In the early hours one July morning, a long column of men, horses, and carts makes an abrupt change of course. They march swiftly through the predawn darkness to make a surprise attack, one which after eleven long years of war will decide the fate of Europe—the Battle of Denain!
The year is 1712 and the War of the Spanish Succession has been raging for over a decade. Things have been going badly for France. Louis XIV’s bid to dominate Europe has stalled, and France itself is now faced with invasion.
After the disasters of Ramillies (1706) and Oudenarde (1708), his northern front has slowly collapsed. The Spanish Netherlands have been lost and the fighting is now in France proper.
The brilliant Marshal Villars managed to check the Austrian, English, and Dutch at Malplaquet in 1709, a costly pyrrhic victory for the Allies, but over the next few years they continue to progress.
By 1711 the Allies have managed to breach the Ne Plus Ultra line, the final chain of forts and trenches guarding northern France.
In 1712 they besiege Landrecies, the last fortress standing between them and Paris.
The mood at Versailles is grim. Things are so desperate that the aging Louis vows to march out at the head of his nobles and oppose the invaders in the field if Landrecies should fall.
Both sides are exhausted, however, and the war is especially unpopular in Britain. The great general Marlborough, victor of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet, has many political enemies at home who manage to have him recalled early in 1712.
This is a sign that Britain is wavering—a problem for the Allies, as she is their principal financial backer. Louis has stubbornly held out against an unfavorable peace despite all setbacks, so the race is on to win a crushing military victory.
The Allied army is commanded by Eugene of Savoy, who shared Marlborough’s successes at Blenheim, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet. He is a daring and aggressive general, skilled at using bold maneuvers to stymy his adversaries.
In mid-July he takes Le Quesnoy and a few days later opens up the siege trenches around Landrecies.
This is a complex operation, with supply lines running some 30 km to the Scheldt at Denain, passing between the unconquered fortresses of Valenciennes and Cambrai.
From there it is another 15 km to Marchiennes, the supply magazine on the Scarpe.
Eugene pleads with the Dutch (who run the logistics) to move this to Le Quesnoy, but they refuse; he builds a palisaded road between Marchiennes and Denain to protect his supply convoys.
This also requires leaving a large cavalry to screen Valenciennes and the length of the lines to Landrecies.
Still, their position is strong: protected by a pair of tributary streams to the west and earthworks in the gap between the streams and the Sambre.
There is one other problem. During the siege of Le Quesnoy, the commander of the British contingent Ormonde is ordered to withdraw. He does so reluctantly and takes the English troops with him, but most of the Hanoverians and German mercenaries remain behind.
Nevertheless, the Allies hold a strong numerical advantage over the French army Villars is massing between Arras and Cambrai. Their rear is protected by fortresses at the major river crossings, their siege camp at Landrecies is well protected by the covering army and the Sambre.
Villars’ intentions are clear. The French position is desperate and he’s running out of time to relieve Landrecies.
On 19 July the army passes the Scheldt by Cambrai. The following day it advances across the plain to the tributary stream.
French hussars screen their left, keeping an eye on the streams and Allied-controlled Bouchain. In the next few days, pioneers put up bridges across the Sambre and pre-position fascines to fill the Allies’ trenches.
Everything is staged for a decisive battle.
The two opposing commanders, Villars and Eugene, are friends and rivals. They knew each other during the Great Turkish War, when both fought at the Second Battle of Mohács in 1687.
25 years later they’re two of Europe's most brilliant generals, facing off in a final showdown.
On the evening of the 23rd, Villars gives orders for an attack the following day. The army will cross the Sambre before dawn and assault the Allies’ siege camp. The men are excited as they advance that evening to the river.
But secretly, Villars issues another set of orders…
Just after dark, 30 battalions and 30 squadrons from the left wing march north to the Scheldt with pontoon bridges.
When the rest of the army awakes the following morning, they are surprised to learn there’s been a change of plans!
The army retraces its steps in the predawn hours then turns north to make a rapid 25-km march to Neuville-sur-Escaut, a narrow point on the Scheldt where the bridges have been erected. Not long after daybreak the French begin crossing in several columns.
By this point the Allies have been alerted.
Eugene, who has positioned himself midway between the Scheldt and the Sambre, rushes north with some dragoons and infantry to reinforce the Dutch detachment at Denain.
Denain itself is only a small village, but the Allies have turned it into a large camp surrounded by ditches and palisades, guarded by about 10,000 Dutch.
