himself wrote, "What praise would the general merit who, in order to conquer, must have troops who have no need of nourishment, soldiers who are incapable of fatigue, and heroes who are immortal?"²⁴ But these are characteristics Frederick expected of his men at Kunersdorf. And while an absolute monarch such as Frederick might disregard the trials of his men and their heavy losses, a U.S. Army commander has the moral duty to guard the welfare and lives of his soldiers.

"The errors of great men," Frederick wrote,"are exemplary lessons to those who possess fewer abilities. Clearly, Frederick's errors were the key to the Prussian disaster at Kunersdorf on 12 August 1759. Modern soldiers, whatever their abilities, can draw lessons from Frederick's failure.

By July 1814, the United States had been at war with Great Britain for two years. During those years, the U.S. Army had suffered numerous humiliating defeats. British and Canadian troops had repulsed three major invasion attempts by U.S. forces along the Canadian border. The American failures were mainly due to atrocious American leadership and a well-trained enemy. Put bluntly, overaged Revolutionary War veterans commanded poorly trained troops. Their combined incompetence resulted in defeat after defeat despite the significant U.S. numerical superiority over the British in most of the battles. However, the character of the war soon changed as new leaders advanced to command the American war effort. These new leaders, whose rise to the top had been based upon proven battlefield successes rather than political prowess, displayed many of the characteristics known today as "battle command competencies."

The two most significant leaders on the Niagara frontier were Jacob Brown and Winfield Scott. Jacob Brown had been promoted to major general by the secretary of war because he was a proven fighter. Brown, in turn, selected Scott to be his brigadier general because of his exceptional abilities in both administration and leadership. Both men believed in the American soldier and that hard training and energetic leadership were the requisite to victory.¹

On 3 July 1814, Brown led a small army across the Niagara River into Canada. His force consisted of two small brigades of Regulars and one brigade of volunteers, a total of only 3,500 men. Brigadier General Scott commanded one of the Regular brigades and was also the Army's nominal second in command. The secretary of war had ordered Brown to seize Fort Erie and then move against Fort George. Brown's mission was not an easy one to accomplish because the British had approximately 6,300 men under Lieutenant General Gordon Drummond available in the Lake Ontario region for local defense.²

The Americans, nonetheless, easily captured Fort Erie and its 137-man garrison. Scott then led his brigade northward toward Fort George as the army's advance guard. His troops engaged the British advance guard near the hamlet of Chippewa on 5 July 1814. By today's standards, the battle was a very small affair. The British commander, Major General Phineas Riall, had only 1,500 men. Scott's Brigade was about the same size. Both sides marched bravely forward to within point-blank musket range of each other.

Scott's Regulars, to their own disgust, had been uniformed in gray because no blue cloth had been available. The gray uniforms led Riall to assume he was facing only militia and could expect an easy victory. As the battle progressed, however, and the Americans maneuvered confidently through shot and shell, Riall was reported to have exclaimed: "Those are Regulars, by God!" In about half an hour, Scott defeated the British and drove them from the field. The British had suffered terribly, sustaining about 500 killed and wounded. American casualties were slightly over 300.³

This small tactical victory was a great morale booster for the American Army. For the first time in the war, American soldiers had claimed a victory in a stand-up fight in the open field. They now were confident that they could beat the vaunted British Regulars in battle.

After the fight at Chippewa, Brown was able to advance the American army across the Chippewa River to Queenstown. From Queenstown, he hoped to make a joint effort with the Navy to capture Fort George. Unfortunately, the naval commander for Lake Ontario, Commodore Isaac Chauncey, refused to cooperate. He said: "The Secretary of the Navy has honored us with a higher destiny - we are intended to seek and to fight the enemy's fleet. This is the great purpose of the Government in creating this Fleet and I shall not be diverted in my efforts to effectuate it, by any sinister attempt to render us either subordinate to or an appendage of the army."⁴ Unable to continue his advance against Fort George without naval support, Brown withdrew to Chippewa. Meanwhile, Drummond attempted to force Brown to withdraw even farther by sending a raid down the American side of the Niagara River. Instead, Brown decided to advance and force the British to fight on the Canadian side of the river.

Late on the afternoon of 25 July, Scott marched north with his brigade of 1,100 men. Near Lundy Lane, he encountered the 2,000-man British force under Riall. Scott brashly attacked them without waiting for Brown to bring up the rest of the army. At first, it appeared that his aggressive tactics were going to be successful. Riall, visibly disturbed by his earlier defeat at Chippewa, ordered the British to retreat. However, Drummond quickly stabilized the position and ordered the British to hold.

From 1900 to 2100, Scott grimly tried to maintain the offensive against overwhelming numbers. The British, however, were successfal in defeating each of Scott's desperate attacks. At around 2100, Brown arrived from Chippewa with the rest of the American army, bringing the combined force to 2,100 men. Drummond, however, received reinforcements at about the same time, giving him a total of about 3,000 men. Brown, nonetheless, captured the key high ground and almost all the British artillery. But the British refused to quit the field and repeatedly counterattacked. The battle continued to rage for several more hours, with the musketry at times so loud that it drowned out the sound of the Niagara Falls. As the battle unfolded, Rialt and Drummond were seriously wounded. At midnight, the exhausted Americans withdrew, Casualties were heavy for both sides. The Americans suffered 853 killed, wounded, and missing. The British total was only slightly higher.⁵

After the battle, the American army retreated to the fortifications around Fort Erie and expanded them. Due to Brown's and Scott's serious wounds, the Americans were forced to evacuate both their leaders. The British, after a cautious pursuit of the Americans, laid siege to Fort Erie. A month later, they mounted an unsuccessful assault on the fort and suffered heavy casualties.

Because of his wounds, Scott saw no more action during the war, but Brown recovered and returned to Fort Erie in September 1814. True to his aggressive character, he immediately organized and directed a major American sortie out of the fort to break the siege. The resulting battle was very costly for both sides, the British losing 607 men to the Americans' 511. Both armies now had fewer than 2,000 effective troops each. Drummond retreated to Chippewa to rebuild his devastated army. Now, the Americans no longer had the strength to hold their position so, on 5 November, they destroyed their fortifications and retreated back to their own shore.⁶

The four-month-long Niagara campaign produced numerous casualties but no decisive results. However, Brown's and Scott's leadership skills did show that the American soldier, given good training and effective leadership, could win on the battlefield. The two leaders' primary strengths were related to "battle command competencies": seeing the enemy, seeing the terrain, and visualizing the battle. Their weaknesses were in seeing themselves and seeing the future.

Both Brown and Scott clearly understood the capabilities of their enemy. Each had been involved in extensive fighting against the British for two years. They had great respect for the tenacity and valor of the British Army and understood there would be no easy victories. They also clearly understood the importance of terrain. In all their battles, they directed their actions toward seizing key ground. The best example was at Lundy's Lane, where Brown conducted the attacks toward the small hill dominating the battlefield. The British were then forced into wasteful counterattacks to regain the hill. Most important, the senior U.S. Army leadership understood the importance of the Niagara River and Lake Ontario as key terrain. Without naval support, however, they could not advance along the banks of the lake without risking being cut off by the British Navy. Chauncey's refusal to cooperate with the Army doomed the campaign to failure. In addition, both commanders easily visualized the early nineteenth century battlefield and realized the importance of training and discipline. Prior to the campaign, Scott had organized a camp for training and drilled the army for ten hours a day on individual and collective skills. These skills were readily evident in the Americans' performance at Chippewa. Their training proficiency also played a major role in the difficult fight at Lundy's Lane against a numerically superior enemy.

Brown and Scott also had weaknesses in their leadership skills. They failed, for instance, to control their own aggressiveness. Scott's reckless and unsupported attack at Lundy's Lane almost destroyed his brigade. Brown also failed to curb his aggressiveness as well, failing to see the future and to consider the impact of his rash behavior on his small army. Once the navy refused to cooperate with the army, the campaign no longer had attainable objectives. Brown, nonetheless, continued to seek battle with the enemy. This resulted in the costly draw at Lundy's Lane and the expensive attack to break the siege at Fort Erie. Even though Brown broke the British siege lines at Fort Erie, he no longer had the strength to hold the fort.

The tactical successes of the U.S. Regulars at Chippewa, Lundy's Lane, and Fort Erie fueled the debate within the United States on whether the army should be composed of Regulars or militia. However, as stated by Russell F. Weigley, the debaters missed the point. The Regulars of the Niagara campaign had not been in service much longer than most of the militiamen. The main difference had been in leadership. Because they received solid training and were led by competent leaders, the soldiers on the Niagara frontier became true Regulars in a short time.⁷

Along with Agincourt and Crécy, the Battle of Inkernian goes down in British military history as a sterling example of an English victory achieved against overwhelming odds. Arguably the pivotal engagement of the Crimean War, the battle, fought on 5 November 1854, pitted 8,500 British defenders (later reinforced by 7,000 Frenchmen) against 42,000 Russians. Due to poor visibility and even poorer generalship, the fight degenerated into a series of determined attacks and counterattacks. Casualties were inordinately high: 2,500 British, 1,000 French, and over 12,000 Russians¹ lay dead or wounded after the eight-hour battle as a result of British marksmanship, French artillery, and Russian reliance on cold steel.²

A great deal has been written about the campaign and the battle, mostly from the British perspective. This essay will view the action from the Russian perspective, concentrating on the impact of the Russian commanders on the battle. The war itself, which allied Great Britain and France for the first time in over two centuries, grew out of Russia's perceived role as protector of Christians in the Ottoman Empire. Great Britain, fearing Russian designs on Constantinople and the threat to Britain's overland route to India, refused to be bought off by the tsar's promise of Egypt as compensation after the fall of the Ottoman Empire. For his part, Napoleon III of France saw the possibility of revenge for 1812 and the occupation of Paris, as well as the solidifying effect a successful war would have on his insecure dynasty.³ As the allies prepared for war, Russia occupied portions of the old Ottoman Empire.

While the allies fortified Gallipoli in order to defend Constantinople from attack, Russia, under pressure from Austria, withdrew its forces from the Danube. Having unleashed the dogs of war, the allies found it difficult to recall them and decided on a campaign to conquer the Crimea and destroy Sevastopol, Russia's only naval base on the Black Sea. Disembarking nearly 70,000 men at the port of Eupatoria, the allies marched south, the French hugging the sea. Following an inconclusive battle on the Alma River, the allies invested Sevastopol. After suffering through a week of allied bombardment, the Russian commander, Prince Alexander S. Menshikov, without waiting for reinforcements from the mainland, attempted a breakthrough attack against the British rear at Balaclava. Initially capturing several Turkish redoubts, the Russians succeeded in temporarily cutting the only good road between the British and their supply base.⁴

Although the Russian soldiers considered Balaclava a victory, many of Menshikov's senior officers felt the attack, by alerting the allies to the vulnerability in their lines of communication, was a mistake. Had Menshikov waited for reinforcements (the 10th and 11th Divisions) as General Pavel Liprandi, commander of the 12th Division had suggested, the Russian attack probably would have captured the entire British supply base and might have ended the war.

