Insights into the human underpinnings of military strategy

There are lots of ways to think about wars and how they are won – or lost. There’s technology, for starters. Superior bows, or rifles that can be reloaded more swiftly, can decide battles. Economic organization offers another perspective. A nation with a modern rail network and efficient factories will usually have an advantage against a nation which doesn’t.

Of course, neither technological nor economic power guarantee victory. As superpowers have discovered time and again when they’ve come up against guerrilla fighters, superior firepower alone can’t win you the hearts and minds of local populations.

There are lots of other factors we could add to that list of ways of thinking about wars, from discipline to ideology. Every factor matters. But they all depend on something else – strategy, or the art of planning and organizing the forces at your disposal. And strategy in turn comes down to human psychology. To organize your forces, you have to know how people tick. And that’s what we’ll be looking at in this content.

We realize the value of life when death is close.

December 22, 1849. It’s a bitterly cold morning in Saint Petersburg, Russia’s imperial capital.

It’s also the morning of an execution. Shackled convicts are led from their cells into a cobbled square lined with carts carrying coffins. Soldiers load their rifles and a priest performs last rites for the condemned. Finally, an officer reads the verdict: death by firing squad.

As the officer announces his fate, one of the convicts, a 28-year-old novelist, looks up. His name is Fyodor Dostoevsky. His gaze falls on the golden spire of a nearby church. It glitters in the sun. Then a cloud passes, extinguishing the gleaming light. The thought crosses his mind that he’s about to pass into darkness just as quickly – and forever.

Dostoyevsky hadn’t reckoned with death. A few years earlier, in 1845, his first novel, Poor Folk, had been published. It had earned him critical acclaim. As he put it in his diary that year, the whole of Russia was talking about it. Dostoevsky’s interest in the empire’s poorest subjects wasn’t just literary. A political radical, he looked forward to a day when they’d rise up and overthrow the monarchy and its aristocratic supporters.

In 1848, that day had seemed close at hand. A wave of uprisings had swept across Europe. Rebels called this continent-wide assault on conservative monarchies the “springtime of peoples.” The mood had been infectious. Dostoevsky had attended meetings and called for revolution. It was time to topple the tsar and liberate the empire’s long-suffering peasants. But there’d been no uprising in Russia. The tsar’s spies had also attended the meetings and they’d given the list of names they’d gathered to the police. Dostoevsky had duly been arrested and thrown in jail.

Political dissidents were usually sentenced to hard labor in Siberian work camps. Dostoevsky had expected a similar punishment. But then, eight months after his arrest, he’d been taken from his cell on this cold morning and led into a square where he can now see empty coffins and soldiers loading their rifles. As he looks at the church spire, a second thought goes through his head. If he somehow escapes death, he thinks, his life will seem endless. It’ll be as if he has an eternity ahead of him. Each minute will feel like a century. 

Luck’s on his side. A carriage comes flying into the square. A messenger passes an envelope to the officer. The tsar has commuted the convicts’ death sentences; there’ll be no executions. Instead, the convicts will be sent to Siberia for hard labor. That’s nothing compared to death. Later that evening, Dostoevsky writes to his brother. Looking back at all the time he has squandered, he says, is torture. Now, though, it’s as if he’s been reborn. He vows never to waste another second.

When Dostoevsky returned from Siberia in 1854, he got to work. Writing had been a painful process before his imprisonment. Every sentence was a struggle; it took him months to complete a single page. Now, though, it was effortless. The words poured out of him. He maintained that frantic pace until his death in 1881. In just over 25 years, he wrote a series of epochal novels that included Crime and Punishment, The Possessed, and The Brothers Karamazov.

Dostoevsky’s peers sometimes said that they pitied him for hardships he endured in Siberia. But Dostoevsky felt no bitterness. He was grateful. As he saw it, he’d have wasted his life if it hadn’t been for that morning when he felt death looming over him.

We act with greater clarity and urgency when there’s no escape.

