Robert Fox examines the subtle understanding of psychology and leadership that makes Sun-tzu’s ancient instructions on The Art of War uncannily relevant to the quandaries of modern conflict and diplomacy.
Deception lies at the heart of Sun-tzu’s analysis in The Art of War, and this is perhaps what makes his teaching so beguiling for modern readers. His simple means of expressing himself, the metaphors from nature and the plain turns of phrase, hide the originality of his perception. As a British general explained in an email from Basra this summer, Sun-tzu’s ‘blinding glimpses of the obvious are more than is often understood. He is like Isaiah Berlin on philosophy – he makes it seem so simple, it can’t possibly be clever.’ With his insight into the psychology of command, the power of appearances, the trade-off between one’s own and one’s enemy’s weaknesses and strengths, and the critical role played by time in conflict and combat, he seems very much our contemporary.
But the identity of Sun-tzu is now a mystery. He may have been an individual, or a collective like the supposed several Homers of the Iliad and Odyssey. Some suggest that Sun-tzu may have been a woman, since there were female generals in China at that time, though there is little hard evidence that Sun-tzu was one of them. We know with more certainty that the 13 core chapters of instruction in The Art of War come from the China of ‘the warring states’ in the 4th century. From the evidence of the text, Sun-tzu is likely to have been an active field commander, serving the Wu monarch and operating as an itinerant military adviser.
Manuals of military strategy existed at the time but Sun-tzu – just before the era of Alexander the Great and Hannibal in the West – distilled a set of military precepts and principles which are still used today. In influencing Western thinking on war and peace, intelligence and diplomacy, The Art of War has only one serious competitor, On War by the Prussian academic Carl von Clausewitz. While Clausewitz declares war to be the continuation of politics and diplomacy by other means, Sun-tzu states that ‘to win a hundred victories in a hundred battles is not the highest excellence; the highest excellence is to subdue the enemy’s army without fighting at all’. Clausewitz introduces the concepts of ‘friction’ and ‘the fog of war’: Sun-tzu explains that ‘warfare is the art of deceit ... If the enemy seeks some advantage, entice him with it. If he is in disorder, attack him and take him.’
But what took Clausewitz a dozen volumes to expound, Sun-tzu manages in 13 economical chapters. A closer comparison might be with The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli, whose series of reflections on power and destiny are pithily expressed, such as in the famous dictum for a prince that it is ‘better to be feared than loved’. Sun-tzu and Machiavelli strip the game of war, power and politics to its bare essentials and share an important concept: what Machiavelli calls fortuna. Often translated as ‘fortune’ or ‘fate’, the word is closer to ‘chance’ in the sense of opportunity. Battles and wars are won by exploiting the opportunity of victory by direct force, declares Sun-tzu, or by guile, deception and surprise. Success requires playing on an infinite variety of combinations between force and surprise, feint and attack.
Based on this understanding of the dynamics of warfare, The Art of War divides its teaching into four practical areas: terrain and conditions – including weather and what modern tacticians call ‘the battle space’; organisation – the efficiency, preparation and logistics of the army; command – the role of the commander, his relationship to his troops, his political masters and the enemy; and, finally, information and psychological operations – including the use of espionage. Perhaps two of the finest passages in The Art of War are on the uses of intelligence and deception through spies; from the essential agent who brings back real intelligence from the enemy command, to the dispensable spy who is fed dud information in the hope that he will be captured.
Sun-tzu’s teachings are drawn together by a ribbon of observations on the culture of the army and the state – what is now called ‘doctrine’. Other of Sun-tzu’s preoccupations seem antique – as with the need to signal to formations in the din of battle with gongs, rolling drums and pennants – but through such examples Sun-tzu outlines the ‘command and control’ fundamental to all military operations. And he comes up with a remarkably modern approach to mitigating a breakdown in the chain of command: provided that subordinates know the overall plan, they should be empowered to carry it out according to the circumstances in their part of the battle. This is the essence of what the modern British military calls ‘mission command’.
Sun-tzu’s advice acknowledges the difficulty of leadership and the unpredictability of armed conflict. Consequently, the attributes and skills required of a commander are demanding. A commander must not only know his own mind, and the minds and abilities of his own forces, but must get to know the mind of the enemy, the nature and capability of his forces, and his intentions. He must also understand risk: ‘On the day he leads his troops into battle, it is like climbing up high and throwing away the ladder.’ Sun-tzu issues other warnings worth heeding: ‘I have yet to see a case of cleverly dragging on the hostilities. There has never been a state that has benefited from an extended war ... Hence, in war prize the quick victory, not the protracted engagement. Thus the commander who understands war is the final arbiter of people’s lives, and lord over the security of the state.’ For good or ill, Suntzu remains relevant over 2,000 years after The Art of War emerged from the crucible of conflict in ancient China.
The Folio Society edition of The Art of War, introduced by General Sir Rupert Smith, is translated by Professor Roger Ames from a text 1,000 years older than that used for previous translations, and includes additional texts recently attributed to Sun-tzu.