Menshikov, in concert with his senior commanders, decided to continue the offensive and, with the arrival of the additional forces, planned for a two-pronged attack, with one corps from Sevastopol attacking south and another corps from Chorgun attacking west with the object of capturing Sevastopol. Although the Russians enj oyed only a temporary numerical superiority of 90,000 to 71,000 over the allies, a cable from Tsar Nicholas I directed an attack from the Russian left flank, in front of Sevastopol, against the British an Inkerman Heights south of the Chemaya River. Menshikov, who last saw combat in the war of Greek independence against Turkey in 1828 and who distrusted his subordinates and had a low opinion of the Russian "serf" army changed his original plan to accord with the tsar's wishes-without, however, consulting the generals who would have to execute it.

Menshikov's new plan called for General F. I. Soimonov (commanding the forces from Sevastopol) "to attack the English position" at 0600.⁵ Soimonov was to attack to the right after ascending the Careenage Ravine, thus protecting the exposed flank of General P. I. Pavlov's 10th Division, which was to attack south from Inkerman across a bridge that Admiral P. S. Nakhimov's sailors were ordered to construct, Menshikov ordered General P. A. Dannenberg (commander of the newly arrived IV Corps) to remain with the resenes until the forces of Soimonov and Pavlov united, at which point he would take command of the battle. To preclude French reinforcements from General Pierre Bosquet, General Prince P. D. Gorchakov's 22,000-man corps from Chorgun was to fix this French force of about 10,000. Although basically a sound plan, no subsequent objectives were identified, save for a general Russian advance across the entire front in the event the attack met with success. The plan, however, was too complex for the rudimentary Russian command and control systems in use in the mideighteenth century, requiring precise, timely coordination between the three attacking forces.

Defending against this onslaught was a 1,400-man brigade of the Light Division, the 1,350-man Guards Brigade, and the 3,000 men of the 2d Division, along with a small force of pickets guarding Shelf Hill. Commencing at 0500⁶, Soimonov's attackers quickly overran the pickets. Then, emplacing heavy artillery (brought from Sevastopol) on the hill, Soimonov shelled the 2d Division's position some 1,400 yards to the south. Responding to the threat of the Russian guns, British General Sir John Pennefather directed his men down the forward slope, rendering Soimonov's barrage harmless. Meanwhile, as he proceeded down the ravine, Soimonov was forced to break up his normal attack formation of three lines of battalion columns into company columns, piecemealing his forces into the teeth of British resistance. Although outnumbered 3 to 1, the British caught the Russians in a crossfire as the attackers reached a plateau in the 2d Division's rear. Without support from Pavlov, whose 20,000-man force was held up at the Chemaya River,⁷ the tightly packed Russian battalions were broken by intense rifle fire from Pennefather's defenders. Soimonov and his second in command were both killed within thirty minutes, which resulted in near-total confusion as General O. P. Zhaboluitskii, who was left to command the reserves, refused to commit his force without approval from Dannenberg.

By the time Dannenberg arrived on the battlefield, Pavlov's force had crossed the river and began their assault of the British center through the Quarry Ravine. Aided by Zhabokritskii's reserve force of 10,000 men, victory was within the Russians' grasp--until Dannenberg ordered Zhabokritskii to attack the British left, over the objections of all the senior officers present. Despite this missed opportunity for a breakthrough attack against the British center, Pavlov's forces, now personally commanded by Dannenberg, made good headway against the Coldstream Guards, who held the abandoned Sandbag Battery. In an otherwise featureless battlefield, this battery and a cluster of rocks at the head of the Quarry Ravine became the centers of gravity for both attackers and defenders.

A small British force held the rocks, the range and accuracy of their Enfield rifles more than a match for the smoothbore muskets of the Russians. The Coldstream Guards holding the battery did not fare as well. Outnumbered 5 to 1, the 1,300 Guards, reinforced by 700 men from the 2d Division, held against the Russians' murderous assaults (which had been inspired by the death of their beloved Soimonov). Finally, after suffering heavy losses and with their ammunition running out, the Guards withdrew. As the British line broke into individual pockets of resistance, the Russians, supported by their heavy guns at Shell Hill, made farious bayonet charges against it. Numbering only 6,000, the attackers managed to carry the crest, only to be thrown back by the arrival of three French battalions. The battle was still in doubt when Bosquet, realizing that Prince Gorchakov's feeble attack was a mere feint, arrived with the majority of his force to bolster the sagging British defenders. After French artillery silenced the Russian guns on Shell Hill, a determined counterattack by a small British force decided the day. The Russians, with all their guns, retreated to the river and safety. The allies, realizing how close they had come to disaster, dared not pursue. The fighting ended by 1330, and both sides settled into a long winter siege culminating in the fall of Sevastopol on 8 September 1855, nearly eleven months later.

The Russians, fighting on ground of their own choosing and supported by the veterans of three divisions, had achieved complete surprise and had every expectation of victory. Nonetheless, they had been soundly repulsed.

Much of the fault for the Russian defeat can be laid at the feet of the Russian military system. Scornful of superior firepower, it relied on the bayonet charge to achieve victory. Moreover, the Russian cavalry, normally relegated to the role of an internal gendarmerie against domestic unrest, was untrained for ordinary military reconnaissance and economy of force missions. Distrustful of military scholarship, relying instead on the school of experience, the Russian system produced leaders who slavishly applied accepted Jorninian principles of mass and the battle of annihilation. What is more, by appointing senior commanders (Menshikov, Gorchakov, and Nakhimov) on the basis of family connections-rather than military competence-the system caused valiant soldiers to be sent to needless slaughter by foolish generals. Despite these failures of the Russian military system, Prince Menshikov, as commander in chief of Russian forces in the Crimea, deserves the lion's share of blame for Inkerman.

To begin with, he allowed his original plan, to attack in force from Chorgun to Balaclava, to be changed at the last minute by imperial decree. Such a monumental change would tax a modern army with its extensive planning staff and ample means of communication. Menshikov, who entered the conflict as the minister of the navy, was incapable of the task before him. Distrustful of his commanders and staff, disdainful of the fighting spirit of his soldiers, he failed to brief his subordinates on the changed plan. Menchikov's splitting of General Dannenberg's two divisions and his failure to provide concrete objectives served to piecemeal the initial Russian assault against the British left and center. By ordering Dannenberg to stay on the sidelines until the two wings joined, Menchikov ensured a disunity of command and forced the corps commander to make a critical decision as to the final objective without having a feel for the ebb and flow of the fighting. And by entrusting the vital feint from Chorgun to the aging and overcautious Prince Gorchakov (instead of General Liprandi, the division commander), Menshikov allowed the French to disregard the potential threat of this 22,000-man force and to reinforce the British position when it had reached its breaking point. Menshikov, the only one who fully understood the concept of operation, stationed himself well to the rear, effectively removed from the decision-making process the fighting required. Thus, he was not accessible to commit the 9,000-man reserve of the IV Corps as Dannenberg personally led the final assault against the British center. Nor was Menshikov able to commit the 4,000 men stationed at the Mackenzie farm (northeast of Inkerman) to repel a possible, though improbable, allied attack to the north.

Viewing the battle from a tactical perspective shows yet more failings of Menshikov's leadership. No detailed reconnaissance of the battlefield was conducted by Russian cavalry, and there were no accurate maps of the terrain made available. The ground Menshikov chose to fight on proved disastrous for the Russians. To reach the British center, the attacking force from Sevastopol had to approach the battlefield through the restrictive terrain of the Careenage Ravine and climb the steep heights ofthe British position. The attack on the British right forced IV Corps to attack over steep roads through the equally difficult Quarry Ravine, from the Chernaya River to the heights. Furthermore, the terrain covered by the main attack precluded the Russian artillery from rapid movement forward to provide essential fire support for the infantry. Though not made in earnest, the feint of Gorchakov's force from Chorgun would have been made against the nearly impregnable French fortifications near Balaclava Heights.

Though the superiority of British rifles to Russian muskets was amply demonstrated by several engagements prior to Inkerman, Menshikov did not consider this evidence in his plan of attack. In addition, repeated reliance on bayonet attacks resulted in high Russian casualties in proportion to the allies. Furthermore, the disregard for British marksmanship resulted in the death or wounding of nearly all the Russian regimental and battalion officers, fiirther adding to the confusion of the Russian attackers. Although the large numbers of allied wounded received less than mediocre treatment in their hospitals, the Russians received even worse care from their overtaxed hospital system. Menshikoy falsely blamed the defeat on the lack of courage shown by the Russian soldiers⁸ and did nothing to improve the medical system. He had no clear vision of the Crimean campaign, save to defend Sevastopol until the Russian Navy came to the rescue. Menshikov also displayed no concept of combined combat operations, but relied on unsupported infantry to capture several highly fortified allied positions. Nor did he have a grasp of the superior weaponry his enemy brought to the contest. Further, he made no attempt to articulate his intent to his subordinates and established a chain of command that deprived the senior commander of a feel for the battle. Although he had numerous opportunities to concentrate his considerable reserves to assure victory, Menshikov was not present at critical times to exploit those opportunities. In short, a study of Menshikov's leadership at the Battle of Inkerman becomes a study of all the wrong things a commander can do and their disastrous results.

In the final analysis, the importance of the Russian debacle at Inkerman cannot be overstated. Despite their victory, the allies feared that a Russian renewal of the attack of the 5th would drive them back into the sea. So desperate was the British position that Lord Clarendon, England's foreign secretary, wrote to Lord Cowley, England's ambassador to Paris: "Everyone is downhearted about the victory (if it was one) and feels that another such triumph, or another such attack, would finally smash us, and then will come the monster catastrophe-a horrible compound of Afghanistan and Corunna."⁹

The arrival of allied reinforcements, the building of a rail system from Balaclava to the siege lines around Sevastopol, and the might of the French and British fleets secured final victory for the allies. The Treaty of Paris, signed in February of 1856 by the new tsar, Alexander II, lasted only fifteen years and had a lone tangible result-the exclusion of the Russian fleet from the Black Sea.

1. John Laffin, Brassey's Battles: 3,500 years of Conflict, Campaigns, and Warfrom A-Z (London: Brassey's Defence Publishers, 1976), 75.

2. Russian tactics revolved around Suvorov's eighteenth-century maxim, "The bullet's a fool, the bayonet's a fine [ad," Bruce W. Menning, Bayonets Before Bullets (Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1992), 3.

3. Paul A. Gagnon, France Since 1789 (New York, 1962), 177-79.

4. Faithful to the tradition of Wellington, who "never lost a British gun," the British commander, Lord Raglan sent the famous order through Captain Nolan to Lord Cardigan of the Light Brigade to recapture the redoubts, resulting in perhaps the most heroic yet useless episode in British military history. Cecil Woodham-Smith, The Reason Why (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1953), 224-26.
5. John Shelton Curtiss, Russia's Crimean War (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1979), 321

6. Contrary to Menshikov's orders, Darmenberg ordered Soimonov to attack one hour earlier.

7. Admiral Nakhimov failed to build the bridge, possibly because Dannenberg had ordered Pavlov to build it. Curtiss, 325-26.
8. Ibid., 333.