Life’s full of possibilities. That freedom can be a burden. We can devote our lives to creating something meaningful and beautiful like a great novel. But we’re also free to waste our time. It’s much easier to spend your days drinking and gambling than it is to do something difficult and important.

The thing is, most of the time, no particular option seems essential. There’s rarely a clear answer to the question of what we ought to be doing. Freedom, in other words, is often a source of unease: the sense that everything is possible is, frankly, pretty vertigo-inducing. So we try not to think about it. We bury that big question under layers of comforting habit and routine.

Sometimes, though, things are clearer. Something from outside imposes itself on us. We fall behind in our work, say, or stumble into demanding new responsibilities. That changes everything. We’re forced to act and we know what needs doing. What’s remarkable about these moments is how much more spirited and alive they make us feel. Life suddenly becomes purposeful. There’s urgency. Clarity. But then the crisis passes; we grow accustomed to those new responsibilities. We return to old habits and routines and are left wondering how we can get that sense of urgency and purpose back.

How to inspire purposefulness is a question that generals and strategists have been thinking about as long as armies have existed. One answer is oratory. What you need, it’s argued, are gifted speakers who can fire up the ranks with grand stories of heroism and sacrifice.

For the fifth-century BCE Chinese philosopher and strategist Sun Tzu, oratory wasn’t enough. As he saw it, listening to rousing speeches can improve morale in the short term, but it doesn’t have an enduring effect. Actions are more powerful than words. A general who wants his troops to fight like “devils,” Sun Tzu said, should give them no option to do anything less than that. How? Well, that general should place his army on a “death ground” – a place where it’s backed up against some geographical feature like a mountain or a river which means it has no escape route. His troops must understand that the only way they can escape death is to go forward, through the enemy. Their backs must be up against a wall. That way, Sun Tzu concluded, they’ll fight with much more spirit and resolve than they would on open terrain. 

A “death ground” doesn’t have to be a physical feature of a battlefield, though – it can also be a state of mind. Really, it’s any position in life where you’re boxed into a corner. Failure is staring you in the face. You can escape, but there’s only one way out.

Now, no one can bear to live in this way permanently – it’s simply too stressful. But it’s worth deliberately putting yourself into these positions from time to time as a kind of wake-up call. Like the armies Sun Tzu was talking about, the human psyche is tied to its environment. We respond to what’s around us. If our situation is easy and relaxed, we lose our natural tension. When our environment doesn’t challenge us, we lose focus. But the dynamic changes when we’re on a psychological death ground. Our minds focus; energy surges through our bodies. We’re filled with resolve and act with urgency and clarity. We move forward.

Pick your battles carefully – sometimes victory costs more than defeat.

Let’s fast forward a couple of centuries for one last strategic insight. We’ll leave fifth-century China behind and travel to third-century Italy.

Rome isn’t yet the great empire it will become. In fact, it’s still a breakout power. As it expands down the Italian peninsula, it comes up against the city of Tarentum.

Tarentum had been founded by Greeks – the Spartans, to be precise. And its culture is Greek. As far as the Tarentines are concerned, Romans, like other Italians, are mere barbarians. They snub their noses at Rome’s diplomatic envoys and sink their ships. They can afford to do that, too. Tarentum, which is situated on the heel of Italy’s boot, is the richest city on the peninsula.

By 281 BCE, though, the Romans have had enough. They declare war.

Tarentum doesn’t have its own army. The Tarentines are more interested in commerce and trade than war, and they’ve grown used to hiring foreigners to do their fighting. And that’s what they do this time too. The man they pick for the job of taking on the Romans is called Pyrrhus.

Pyrrhus is the king of a small state in west-central Greece called Epirus. He claims to be descended from Achilles, the legendary hero of the Trojan War. That’s a convenient myth. But he really is related to Alexander the Great – the equally legendary conqueror of Asia. Pyrrhus fancies himself a warrior-king in Alexander’s mold. He’s famous for leading dangerous charges, a trait which earns him the nickname “the Eagle.” And he’s a sound strategist. Under his command, tiny Epirus defeated the much larger armies of the neighboring Macedonians.