9. F.A. Wellesley, ed., The Paris Embassy During the Second Empire (London, 1928), 63.

The issue of generalship in the American Civil War has long been a topic of unrelenting research, voluminous writing, and impassioned debate. Many historians and buffs have postulated that superior generalship was the key factor that enabled the Confederacy to offset the Union's advantages in men and materiel, General Robert E. Lee and the Army of Northern Virginia would certainly seem to validate such a claim, but west of the Appalachian Mountains the story was very different. Confederate generals in Tennessee (A. S. Johnston, Beauregard, Bragg, and J. E. Johnston) demonstrated nothing like Lee's abilities and compiled a record in which defeats outnumbered victories. And in Mississippi, Confederate Lieutenant General John C. Pemberton was thoroughly outgeneraled and suffered a defeat more decisive than any sustained by Lee's opponents in Virginia. As a case study in "battle command incompetency," Pemberton stands unrivaled in the Civil War; he failed more dramatically than did any other commander of comparable stature in either army. Were he serving today, Pemberton could be found wanting in each of the five "battle command competencies" commonly subscribed to in today's Army.

At the opening of the 1863 campaign season, Pemberton was able to see his enemy with little difficulty. From his headquarters in Jackson, Mississippi, he was well situated to monitor Union activity throughout his department, which embraced all of Mississippi and that part of Louisiana east of the Mississippi River. Pemberton's main concern was with Major General Ulysses S. Grant's Army of the Tennessee, which had three corps encamped in the river bottom west of the Mississippi and upstream from Vicksburg. It was obvious that Grant's objective was Vicksburg, the "Gibraltar of the Confederacy," which had been thoroughly fortified against both river-borne and overland assaults. However, Pemberton had also to concern himself with Union penetrations out of Tennessee, far to the north, and with the defense of Port Hudson, Louisiana, well to the south. There remained also the possibility that Grant, utilizing river transport, could slip away from Vicksburg and reinforce another theater of the war.

But as long as Grant's men languished in their sodden camps in the Mississippi flood plain, Pemberton had the situation well in hand. In order to reach Vicksburg, Grant's soldiers would have to scale the 200-feet-high bluffs that marked the flood plain's eastern boundary. And even to reach the bluffs, Grant would have to contend with swamps, bayous, and rivers-not to mention Confederate defenders. From February to April, Grant made a number of attempts to reach the high ground, utilizing secondary rivers and bayous swollen by floodwaters. Pemberton was kept well informed of these bayou expeditions, and those that nature did not frustrate, Confederate troops did.

However, in April, Pemberton suffered a catastrophic lapse in his ability to see the enemy. Grant's failures to date, linked with reports of unusual Union riverboat activity, led Pemberton to conclude erroneously that Grant was about to withdraw from the Vicksburg vicinity. On 9 April, Pemberton reported to the War Department in Richmond: "Also reported, but not yet confirmed, movement under McClernand, in large force, by land west of river and southward. Much doubt it."¹

The movement was real and represented the opening of the campaign that would doom Vicksburg. With the corps commanded by Major General John McClernand in the lead, Grant was even then in the process of moving his command to a point where he could cross the Mississippi south of Vicksburg. On the night of 16-17 April, Admiral David D. Porter ran a portion of his gunboat fleet downstream, past the Vicksburg batteries, toward a linkup with Grant's ground troops.

The presence of both naval and land forces downstream from Vicksburg should have commanded Pemberton's complete and undivided attention because, in effect, the joint Union forces were in a position to turn the flank of fortress Vicksburg. Pemberton, however, persistently refused to see the threat for what it was. He was distracted by enemy diversions elsewhere in his large department. Even a warning from his most reliable subordinate, Brigadier General John S. Bowen, failed to orient the bewildered Pemberton. Bowen cautioned: "all the movements of the enemy during the last twenty-four hours [26-27 April] seem to indicate an intention on their part to march their army still lower down in Louisiana, perhaps to Saint Joseph, and then to run their steamers by me and cross to Rodney [Mississippi]."² Bowen's predicted landing site for the Union forces was off by less than ten miles, but when Grant brought ashore 22,000 men at Bruinsburg on 30 April, there were no Confederates to meet them.

The arrival of Grant's main force on the east bank of the Mississippi should have triggered a major shift in Pemberton's perception of himself. Up to this point in the campaign, Pemberton had functioned as a department commander, essentially an administrator working through the bureaucracy of his department. He had not personally commanded any of the military activities to date, preferring instead to allocate resources to local commanders and allow them to conduct operations. However, with Grant at hand, it was time to make the transition from department administrator to field army commander. Pemberton's department contained no fewer than 60,000 troops to contest Grant's designs, if only those troops could be assembled and led decisively.

Pemberton was slow to change his self-perceptions. He had remained at his headquarters in Jackson when Union gunboats bombarded Grand Gulf on 29 April. He was still in Jackson the next day when Grant's troops came ashore unopposed. On 1 May, he finally moved his headquarters-not toward the enemy, but to Vicksburg. When Brigadier General Bowen confronted Grant near Port Gibson that day, the Confederate force of four brigades was outnumbered 3 to 1. Significant Confederate reinforcements reached the area only after Bowen was defeated. Even then, these forces did little to interfere with Grant as he consolidated his foothold in Mississippi. Pemberton himself remained in Vicksburg. He did not come out in the field to join his army until 13 May, by which time Grant's army, three corps strong, was on the move.

It is worth noting at this juncture that Pemberton, although a lieutenant general, had never commanded a force of any size in battle. The last time he had heard shots fired in anger was during the Mexican War. Not surprisingly, events were soon to prove that Pemberton, a competent administrator, was out of his depth as an army commander.

In his rather belatedly assumed role as field commander, Pemberton saw the terrain only as it applied to the immediate requirements of a tactical defense. Two elements of terrain commanded his attention: the stronghold of Vicksburg, which constituted his base of supply and which represented the strongest defensive terrain in the region by virtue of its fortifications; and the Big Black River, a significant water obstacle, but one that could be crossed at several places. With Grant's army loose in the interior of Mississippi (Pemberton did not know exactly where), Pemberton disposed his army so as to extract the maximum defensive potential from the terrain. Of his five divisions, Pemberton left two in Vicksburg to guard against potential river-borne assaults. The remainder of his force, he established, for the most part, in defensive positions on the west bank of the Big Black River. This kept a water obstacle between his army and Grant and left his field force within easy reach of his fall-back position, the Vicksburg fortifications.

In a tactical sense, Pemberton used the terrain well. Operationally, he had set the stage for his eventual defeat. The Big Black River, which protected his army from Grant, also protected Grant's force from the Confederates. By simply screening the Big Black crossings, Grant was free to turn inland and menace the railroad linking Pemberton with the rest of the Confederacy. Pemberton's subordinate, John Bowen, once again viewed the situation more perceptively than did Pemberton. He offered to move his division forward to a position between the Big Black and the city of Jackson. "Could we not thus preserve the entire railroad, as well as the [Big Black River] bridge?" Bowen queried.³

The records contain no indication that Pemberton took any notice of this advice. As a consequence, Grant's forces on 14 May cut the railroad and captured Jackson, with Pemberton offering no resistance. Grant had isolated Vicksburg for the kill.

At this juncture, Pemberton proved incapable of settling upon a course of action and seeing it through. In the words of Captain Samuel Lockett, Pemberton's chief engineer, Pemberton "made the capital mistake of trying to harmonize instructions from his superiors diametrically opposed to each other, and at the same time bring them into accord with his own judgement, which was adverse to the plans of both."⁴

Pemberton wanted to remain on the defensive along the Big Black and accept battle there. A message from Jefferson Davis, the Confederate president, seemed to suggest that Pemberton should withdraw to the Vicksburg fortifications. J. E. Johnston, theater commander, wanted Pemberton to let go of Vicksburg altogether until sufficient force could be gathered to defeat Grant. According to Lockett, "none of these plans was carried out, but a sort of compromise or compound of all of these."⁵

On 16 May, while Pemberton vacillated (much to the disgust of his subordinates), Grant simplified the problem by bringing on a general engagement in the vicinity of Champion Hill. The onset of what proved to be the decisive battle of the campaign found Pemberton without a vision of battle. This is not surprising, insofar as the battle was, from his point of view, both unanticipated and unwanted. Pemberton's army was poorly disposed for battle when the fighting began, and as the day advanced, the inexperienced lieutenant general handled his army poorly. His only vision of battle was to extricate his force from impending disaster, which he succeeded in doing at day's end (although one of three Confederate divisions engaged was cut off and lost to Pemberton). Although the Confederates were outnumbered (23,000 to 32,000), their defeat was due not to the number of muskets engaged but to the absence of effective leadership at the top.

Throughout the Vicksburg campaign, Pemberton had demonstrated an inability to see beyond short-term exigencies. Following the defeat at Champion Hill, Pemberton saw no option but to withdraw into Vicksburg, which was accomplished on 18 May. There, the shaken Confederate army was able to reconstitute and resupply in the safety of a fortress. Indeed, Pemberton's men were able to drive off Union assaults on 19 and 22 May, testifying to the short-term benefits of reconstitution inside the fortifications. In the long term, however, by allowing himself to become besieged in Vicksburg, Pemberton abdicated all responsibility for the future. He considered his duty to consist solely in holding the ramparts until help from outside intervened. That help never materialized. On 17 May, Johnston had tried to get Pemberton to look into the fature, advising him, "If ... you are invested in Vicksburg, you must ultimately surrender."⁶ Johnston's prediction came true on 4 July 1963.

Although it is inherently unfair to judge a Civil War general by 1993 standards, John C. Pemberton's failure as a commander is incontrovertible. The reason behind his failure is also fairly easy to discern. In short, Pemberton never had an opportunity to grow into the job of leading a field army in battle, His experience prior to 1863 was in the staff and administrative arena. His promotion to three-star rank was due to patronage and administrative competence, not to performance under fire. Thus it was that on 16 May 1863, Pemberton, a three-star novice, found himself locked in battle with one of the Union's best commanders. Beset by conflicting guidance, disgruntled subordinates, and his own lack of experience, Pemberton conducted himself bravely and honorably. To the end, however, he was never truly a commander.

Warfare in the last quarter of the twentieth century has become dazzlingly complex. Massive technological change has produced a wide variety of weapons systems with greatly enhanced destructive powers. New technologies, in turn, beget new force structures and new theories of employment. All of these changes occur at a rate so rapid that the tempo of change threatens to overwhelm the capability of individuals to comprehend, adjust, and maintain control. Various means can be used to provide an anchor of stability in this sea of change. One solution is the clear and timely statement of standard operating procedures and doctrine. Another is the development of computer-based simulations to provide indications of how actual events will unfold. Both doctrine and simulations are useful tools and can enhance preparation for warfighting, but because they tend to deal in the coin of certainty rather than the currency of ambiguity, too much reliance upon them alone may provide a false picture of the factors that shape events.

Helpful as they are, doctrinal publications and simulations do not replicate reality in at least one critical area-the human factors that vary widely from individual to individual and do not lend themselves to quantification. Among these factors are courage, fear, fatigue, and personality differences. Warfighting technologies change over the years, forcing structural and doctrinal change to occur also. Human factors, however, change either not at all or so slowly that they can almost be considered timeless. Too messy to fit into neat categories, too random to quantify successfully, these human factors nevertheless affect military operations as surely as weapons systems and logistical capabilities. Human factors are by no means the only factors to be considered in the conduct of a campaign, but commanders who ignore them run a gave risk. Nowhere is this more true than among senior commanders who must not only see the enemy, the terrain, the battle, and the future but must also have a clear vision of themselves.

An excellent: example of a senior commander who had difficulty in clearly seeing either himself or his enemy is Major General William Starke Rosecrans during the Chickamauga campaign of 1863. Born 6 September 1819, in Ohio, Rosecrans graduated from the United States Military Academy in 1842, placing fifth in a class of fifty-six. For the next twelve years he served uneventfully as an engineer, missing the Mexican-American War entirely. In 1854, he resigned his commission to become a businessman and inventor. His new career was no more successful than his previous one and, indeed, almost killed him when an experiment failed castrophically. When the American Civil War broke out, Rosecrans returned to the military profession and soon found the success that had heretofore eluded him. Appointed brigadier general in June 1861, be served with distinction in western Virginia, then transferred to the Western theater. There he held a series of semi-independent commands and successfully fought the battles of Iuka and Corinth. Promoted to major general in September 1862, Rosecrans replaced Major General Don Carlos Buell in command of the Army of the Cumberland in October. Charged with driving Confederate forces from central and eastern Tennessee, he took the first step by defeating the Army of Tennessee at Stones River in December 1862.

Like all commanders, Rosecrans was. a mixture of both positive and negative traits. Even his detractors admitted he had a brilliant mind, was articulate in speech, and was firm in his convictions. He was also physically courageous and possessed prodigious energy. Unfortunately, he was extremely nervous and excitable in temperament. He was also impatient and critical of those who disagreed with him. In the words of a contemporary; Rosecrans was "short of temper and long of tongue." He was also remarkably simple of outlook, neither introspective nor an astute judge of others. His stern, uncompromising sense of the absolute correctness of his own views, once adopted, made him self-righteous in the extreme. In sum, he could relate to others, but had difficulty in understanding them or their positions. In terms of command style, he was generally affable with subordinates but tended to involve himself in details more appropriately handled by his staff. Never an early riser, he preferred to work long past midnight, then to engage in serious philosophical discussions for relaxation. During campaigns, he slept little and became more nervous and excitable as the tempo of operations accelerated. In a short campaign like Stones River, he was able to maintain the pace, but a campaign of longer duration would severely test his physical stamina.

Rosecrans embarked on just such an extended campaign in the summer of 1863. After Stones River, he spent the next six months reorganizing and refitting his army. Finally, on 24 June, he put the Army of the Cumberland into motion. Feinting toward the Confederate left with his cavalry and his reserves, Rosecrans sent his three primary infantry corps around the Confederate right. In four days General Braxton Bragg's Confederates were forced back to their advanced base at Tullahoma, Tennessee. Again Rosecrans turned the Confederate right, causing Bragg to withdraw hastily south of both the Cumberland Plateau and the Tennessee River. At a cost of only 560 casualties, Rosecrans had virtually forced Bragg out of Tennessee. With the Confederates momentarily beyond his reach, the Union general now called a temporary halt to operations. Subsequent phases of the campaign would occur in a sparsely settled mountainous region. Thus, the Army of the Cumberland was forced to depend upon the single-track Nashville and Chattanooga Railroad for most of its supplies, supplementing them only with whatever corn could be found in the river valleys.

The pause that followed the Tullahoma phase of the campaign, lasted for six weeks. During that time, the Army of the Cumberland rebuilt the railroad to the Tennessee River, established large stocks of food and ammunition, and waited for the corn to ripen. Finally, on 16 August, Rosecrans ordered the army to cross the Cumberland Plateau and enter the valley of the Tennessee River. A formidable obstacle, the river averaged 1,250 feet in width, making it too wide to cross at a defended spot. Rosecrans thus designed an elaborate deception operation north of Chattanooga to deceive the Confederates into believing he would cross there. In fact, he planned to cross the river at four sites downstream from the city. Once across, the army would make a wide-front advance on three axes that would not only threaten Chattanooga itself but would also place Bragg's railroad to Atlanta in jeopardy. Rosecrans believed that Bragg would have to respond to the potential loss of his line of communication by evacuating Chattanooga, possibly without a fight. He implemented the deception operation on 21 August and planned to begin the real crossings eight days later.

Completely fooled by the Federal demonstrations north of Chattanooga, Bragg and his senior subordinates all expected the Federal crossing to take place in that sector. Thus, when the Army of the Cumberland began to cross the river at Shellmound, Battle Creek, Bridgeport, and Caperton's Ferry, it met virtually no resistance. By 4 September, Rosecrans had successfully completed the passage of the river and had concentrated his units into three powerful columns.

All of the columns faced two massive barrier ridges, Sand and Lookout Mountains, between them and their objectives. These two mountains were traversed by a series of passes or gaps: the first near Chattanooga, the second twenty miles to the south, and the third another twenty miles south of the second. Rosecrans, directed one infantry corps to follow each of the routes over the ridges. On the left, the XXI Corps pointed directly toward Chattanooga; in the center, the XIV Corps headed for the town of LaFayette, Georgia; on the right, the, XX Corps and the Cavalry Corps drove toward Rome, Georgia, and the railroad to Atlanta. The cross-compartmented mountainous terrain prevented the three columns from operating within supporting distance of each other, but Rosecrans believed the risk was minimal. Bragg must withdraw, he reasoned, in order to protect his communications.

By 9 September, the Army of the Cumberland had struggled over Sand Mountain, and its leading elements were beginning to cross Lookout Mountain. As Rosecrans had expected, Bragg felt compelled to evacuate Chattanooga, which he did on 8 September. Learning that the city was open, Rosecrans sent the XXI Corps to occupy it on 9 September. With the objective of the campaign in his hands, Rosecrans expansively ordered a rapid pursuit of what he believed to be a defeated foe. Calling his most senior corps commander, Major General George Thomas, to his headquarters to arrange details of the pursuit, Rosecrans was dismayed to learn that Thomas did not share his enthusiasm. In fact, Thomas vigorously argued against immediate pursuit: the army was too widely dispersed and its lines of communication were extremely tenuous. Instead, Thomas favored a pause to consolidate both the army and fresh supplies at Chattanooga before resuming the campaign. Thomas' arguments notwithstanding, Rosecrans adamantly rejected the idea of a pause and directed the corps to pursue the retreating Confederates independently. Rosecrans believed his vision of Bragg's situation and was unwilling to entertain any opposing views. Thus the pursuit began.

Contrary to Rosecrans' expectations, Bragg's Army of Tennessee was not in wild retreat toward Atlanta. Knowing that he could not contest the line of the Tennessee River, Bragg had planned all along to wait for the Federals to become dispersed in the mountains before he mounted a counterstroke. Late on 9 September, when he learned that leading elements of the XIV Corps were entering a mountain-rimmed valley named McLemore's Cove, Bragg attempted to orchestrate their destruction by converging columns. Through a combination of Federal good luck and Confederate ineptitude, two Federal divisions narrowly escaped annihilation. Upon teaming of the near disaster, Rosecrans at first was disinclined to believe the news. Finally, on 12 September, he ordered a concentration of his scattered units. By that time, more than forty miles separated the XXI Corps on the left from the XX Corps on the right, and the actual distance through the mountains was far greater. Rosecrans would be unable to concentrate the Army of the Cumberland until 18 September, and even then it was not in position to defend Chattanooga.

Following the action in McLemore's Cove, the initiative in the campaign passed completely to the Confederates. After failing on 13 September to again destroy a portion of the Federal army, Bragg finally precipitated a major battle on 19 September. By that time Rosecrans was on the verge of physical collapse because of emotional stress and lack of sleep. After a day of inconclusive battle, the Army of the Cumberland held its ground, although it was unable to take the offensive. Still unwilling to recognize his physical limitations, Rosecrans spent most of the evening engaged in a long conference with his subordinates. Rising at dawn, he inspected his battle line several times, making minute adjustments. When the Confederates resumed their attacks, he frenetically issued orders to units as small as brigades. His physical condition, coupled with his predisposition toward overcontrol, soon led him to make a mental error. Believing that a dangerous gap existed in his line, he ordered a divisional movement that opened a hole instead of closing one. This rash decision caused one-third of his army to collapse and flee the field, carrying him with them. Although the bulk of the Army of the Cumberland remained intact under George Thomas, it eventually withdrew into Chattanooga. Within a month, Rosecrans was relieved of command. He would hold other commands during the war, but the pinnacle of his military career was past.

In terms of what today are called Battlefield Command Competencies, William S. Rosecrans failed in two important respects. In the first instance, "Seeing the Enemy," Rosecrans saw his opponents as he wanted them to be, instead of assessing what they were capable of doing. Even when told by a trusted subordinate that an alternate view of the enemy was equally credible, he rejected the possibility that things were not as they appeared. He thus lost the initiative at a critical moment in the campaign and never regained it. In the second instance, "Seeing Yourself," Rosecrans was equally insensitive to an important reality - the progressive degrading of his own physical and emotional condition. Rosecrans' personal habit of "late to bed, late to rise" was not harmful between campaigns but was utterly inappropriate as the tempo of operations accelerated. Although copious expenditures of adrenaline kept him going physically, it did nothing to halt the rapid decline of his mental acuity. Rosecrans was either unaware of his deteriorating condition or believed he could overcome its effects by sheer force of will. Either way, he was found wanting at the crisis of the battle and thereby lost both the fight and his career.

If the ability to make a quick and accurate assessment of a tactical situation is the essence of good generalship, then Major General Gordon Granger deserves high marks for his performance on the second day of the Battle of Chickamauga. During that fateful day, Granger made two tactical decisions that saved a large part of the Union Army of the Cumberland from destruction and allowed the bulk of Federal forces to make an orderly retreat. Detracting from his brilliance, however, were two lapses of judgment that caused unnecessary Union losses and suggest that Granger's leadership was seriously flawed. When dealing with his own command and executing his primary mission, Granger's focus and decisiveness produced outstanding results. But once the tactical situation required him to take a larger view and deal with problems beyond the narrow scope of his own force, his performance proved inadequate.