Pyrrhus jumps at the opportunity to take on Rome. This is his chance to raise a great army and conquer Italy. Not that he’s particularly interested in the peninsula. What he wants is a launching pad for the campaign he’s been dreaming about for years: a glorious struggle for control of Greece. Italy, he thinks, will give him the resources to take on Greece’s leading powers – Athens and Sparta. So he accepts the Tarentines’ job offer.

Pyrrhus arrives in Italy in 280. He has 20,000 foot soldiers, 3,000 horsemen, 2,000 bowmen, and 20 elephants at his disposal. His arrival triggers panic in Rome – its generals know they don’t stand a chance against such a formidable force once it gathers momentum. So they rely on the element of surprise and dispatch their legions right away. The two armies meet in southeast Italy. Rome’s ruse almost works. Its legions pin back Pyrrhus’s troops and look set to win a famous victory. That’s when the Greek king unleashes his elephants. Another famous charge. The Romans beat a confused and hasty retreat. The Eagle emerges triumphant.

But it’s only a partial victory. The battle was much closer than Pyrrhus had expected and he’s lost many of his best fighters. Keen to avoid another showdown, he proposes a truce. Rome and Tarentum, he says, can split the Italian peninsula in two and share the spoils. But it’s at this point that he makes a fateful mistake. Rather than relying on persuasion, Pyrrhus tries to force Rome’s hand by sending another army northward. The idea is to spook the Romans into accepting his deal. But that only hardens their resolve. No one, not even the mighty Eagle, can dictate terms to this proud republic. The war continues.

In the spring of 279, the two sides meet again at Asculum, a town some 200 miles southeast of Rome. Pyrrhus leads another charge at the heart of the Roman legions, elephants in front. And he triumphs again – the second great victory in as many years.

But it again comes at a high price. Pyrrhus’s forces are now all but exhausted and the king himself has been badly injured. His supply lines are stretched. The Romans, meanwhile, just don’t know when they’re beaten. As he surveys the battlefield, Pyrrhus knows that they’re raising a new army. If we defeat the Romans in one more such battle, he tells his aides, we shall be totally ruined.

King Pyrrhus’s lament after the battle of Asculum is famous. It’s the origin of the expression “Pyrrhic victory” – a triumph that’s as good as a defeat. Sometimes, you can win the battle but lose the war. You’re too exhausted to press home your advantage and too vulnerable to fight again. And, indeed, after the “victory” at Asculum, Pyrrhus staggered from one disaster to the next. His tattered army returned to Greece and Pyrrhus finally fell in battle in 272. The kingdom of Epirus would never rule either Italy or Greece.

Pyrrhic victories are more common than you might think. When we first think about a new venture, it’s natural to be excited. We dwell on what we might gain and push aside doubts about the difficulties we might encounter. And the further we press ahead, the harder it is to pull back if things start going wrong. The costs we’ve already sunk into the venture justify doubling down, which only generates new costs.

So here’s the lesson. The more you desire a certain prize, the harder you need to think about what getting it will take. Some costs will be obvious; others will be less tangible. Consider the goodwill your campaign may squander and the anger of the loser if you triumph. How long will it take to win? How many debts will you owe to your allies? Consider, too, that you might be better off waiting – it may be easier to fight your war later when you have more resources.

And remember, history’s record is littered with the corpses of ambitious generals who ignored the costs. So save yourself unnecessary battles and live to fight another day.

One of the greatest obstacles in life is complacency. When we assume we have endless time, we fail to act with swiftness. When we know we can retreat, we fail to fight with resolve. When we only see victories, we fail to anticipate the costs of our campaigns. That’s where strategy, the art of planning, comes in. To think strategically is to take the long view. Is this war really worth fighting? If so, should we press ahead now or wait? It also tells us how we should fight: with urgency and clarity. When we take to the battlefield of life, we must place our backs against the wall and give ourselves no option for escape. When we know that our only choice is to move forward, we fight with much greater determination.