The Battle of Chickamauga was the culmination of more than a month of maneuvering and skirmishing between Union Major General William S. Rosecrans' Army of the Cumberland and General Braxton Bragg's Confederate Army of Tennessee. The two armies began the campaign in late August 1863 positioned on opposite banks of the Tennessee River n6ar Chattanooga. Rosecrans' objective was to capture the vital rail junction of Chattanooga, essential as a communications base for any Federal advance into Georgia. Rather than assault the city directly, however, Rosecrans feinted east of Chattanooga and then crossed the bulk of his army well to the west, advancing along three widely separated routes. The southernmost of these columns was soon in a position to threaten Bragg's rail communications with his supply depots in Atlanta. Rosecrans believed that this threat to the rebel supply line would cause Bragg to give up Chattanooga without a fight. He was correct. Bragg responded by abandoning his positions and retreating. But then Bragg seized the initiative, concentrating his army near Lafayette, Georgia (roughly twenty-five miles south of Chattanooga) and attacking the widely separated Union columns one at a time. Command and control problems, however, prevented him from launching an effective attack. Meanwhile, Rosecrans became alert to the danger posed by the dispersal of his forces. The Federals now raced north to concentrate near Chattanooga, while Bragg absorbed reinforcements and perfected plans for blocking their retreat. On 19 September 1863, the two armies collided on the west side of Chickamauga Creek.

On the first day of the battle, the Union and Confederate forces fought each other to a standstill, neither side executing a coordinated battle plan but merely grappling in a confused meeting engagement. The heavily wooded terrain made it nearly impossible for higher-level commanders to get a clear picture of what was happening. As a result, division and brigade commanders made most of the important tactical decisions, reacting as they saw fit to the situation in their immediate area. While the battle raged, Granger and elements of his Reserve Corps waited in the vicinity of McAfee Church, four miles northeast of the battlefield and just seven mites southeast of Chattanooga.

Granger commanded three infantry brigades, each with a supporting battery of field artillery. Two of the brigades belonged to Brigadier General James B. Steedman's 1st Division; the third brigade, commanded by Colonel Daniel McCook, was attached to Steedman from the 2d Division. Thus, Granger had only one division to direct and one division commander to supervise. The majority of his command was scattered across south-central Tennessee, guarding the Army of the Cumberland's line of communications.

Granger's mission was to guard the vital route to Chattanooga, keeping the door open for the army's main body should it be forced to retreat. On the night of 19 September, Rosecrans' chief of staff, Brigadier General James A. Garfield, amended Granger's orders, directing him to "help ... in the fight tomorrow by supporting [Major General George] Thomas."¹ (Thomas commanded the Union left wing.) Granger received no further instructions from Union Army headquarters during the course of the battle. The only messages he received on 20 September were one regarding the suitability of the McAfee Church position for defense and another, from Thomas, asking if Granger's command was within supporting distance.²

At approximately 1100 on 20 September, Granger made the first of his brilliant tactical decisions. Aware of the absence of enemy activity in his own area and hearing the sounds of battle to his southeast, he weighed the meaning of Garfield's instructions and, in order to support Thomas, marched to the battle with two brigades of Steedman's 1st Division.³ McCook's brigade stayed behind to carry out the original mission of guarding the route to Chattanooga, Granger's decision was fortuitous indeed. At roughly the same time that Granger and Steedman marched to the battlefield, a massive column of Confederate troops charged through a gap in the Union right wing. The Federal positions on the southern half of the field quickly collapsed. Steedman's division would be sorely needed in a very short time.

As Granger approached the battlefield, he was opposed by a brigade of dismounted cavalry and three batteries of horse artillery led by Brigadier General Nathan Bedford Forrest.⁴ Steedman, threatened on his left, deployed his lst Division against the Confederates. Granger now made his second brilliant decision of the day. He directed Steedman to get his men back into column and continue the march toward the main battle, "They [Forrest's men] are nothing but ragamuffin cavalry," Granger allegedly told Steedman in evaluating the situation.⁵ Granger's assessment, while uncomplimentary to Forrest's troopers, was an accurate calculation of relative combat power. Forrest lacked the strength to close with Steedman's division, so he limited his interdiction attempt to long-range artillery and rifle fire, hoping to distract the column and make it face him rather than reinforce the main battle. Granger, much to his credit, remained focused on his main purpose: the support of Thomas. To escape Forrest's fire, Granger directed his column to veer west away from the Union batteries. This modification to the approach march luckily caused Steedman's division to enter the battlefield almost precisely where it was needed.⁶

At approximately 1345⁷, Granger reported to Thomas, who by this time was the senior Federal officer on the field (Rosecrans had been swept off the field with the routed troops of the Union right wing). Thomas ordered Granger's troops to reinforce the hastily reformed Union right that now defended a small eminence known as Snodgrass Hill. Granger's men arrived just in time to counter a renewed Confederate assault on the vulnerable Union right flank. The troops of Steedman's 1st Division, although largely without combat experience, charged into Brigadier General Bushrod Johnson's Confederate division and drove it from Snodgrass Hill. Without the timely arrival of Steedman's division, Johnson's Confederates could have launched a devastating flank attack on the Union forces occupying the eastern half of Snodgrass Hill, unhinging the entire Federal position and causing a much more serious Union defeat.

Steedman's arrival solved another pressing problem for the Army of the Cumberland, that of ammunition resupply. Steedman's ammunition wagons carried some 95,000 rounds.⁸ Since the Federal regiments holding out on Snodgrass Hill were mostly survivors of the army's right wing, they had lost their combat trains in the chaos following the right wing's collapse. By the time Steedman arrived, these soldiers had nearly emptied their cartridge boxes, Hence, the arrival of additional ammunition was as vital to maintaining the Federal position as was Steedman's arrival with two fresh brigades.

Granger's two tactical decisions - to go to Thomas' aid in force and to ignore Forrest's cavalry - delivered his force to the battle at precisely the right time and place, enabling the Union forces to maintain a cohesive defense and allowing most of the Army of the Cumberland to avoid capture. Unfortunately, Granger then ceased to act as a competent commander. Having delivered his command to battle expertly, he indulged himself in his favorite battlefield pastime: acting as a cannoneer. Seeing the many batteries arrayed near the Snodgrass cabin blasting away at the Confederates, Granger could not resist the urge to grab a rammer staff and join the fun. Granger spent most of the afternoon happily loading and firing cannons - content to let his subordinates manage the battle on their own.⁹

Steedman and his brigade and regimental commanders performed well enough without Granger's supervision. Steedman gallantly led the charge up Snodgrass Hill, personally rallying a regiment that had begun to waver. Once in position, Steedman's division successfully resisted subsequent Confederate assaults. The brave but disorganized fragments of regiments and brigades that occupied the eastern end of Snodgrass Hill also continued to hold out effectively, but these units sorely needed direction.

At approximately 1630, Thomas decided to withdraw his army. While he directed the withdrawal from Kelly Field, he left Granger to supervise the withdrawal of Federal units from Snodgrass Hill.¹⁰ No operation is more difficult than a withdrawal under pressure. Close coordination and supervision are essential for success. Incredibly, Granger made no effort to organize and direct this dangerous operation. He merely relayed the withdrawal order and then departed the battlefield. He failed to realize that he had a responsibility to the units outside of his corps. His official report of the battle reveals: "Although they were not under my command [author's emphasis], I cannot refrain from herein noticing the troops that held (Snodgrass Hill), and from testifying to their heroic bravery ..."¹² When Thomas left for Kelly Field, Granger was indisputably the senior officer on Snodgrass Hill and was responsible for all of the Union forces there.

Fortunately for the Army of the Cumberland, the Confederate soldiers attacking Snodgrass Hill were nearly exhausted and did little to interfere with the Federal withdrawal. Union regiments that were still part of organized brigades and under the control of their commanders withdrew successfully to Chattanooga. Three Union regiments that were attachments from other commands and "strangers" to the brigades and divisions that fought beside them on Snodgrass Hill were left behind and captured by the Confederates. Had Granger, as senior officer, organized and supervised the Federal withdrawal, all of these units would probably have escaped. If their sacrifice was deemed a tactical necessity to ensure the rest of the army's safety, these brave men at least deserved to be told why they were being left behind. In any case, these soldiers were poorly served by their leadership, and Granger, as the senior commander, was largely responsible for their fate.

Granger's performance at Chickamauga was decidedly mixed. On the one hand, he made a pair of tactical decisions that saved the day for the Army of the Cumberland. Once his command arrived on the battlefield, however, Granger revealed characteristics that call into question his fitness for command. First, his fascination for cannons distracted him from the proper business of a corps commander. Second, he lacked any sense of responsibility toward anything that lay outside the narrow purview of his own command. The same superb sense of focus that caused Granger to ignore Forrest's cavalry also caused him to ignore anything that lay outside his own mission. Having delivered his troops to the point directed by Thomas, Granger was without an immediate mission to perform and appeared disinclined to seek another. The disorganized Union forces on Snodgrass Hill desperately needed an overall commander. Granger, a corps commander without a corps to command, was perfectly situated to provide the necessary coordination and direction. Granger may have been guilty of the sin, so common among leaders, of staying within his "comfort zone," doing only those duties that appealed to him. While Granger was relatively new to corps command, he had no problems maneuvenng a division, as illustrated by his march to the battlefield. But when faced with the choice of supervising a disorganized group of Federals (of roughly corps strength) hotly engaged with the enemy or sponging out cannons, he unhesitatingly chose the latter.

What lessons can be gleaned from Granger at Chickamauga? First, his performance clearly illustrates the insufficiency of tactical brilliance, alone, as the dominating quality in an effective commander. While this quality is essential, it does not, by itself, make a great, or even good, leader. Second, a leader who cannot see beyond the narrow interests of his own command and his immediate mission is really a poor leader. Good leaders must have the moral courage to take responsibility in difficult situations, even when it calls on them to perform tasks that may be complex and unfamiliar. Though leaders have the right to delegate duties to subordinates, this does not nullify their responsibility to accomplish difficult and unpleasant jobs. Leaders should do their jobs - even if that means making mistakes and risking embarrassment or failure. Certainly the courageous men of the 21st Ohio, 22d Michigan, and 89th Ohio - the "lost regiments" of Chickamauga - deserved as much from Major General Gordon Granger.

Union frontal assaults on entrenched, yet sparsely manned, Confederate positions around Petersburg faltered in the late spring of 1864, and the warfare bogged down into a defensive stalemate. Meanwhile, both sides strengthened and extended their siege lines. By late June, the Union lines in Major General Ambrose E. Burnside's IX Corps sector stabilized to within 130 yards of the Confederate works. Major General George G. Meade had only recently integrated Burnside's IX Corps into his Army of the Potomac. Like many other Union officers, Meade had a low opinion of Burnside due to the latter's infamous defeat at Fredericksburg in 1862.

In late June, Lieutenant Colonel Henry Pleasants of the 48th Pennsylvania Regiment conceived a plan to emplace a huge mine under a Confederate fortification known as Elliot's salient as a means of breaking the impasse on the Petersburg front. He presented his plan to Brigadier General Robert B. Potter, commander of the 2d Division of Burnside's IX Corps. Potter approved the initiative and forwarded it to Burnside, who also concurred with it. In the meantime, Lieutenant General Ulysses S. Grant had become impatient with the siege operations against his stalwart opponent, General Robert E. Lee and, on 3 July 1864, asked Meade if it was possible to conduct a "bold and decisive attack to break through the enemy's center." Meade replied to Grant's request by deferring to Burnside, who favored the assault - if Pleasant's mine supported it. Burnside persuaded Meade to go along with the plan, and Grant approved it. The 48th, a regiment of coal miners, was particularly well suited for the difficult task of preparing the mine, the construction of which was already under way at the time of Grant's request.

Burnside picked Brigadier General Edward Ferrero's 4th Division, comprised totally of black soldiers, to spearhead the assault after the explosion of the mine. Ferrero's troops were fresh, compared to the mostly shell-shocked divisions in IX Corps at the time. Moreover, the black soldiers were anxious to prove their mettle in battle and practiced with enthusiasm in mockups built out of sight of the Confederate positions.

As July came to a close, construction of the mine was completed and the stage was set for it to be ignited. In the meantime, Confederate countermine efforts had failed to pinpoint the location of the suspected Union mine. Burnside's initial assault (to be conducted immediately after the blast) featured Ferrero's Negro Division - already specially trained and motivated - as the main effort, with Brigadier Generals Robert B. Potter and Orlando B. Wilcox in support. Brigadier General James Ledlie's division would serve as the reserve.

At the eleventh hour, Meade persuaded Grant that black troops should not lead the charge. Meade based his objections primarily on political, not military factors. He pointed out that Ferrero's division was untried in combat and that failure in its attack could result in a slaughter, with disastrous political repercussions. The Northern press was already especially sensitive to the high casualty rates that black troops had incurred in the bloody conflict. Persuaded by Meade's recommendation, Grant agreed to modify the plan.

Burnside now allowed the assignment to be determined by lot. Ledlie, later described by Grant as the "worst division commander in IX Corps!" drew the mission. Thus, the charge would now be led by untrained troops, weary and shell-shocked from continuous fighting in the trenches of Petersburg, rather than by an inspired, freshly trained black division.

Burnside's revised plan centered on Ledlie dashing through the blast area and seizing Cemetery Hill, near the Blandford Church. Wilcox's division would follow Ledlie around the abandoned entrenchments and swing into line on his left flank. Meanwhile, Potter's division would hold the right salient. Ferrero's division was relegated to the reserve force. Burnside assumed that the Confederates would be so confused by the effects, of the huge blast that Union forces, moving by division, could exploit their demoralized state by launching a lightning strike through the pit. Darkness would provide cover and concealment for the Union forces.

At 0330 on Saturday 30 July, the mine was set to explode. It was testimony to the dedication and determination of the coal miners of the 48th that it had been built at all. It was difficult for any commander to envision an end state: a mine of this size had never been detonated before. Lieutenant Jacob Douty and Sergeant Henry Rees of the 48th were charged with setting off the explosion. Due to dampness and poor splicing, the mine did not go off as scheduled. The two brave men, nonetheless, relit the mine, and at 0444, it finally blew up!

The effect of the explosion on the battlefield was like that of an atomic bomb. Both sides were awestruck, and for nearly fifteen minutes, few shots were fired. The pause caused by the shock of the explosion was seized upon by the Confederates who, in the midst of the confusion, were hastily able to reinforce their thin line of defense along the trenches and direct deadly fire on the flanks of the men prepared to rush into the crater. In reaction, the Union brigades in the crater became commingled as they huddled for protection. Southern sharpshooters and artillery enjoyed easy targets against the clustered mob of dazed and frightened Federal troops.

Historians have credited Brigadier General William Mahone with seizing the initiative for the South. He had been faced with three courses of action: to retreat, hold in position, or direct a counterattack. Quickly assessing the tactical situation, Mahone, cool under pressure, had skillfully assembled his stunned troops to launch a counteroffensive against the massed Union forces in the pit. As Union forces advanced on the Southeners' left flank, Mahone ordered a countercharge, repelling the attackers through a synchronized use of artillery and infantry.

Mahone had correctly recognized his situation, understood it, and established a vision of a desired end state. Thus, he reinforced his weak position and sought the initiative despite the odds against him. He articulated his unifying concept of operation, invoked his will to move his battered, but not broken, Confederate force, and led a successful countercharge. Asserting effective senior leadership, he had transformed a potentially disastrous situation into a position of strength by building a defense in depth and directing withering fire on his battle-weary opponents.

As the attack continued, Union divisions continued to get bogged down in the crater. While they were able to get into the crater, they found it extremely difficult to get out of the huge hole. Where were Generals Ledlie and Ferrero during the assault? They were quenching their palate with rum as they crouched in a protected hospital bunker well behind the main lines. From this location, they relied on dispatchers to bring them information on activities at the front. Lacking inspired senior-level leadership, Union troop discipline began to erode as daylight approached. The Federals had been unsuccessful in exploiting the cover of darkness and the initial shock of the blast to overwhelm their opponent. Burnside had failed to concentrate decisive combat power at the required time and place and to protect his force adequately.

As the morning wore on, Union troops were awash in their own perspiration and blood. They thirsted for water and yearned for relief from what they must have considered a suicide mission. Despite his apparent initial failure, Burnside still wanted to press the attack, perceiving a weakness on the Confederate right flank. If the Federals could break through the Confederate works, a clear path to Richmond lay beyond the horrors of the pit and perhaps a quick end to the war. Meade, however, felt compelled to withdraw, heavily influenced by the massive casualties suffered by the unfortunate soldiers mired in the crater. He ordered Burnside to end the assault. Burnside, exasperated at the order, attempted to ignore it and confronted Meade in an insubordinate manner. Nevertheless, the order stood and, at 0900, the battle of the Crater was over.

After the battle, the Union efforts focused more on finding a scapegoat instead of trying to determine what went wrong and how it should have been fixed. Burnside was court-martialed for insubordination by Meade but was later vindicated by a Joint Congressional Committee that blamed Meade for not pressing the attack. A court of inquiry later determined that Ledlie was guilty of dereliction of duty, and he resigned his commission on 23 January 1865. Ferrero, through an administrative oversight, was raised to a brevet major general for his performance during the Petersburg campaign! Meanwhile, Lee's army survived to fight another day, and siege warfare dragged on along the Petersburg front.

What lessons can be learned by examining the Battle of the Crater? First, senior-level leaders must be able to envision the after effects on a battlefield when employing weapons of mass destruction. Union commanders failed to visualize what would happen after the mine exploded. They did not think past the creation of the breach to the real objective of the attack-the penetration of the Petersburg defenses, Second, the substitution of ill-trained and poorly led troops for prepared, motivated soldiers to satisfy political considerations was a prescription for disaster. Both of these lessons are instructive to our modern Army.

In attempting to describe the intuitive qualities necessary for commanders to understand the form and implications of their tactical circumstances, military theorists rely in some measure on the metaphor of human eyesight. Carl Clausewitz, in his work On War, admitted to the limitations of direct language when he chose the French idiom coup d'oeil to illuminate his concept of the intellectual orientation necessary in successful commanders. The metaphor, he said, "refers not alone to the physical but, more commonly, to the inward eye." The strict translation of the words "strike the eye" is illuminating. Meaningless when taken as direct language, this phrase assumes a powerful force when the reader is prepared to accept it metaphorically.

Although this metaphor of "seeing" is powerful, it is also imprecise because it allows the commander the freedom to interpret his vision in whatever way seems appropriate to a particular situation. No serious and credible military thinker, however, believes that intuitively "seeing" or "visualizing" a tactical situation is sufficient basis for a commander to act. Rather, intuition serves as the cognitive foundation upon which facts, near facts, and speculation can coalesce to form judgment. But while intuition can be the commander's most powerful tool, it can also imperil his force. The danger posed by a misguided intuition can be illustrated in a single example: the approach of George Armstrong Custer's force to the Sioux at Little Bighorn.

Custer's cavalry was part of a force that was charged with the mission of driving the Sioux from the vast area of the plains onto the reservation. Although formal doctrine was lacking in the frontier army, years of Indian fighting had established several reasonable generalizations about the Indians as an enemy, and these were part of Custer's intellectual baggage. Several of those generalizations were grounded in the natural realities that drove the Indian way of life: food, water, and sanitation. For instance, commanders in the frontier army understood that the Indians were forced to move to find game, their main food source. Like the animals they were hunting, Indians obviously could not move too far from water. Streams and rivers, therefore, became their natural highways. Sanitation also governed the Indians' behavior. When the herds remained relatively close to one camp, sanitation problems forced the village to displace frequently. Food, water, and sanitation also had a moderating effect on the size of villages. A village only needed to be large enough to have sufficient hunters to bring home food. Any more people would add mouths to feed without adding much to the efficiency of the Indians' food gathering.

Years of this subsistence economy gave rise to strong Indian cultural values. Since the hunt was the primary means of survival, a man that could hunt successfully gained the highest prestige in Indian society. Not surprisingly, individual bravery and prowess became honored not only in hunting but in warfare. A group of Indians would form associations loosely grouped around a charismatic leader. The leader, having earned his reputation on the hunt or in battle, organized groups of warriors-hunters for the hunt or the battlefield. However, after the fight-hunt began, cultural values forced the individual warrior-hunter to prove his bravery. Because the focus was on the warriors' individual accomplishments and prowess, any cooperation was impromptu and between small groups only. A battle-hunt was as much a demonstration of individual prowess as it was an economic or political activity.

These fundamentals of Indian society were central to the U.S. Army's analysis of Indian warfare. Thus, Custer approached the impending battle at the Little Bighorn with a number of professionally derived generalizations about his enemy. The U.S. Army (and Custer) understood, first, that the Indian village was the tribe's economic and political source of strength. If an Indian village was destroyed, the survivors would scatter, most moving toward the relative economic security of the reservation. Second, the Army (and Custer) knew that villages would not stay in one place. Moreover, one could predict the Indians' route of march based on the direction of streams and rivers. But this was of little help when there were many streams and rivers. Third, no village could be overwhelmingly large. Any gathering of over 1,000 people would be unlikely and, in any event, highly temporary. Finally, even though the Indians displayed skills in horsemanship and bravery that any commander would envy, the disjointed warfare practiced by the tribes would force them to yield in the face of the cooperative tactics of the cavalry. This was the "vision" Custer carried onto the high plains. He expected the particular realities of the campaign to refine and sharpen that vision. He did not expect the particular realities of the campaign to challenge it.

As Custer gathered his force and departed the company of his superior, General Alfred H. Terry, he knew that he would find a fight before he rejoined Terry. Recent intelligence had established that a large village was moving southward up Rosebud Creek. Terry decided to split his force, sending Custer's Seventh Cavalry up the Rosebud while the balance of Terry's troops moved up a parallel stream just to the west - the Bighorn and its tributary, the Little Bighorn. In this pincer movement, Custer's force, tailored for swift movement and quick strikes, would probe constantly to the west, ensuring that the Indians were not turning to the east but were forced to the west and the Little Bighorn. Custer's cavalry was equipped and manned to deal with all of the reasonable contingencies that he and his contemporaries could imagine.

Following the Rosebud between 22 and 24 June 1876, Custer and his scouts found increasing signs of a very large village. On the evening of 24 June, he received the report that he and Terry had expected: the Indian village had turned west toward the Little Bighorn. Custer now had to "visualize" his tactical circumstances in order to plan and act. Knowing what he and his contemporaries knew about villages, he was certain that he must maintain contact with their trail; to do otherwise risked losing the village altogether. He could "see" that the village was a large target, one that would soon scatter in order to survive. He could also visualize that the village would not be so large as to overwhelm him. It is difficult to imagine that Custer or his officers believed that the number of warriors mattered, given the differences in the opposing forces' style of warfare. It is easy to imagine that Custer's greatest fear of failure lay in one of two reasonable "visions" of his end state. In one scenario, he would be victorious, destroying the village and all its foodstuffs, with all of the surviving Indians fleeing toward the reservation. In the other possibility, the village was visualized as escaping and scattering to the southwest, making any further attack on the dispersed members of the tribe impractical.

To prevent the second vision from occurring, Custer decided to follow the trail west and position himself to launch a surprise attack on the Indians early on the morning of 26 June. When poor security measures appeared to compromise his force during its approach on the 25th, Custer was compelled to press on and make the attack at once. Throughout the day, the signs of the village became more plentiful; the earth before him had been scoured by thousands of lodge poles, horses, dogs, and people. Custer, using his inner "vision" but not his eyes, "saw" a large target on the verge of scattering. If this happened, his force would be deprived of a decisive blow. Also, in his "vision," Custer could "see" the enemy escaping to the south. Responding to that mental picture, he divided his force for the first time, stripping away essential combat power that he would desperately need later in the day.

The rest of the events of 25 June 1876 are mired in controversy. Historians generally agree, however, that Custer maintained his overconfidence almost until the end. He continued to split forces until his dispersed troops became no match for the overwhelming numbers of warriors he found on the Little Bighorn. Popular history's need for simple explanations leads to the conclusion that it was Custer's arrogance that destroyed his command. There is no doubt that his arrogance led him to "see" the wrong "vision." But if this campaign is to be instructive, we need a more complete explanation for his failure. Any objective analysis must evaluate the tactical decision he made in light of the professional judgments prevailing at the time. Few officers of that era who laid rightful claim to combat prowess would have believed that any collection of Indians would be sufficient to overpower a competently led cavalry formation. But then, few officers and scouts would ever have predicted the size of the village facing Custer. Few officers, also, would have challenged the legitimacy of Custer's hedging against the escape of the entire village and his need for haste to keep it from scattering.

No amount of thorough and reasonable analysis of an enemy can yield infallible generalizations. Too heavy a reliance upon such analyses can blind an officer's way as easily as it can illuminate it. To be sure, the truly professional officer studies and contributes to these analyses. One can even make a career and a worthwhile contribution to military science by immersing oneself in them. But the combat commander in the field is held to a different standard. He must use these analyses as tools. Practical realities, however, do not necessarily conform to these analyses; instead, they may create a picture all their own. While we are enjoined by our mentors to "see" ourselves and our enemies and to "visualize" the end states of battles, we still must understand that a commander's vision is often multifaceted and open to various interpretations. Ultimately, intuition and judgment must be as tempered by reality as they are trained by education.

In modern warfare, vision is an indispensable ingredient for victory. A successful commander must be able to establish a vision of the as-yet-unseen battlefield and battle he is to fight. The problem is that many unknown and unknowable factors intrude between the present and future. No matter how careful the planning has been, no matter how diligently the intelligence has been gathered and analyzed, the mental picture of the battlefield and future battle will always be imperfect. As confident and certain as the commander may be, his vision cannot guarantee success, but faulty vision can surely lead to failure.

This was the case on 25 June 1876 as Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer prepared to lead the 7th Cavalry against a coalition of Sioux and Cheyenne. In the predawn hours of that dry summer day, Lieutenant Charles Vamum and several Indian scouts peered into the dim morning. They were looking for any sign of the location and size of the hostile village they knew to be in the valley of the Little Bighorn some fifteen miles to the west. Although the Indian scouts assured Vamum that they could indeed see the smoke from the morning cook fires and the pony herd on the far bench, his eyes could not discern this evidence. Not wanting to report information he could not personally verify, Vamuni sent a message to Custer requesting that he come to the Crow's Nest and look for himself.

Custer arrived near the summit of this promontory at 0900. By this time, a haze lay over the valley and the morning cook fires in the village had died down. Custer's eyes also could not distinguish any sign of the village. Nevertheless, he began to formulate a plan based on his experience and understanding of how his enemy would behave in combat, on his success in the past against what he perceived to be a similar situation, and on the intelligence he had just gathered regarding the location and size of the Indian village. As he descended from the Crow's Nest, Custer believed he possessed sufficient information to plan a course of action.

Custer's plan was simple. He would hide the regiment in the bowl-like depression at the base of the Crow's Nest until evening. There was certainly enough room here for 700 men and animals. Moreover, the depression was enclosed on three sides, some water was available, and the Crow's Nest itself provided excellent observation. of the surrounding terrain for many miles. The regiment could also rest while maintaining its security. The regiment would then make a night march on the enemy village and attack at first light on the morning of the 26th. The plan seemed to guarantee success; a similar plan had worked eight years earlier when Custer attacked a village on the Washita in Oklahoma. Thus, the plan was fully consistent with known facts and the personality of the commander. And it might well have succeeded.

This plan, however, was never implemented. When Custer rejoined his regiment now waiting along the banks of Davis Creek below the Crow's Nest, Tom Custer, the commander's brother, greeted him with news that would cause a radical alteration of the plan. Sergeant William Curtis and a patrol sent back to retrieve a box of rations lost the previous evening had found a group of Cheyenne looting it. Shots from the patrol sent the Sioux scurrying, last seen by Sergeant Curtis moving toward the west - the direction of the village. This piece of information convinced Custer that his presence had been compromised and that he would now have to act quickly before the village dispersed. As it turned out, the looters did not report Custer's presence. Nevertheless, one piece of misinterpreted intelligence set in motion a series of events that would lead to one of the U.S. Army's great disasters on the American frontier.
A new vision of the coming battle now emerged in Custer's mind. The regiment would proceed immediately toward the valley of the Little Bighorn and attack the village that day. He called his officers together and explained his intentions. From this moment on, Custer was focused on only one objective: to destroy the hostile village before the Indians could escape.

At 1145 on the morning of the 25th, the 7th Cavalry moved out of its temporary halt below the Crow's Nest. Company H, under the command of Captain Frederick Benteen, led the regiment. Eleven other companies followed. The pack train, under the command of Captain Thomas McDougall, augmented by Company B and seven men from each of the other companies, brought up the rear. Fifteen minutes later,the regiment crossed the divide between the Davis and Reno Creek drainages.

A quarter mile below the divide, Custer halted the column. At this point here organized the regiment into three battalions. Custer sent Captain Benteen with companies D, H, and K to search his far left flank for any sign of the village or other hostiles beyond the ridge of hills that blocked any view into the upper reaches of the Little Bighorn valley. Custer's purpose here was partly to comply with his original orders from General Alfred Terry, but it was also to guard against the possibility that the village might have moved or that there might be a separate village not yet sighted up the Little Bighorn. Benteen was to rejoin the main body when he was certain the flank was secure. Major Marcus A. Reno, Custer's second in command, was to proceed down the left bank of the creek that would later bear his name with companies A, G, and M. He would stay abreast of Custer, who would be on the right bank with companies C, E, F, I, and L. The pack train was to follow twenty minutes later.

This division of the regiment into four battalions did not mean that Custer's vision had changed. On the contrary, it confirms the view that Custer clearly expected to close on the village and attack that afternoon. By putting two battalions abreast, Custer shortened the length of the regiment, allowing all of the companies to make contact together as well as providing better security while moving into unknown territory. Custer certainly anticipated that Benteen would return to the main body before contact was made with the enemy. If Benteen became engaged with hostile forces, Custer expected to be able to relieve him. Therefore, Custer's vision was still focused on an engagement with the hostile village.

There is no indication that Custer's vision changed during thenext several hours. The movement of the two battalions down Reno Creek proceeded at a pace of four miles per hour until the column reached the Lone Tepee site at 1415. Located at the previous camp site of the village, a number of men and Rhee scouts stopped to investigate the contents of the single tepee left standing. It contained the body of a Cheyenne warrior killed the previous week at the Rosebud. At this point, obviously sensing that the enemy village was near, Custer ordered Major Reno to pick up the pace to a trot (about six miles per hour). The intelligence available to Custer remained the same as when he crossed the divide several hours earlier. Captain Benteen had not yet reported his reconnaissance to the south, but neither was there any evidence that Benteen had made contact with the enemy-rifle fire would surely have been heard if Benteen were in a fight, Custer expected to attack the village and destroy the enemy before they had time to react.

The two battalions now moved quickly down Reno Creek. Approximately thirty minutes after leaving the Lone Tepee site, Custer ordered Major Reno to cross the Little Bighorn and attack the village from the south. Custer would take his battalion north, keeping a line of ridges between himself and the village before crossing the river and attacking into the village. Thus, the enemy would be trapped between the two forces; escape would be impossible. Custer's vision remained clear and unchanged.

Major Reno's battalion made contact with the enemy a few minutes after 1500. The plan seemed to be working: Custer's vision seemed correct. This perception was reconfirmed ten minutes later when Custer observed Reno's movement from a hilltop on the east bank of the Little Bighorn (later known as Reno Hill). And fifteen minutes after leaving Reno Hill, Custer again observed the situation below on the west bank of the river (this time from what would later be known as Weir Peak, named after an officer in Reno's battalion). By this time, however, Reno's position had deteriorated.

From this moment on, Custer must have realized that his vision was blurred. For the first time, he could see the extent of the hostile village. It was far larger than he had expected, nearly a thousand lodges stretching over three miles down the valley of the Little Bighorn. Not only were there a great many more enemy warriors than his intelligence had indicated, the Sioux and Cheyenne braves were standing and fighting. This was neither the Army's nor Custer's experience in fighting Indians. Much of Custer's vision had been based upon the expectation that the Indians would not fight, but flee. That was not the case this day.

All of the decisions Custer made on 25 June 1876 until the time he climbed Weir Peak were consistent with his vision of the battle he would fight. If his intelligence had been correct and if the enemy had behaved as expected, history might have written a different chapter that day. But it did not. Custer's vision on this day was faulty.

XIII. Leadership at Plevna, 11-12 September 1877
Dr. Robert F. Baumann

On 11-12 September 1877, Major General Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev led an assault against Turkish defenses at Plevna that helped make him a command figure of near mythical proportions in the Russian Army. On the occasion of his legendary assault, Skobelev correctly analyzed the terrain and situation, identified a tactical opportunity, and through an unerring sense of timing, the force of his will achieved a remarkable, if limited, success. Still, Skobelev was not the only commander whose conduct influenced events at Plevna. His exploit occurred within the framework of higher tactical decisions on both sides. Skobelev's senior commanders failed to act resolutely or to focus their combat power to good effect and thereby squandered the opportunity that Skobelev presented them. In turn, the senior Turkish commander kept in view the larger tactical situation, employed his forces at the right time and place, and ultimately won the day.

Discussion of leadership qualities at Plevna necessarily begins with Skobelev. In an age when breechloading rifles had made successful frontal assaults almost impossible, Skobelev demonstrated the power of a gifted leader to influence the tide of battle and inspire his men to overcome the murderous power of defensive fire. Only thirty-four at the time of the battle, Skobelev had proved his mettle in Central Asia, where he revealed the traits that were to make him the most famous Russian field commander of the late nineteenth century. Against the Central Asians, he exhibited remarkable boldness, tempered by a prudent respect for the capabilities of his opponent. Following his exploits at Plevna, even enemy observers spoke of him in reverent tones.

The greatest battle of the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-78, and indeed one of the greatest anywhere in the world in the late nineteenth century, occurred at the village of Plevna, situated at an important crossroads in north central Bulgaria. There, in July 1877, a Turkish force under the command of Osman Pasha, Turkey's most talented field commander, dug in to halt the southern advance of a combined Russian and Rumanian army commanded by Russian Lieutenant General P. D. Zotov. What ensued was a fascinating case in the art of command on both sides.

The Russians and Rumanians brought 84,000 men to the field, thereby enjoying a better than two-to-one superiority over the 34,000 Turks at Plevna. In addition, the allies held a five-to-one advantage in artillery, with 424 guns to 72 for their adversary.¹ However, the disparity of forces was misleading. Under the skillful direction of Osman Pasha, the Turks had worked furiously to fortify Plevna along the most likely approaches from the east and south. The Turks planned to rely on terrain and distance to help secure their rear to the west. In planning his defense against a superior force, Osman Pasha exploited the new tactical calculus brought about by the widespread use of breechloading rifles. Each of the major Turkish redoubts around Plevna commanded broad, sloping fields of fire. Given such powerful defensive position and troops whom he judged to be well suited to a stout-hearted defense, Osman resolved to let the allies come to him. Accordingly, two Russian assaults against the Plevna fortifications in July and August collapsed in the face of devastating defensive fire.

Undeterred by grim losses, the allies planned a third assault for 11 September, by which time Rumanian Prince Karol had arrived to assume formal command. Zotov, the allied commander, henceforth served as the prince's chief of staff, Zotov sensed that the most favorable axis of attack lay near the allies' left flank, along the southwestern fortifications of Plevna. However, Zotov lacked the authority to act on this assessment. For a variety of reasons, not the least among them the establishment of Tsar Alexander II's general headquarters in the proximity of the allies' right flank, the allies resolved to make their main attack from the east against the so-called Grivitsa redoubts.²

In the end, the high command's fixation with the right flank was to prove extraordinarily futile and costly. This was doubly so in light of the fact that forces on the left flank, ably led by General Skobelev, achieved a remarkable breakthrough that ultimately foundered for lack of support. In fact, it was Skobelev's performance that in some measure redeemed the generally lamentable conduct of command on the Russian side at Plevna.

According to plan, the attempt to storm Plevna on 11 September was to unfold in three simultaneous attacks against-the Turkish fortifications. Within this scheme, Skobelev's attack was to play a supporting role. Skobelev's task was to negotiate a distance of about 5,000 meters across three successive slopes, collectively dubbed the "Green Hills," and assault two Turkish redoubts, Kavanlik Tabia and Issa Tabia, defending the heights at the southwestern edge of Plevna. The presence of two significant Turkish fortifications covering the western flank of Skobelev's intended line of approach further complicated the tactical situation.

The allies led off the assault with a four-day artillery preparation focusing most heavily on the southern and eastern approaches. By all accounts, the bombardment had relatively little effect against the Turks' extensive earthen fortifications; it resulted mainly in a two-day delay in launching the assault.³ On the eleventh, the bombardment resumed. This time, the Russians scheduled several pauses in the artillery fire. The intent, based on Russian experience during the siege of Sevastopol during the Crimean War, was to lure Turkish reserves forward on the assumption that they would anticipate the beginning of a general infantry assault. The Russians would then renew bombardment hoping to catch Turkish infantry in vulnerable advanced positions. Osman Pasha, however, did not fall for this ploy, in large part because he recognized that the line of departure for Russian infantry was so far distant as to obviate any need for the hasty movement of reserves until an attack was actually confirmed. Furthermore, a dense fog hovering over the battlefield hampered Russian artillery spotters and helped neutralize the effect of the barrage.⁴

In any event, three allied columns formed to storm Plevna at 1500 on the 11th. Unfortunately, as the result of command confusion, the Russian attack in the center began three hours prematurely. Russian troops managed to capture the two forward Turkish trench lines but then faltered under the pressure of massed rifle fire.

Attacks on the right and left flanks took place about as scheduled. The main allied attack on the right suffered from woefully inadequate reconnaissance.⁵ A major Turkish redoubt, Bash Tabia, which had not been visible from the point of departure, had gone entirely unnoticed until Russian troops came under direct fire during their approach. Nevertheless, the combined Russian and Rumanian assault from the east yielded the seizure of one of the major Grivitskii redoubts, Kanly Tabia, though at a terrible cost. In fact, this achievement had little tactical significance, for it did nothing to upset the Turkish defensive scheme.

Of all the Russian commanders on 11-12 September, only Skobelev seemed to grasp the opportunities, as well as the dangers, posed by the Plevna terrain. Moreover, only Skobelev demonstrated a critical appreciation of timing and the psychological dynamics of combat. Above all, he stood out from the lot of irresolute Russian generals by virtue of his faith in himself and his men.

By 11 September, Skobelev, through skillful maneuver, had captured a vital forward position from which to assault the Pleyna redoubts. First, he forced the Turks to evacuate one of two fortified positions along the flank ofhis intended route of attack, and he occupied the second major hill, about 2,500 meters in front of the Turkish redoubts. Then, at 1000, Skobelev directed the Vladimir Regiment and 10th Rifle Battalion (four battalions in all) to seize and dig in on the third hill, perhaps a thousand meters from the Turkish lines. Because of the fog over the battlefield and the effects of Turkish fire, forward companies of the Russian battalion on the left flank of the assault advanced well beyond the intended objective to the forward trenches of Issa Tabia. Remarkably, the startled Turkish defenders began to withdraw. However, when the limited strength of the advance became apparent, the Turks charged and the Russians pulled back to the third hill. A fall Turkish counterattack against the third hill followed, but the Russian lines held firm thanks to Skobelev's timely commitment of his Suzdal Regiment.⁶

By 1500, the fog had not yet cleared and visibility was limited to several hundred meters. To further complicate matters, heavy rains through the preceding night had reduced the slope in front of the Turkish defenses to a quagmire. To support his assault, Skobelev placed twenty-two guns on the second hill and ten more on a nearby height. He committed four full regiments and four independent rifle battalions to the assault, including eight battalions in the first attacking line. According to habit, the advance began to the accompaniment of music and drums. As Russian units descended the long, vineyard-covered slope of the third hill, they vanished into a foggy depression, crossed a narrow stream and began the steep trek uphill through ankle-deep mud to the Turkish redoubts.⁷

The Suzdal Regiment was to take Issa Tabia and the Vladimir Regiment Kanlivek Tabia. Shortly beyond the stream, however, the Russian attack lost momentum. Sensing the urgency of the moment as well as the consequences of a disorganized retreat, Skobelev hurled another regiment and two rifle battalions into the attack. Again the Russians slowly made their way up the slope under a killing hail of Turkish fire. A sudden Turkish counterattack against the right flank of the advancing Russians once more jeopardized the assault. At that moment, Skobelev, as described by his chief of staff, A. N. Kuropatkin, "decided to throw onto the scales of military fortune his lone remaining reserve at his command-himself."⁸ Rushing forward, surrounded by his staff and personal guard, Skobelev once more stemmed the Turkish tide, and theweary Russians surged forward with a loud "hurrah."⁹

At work in this instance was not merely Skobelev's feeling for the momentum of combat but also his uncanny presence. Dressed in a white tunic and mounted on a white steed, Skobelev cut a dashing figure. By the force of his presence, not to, mention his display of courage by directly entering the fray, the "White General" steadied his troops and led them forward. Once again, when faced with a fresh demonstration of Russian resolve, a Turkish counterattack gave way. Kanlivek Tabia fell to the Russian onslaught at 1645 and Issa Tabia at 1800.

Then came the pivotal moment for the allied command. Having forced their way into the Turkish defenses, Skobelev's troops were badly bled and in desperate need of support. Yet the shock effect of their successU assault engendered momentary panic in the Turkish lines.¹⁰ Lacking reserves at this critical juncture, Skobelev was unable to develop his opportunity further. Instead, the Russians were desperately hanging on to their hard-won position. Short of ammunition and entrenching tools, the troops furiously gouged trenches in the damp earth with their bayonets and braced for the worst. In their urgent attempt to create cover, they piled corpses to form barricades. Meanwhile, Skobelev's request for reinforcements from other sectors of the front met rejection. Though unable to make meaningful gains in other sectors, the allied high command timidly refused to develop its lone tactically significant penetration.

The allies compounded this failure on the following day. Zotov not only refased fresh support to Skobelev but failed to apply heavy pressure on the Turkish defenses in other sectors that might at least have tied up Turkish forces. At the same time, Osman Pasha perceived the seriousness of the threat on his right flank and moved to crush it. On the 12th, the Turks launched repeated assaults to recapture the redoubts. During the second attempt at midday, the Russian lines nearly collapsed. Skobelev rushed once again to the scene on horseback to make himself visible and rally the troops by force of his own example.¹¹ Finally, on the afternoon of 12 September, the Russians had no alternative but to withdraw before their dwindling ammunition and numbers gave out.

During the action of 11-12 September, Skobelev's left wing suffered 6,500 casualties--over 40 percent of his force. Across the front as a whole, allied losses totaled 16,000 as opposed to an estimated 3,000 for the Turks.¹² Osman Pasha's appreciation of the power of massed rifle fire against frontal offensives had proved well founded. Reluctantly, the allied leaders reached a similar conclusion and decided to besiege Plevna rather than storm it. The siege ended successfully for the Russians but could not erase the stain of earlier failures.

Individual leaders profoundly influenced the outcome at Plevna. With the single exception of Skobelev's command, whose performance reflected the influence of a field commander armed with rare powers of discernment and the resolve to act upon them, the allied leaders acquitted themselves poorly on 11-12 September. Zotov, who was no doubt influenced by the presence of Prince Karol and Alexander II, lacked a unified vision of the battle at Plevna and failed to grasp an opportunity. His counterpart, Osman Pasha, had a unified concept of the battle and concentrated his forces when and where they were most needed.

NOTES