By one o'clock in the afternoon, the French are in position and begin their assault on the entrenchments.
Some 10k defenders are faced by 24k assaulting infantry plus guns—outnumbered, but not hopelessly so given their entrenchments.
But the surprise and ferocity of the French attack cause them to flee across the Scheldt; the bridges collapse under their weight, drowning many.
The collapse of the bridges means that Eugene cannot come to their aid with the main army.
He tries to cross the one remaining bridge east of Denain, but the garrison of Valenciennes sorties out to block their passage, and this bridge is eventually destroyed.
4000 Allied troops are captured and a couple thousand killed or drowned—not a terrible loss.
What is much bigger is that Eugene is cut off from his supplies. He is in no position either to attack or continue the siege, and has to flee northeast to avoid being destroyed.
Villars takes advantage of the breathing space to capture the magazine at Marchiennes, then rapidly rolls up other nearby fortresses—Douai, Bouchain, and Le Quesnoy.
In a matter of weeks, he undoes years of Allied progress. France is saved.
The Dutch and British make peace with France the following year. Villars and Eugene square off again in the Rhineland, but without outside support, Austria cannot field a very large army, and the two old friends negotiate a settlement on behalf of their monarchs.
The War of the Spanish Succession is the last of the great wars of Louis XIV. It ends France’s ambitions as a hegemonic power, but the Battle of Denain also ensures that Louis’ grandson remains on the Spanish throne and that France preserves some territorial gains.
Denain is interesting because it shows the importance of the operational level of war. Unseating an enemy position by rendering its position untenable is far more efficient—and often far more effective—than defeating it in a large set-piece battle.
It also shows how even overwhelming victories can still be extremely close. Eugene had foreseen the possible danger to Denain and positioned himself between it and Landrecies. He later claimed that had the Dutch held out another half hour, he could have salvaged the situation.
Above all, it shows how much more sophisticated the wars of Louis XIV were than is commonly understood. They were criminally understudied by 20th-century theorists, resulting in a very primitive model of the evolution of warfare.
More on this in the future…
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In honor of the first day of the Battle of Leipzig—OTD in 1813—I’m sharing an excellent article by Michael Leggiere (next post) on the strategic miscalculations that led Napoleon to be trapped by three converging armies that outnumbered him nearly 2-to-1.
Leggiere’s argument is that Napoleon became fixated on an initial “master plan” for the campaign, and continued to pursue it long after the situation changed, detracting from his usual strategy of directly targeting the main enemy army. muse.jhu.edu/article/40473
As Napoleon assembled a new army in Saxony following the 1812 Russian disaster, he planned to sweep northeast with one wing to rescue French veterans in fortresses on the Oder & Vistula, then cut off the Russians advancing through Poland.
It’s time for the myth of Inchon to die. The landings, which occurred 74 years ago today, are credited with turning the tide of the Korean War. In truth, they distracted from the real fighting at the cost of thousands of lives, and lay the groundwork for future disaster.
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On 25 June 1950, ten infantry divisions and an armored division of the Korean People’s Army crossed the 38th Parallel. They quickly overwhelmed the unprepared South Koreans and drove south. The US 21st Division, sent over from Japan, was overrun in the first weeks of July.
Already by 4 July, before US troops had their first taste of combat, C-in-C of the Far East Douglas MacArthur set his eye on an amphibious landing at Inchon, behind NKA lines. Originally set for 22 July, it was canceled in the face of US and South Korean defeats.
Since there has been so much recent focus on slowly-moving fronts characterized by attrition and positional fighting, my latest Dispatch is on the opposite: a fixed line that encouraged mobility and practically demanded decisive battle.
The Rappahannock runs 300 km through northern Virginia, flowing past Fredericksburg midway between Washington and Richmond. Although not especially wide, it has a few features that made it a natural military frontier between North and South.
Most of the Eastern Theater fighting from 1861-63 took place well to the north of the Rappahannock—from northern Virginia all the way to Gettysburg—and occasionally to its south. But the front always defaulted to the river itself.
Venice is a great case-study for the practice of grand strategy. A tight-knit oligarchy ruled a commercial empire for nearly six centuries, able to chart a course years and decades in advance.🧵
If grand strategy is the use of a country’s resources to protect & further its interests, who defines its interests? Even *formulating* grand strategy involves political wrangling—much easier in a small state where everyone’s livelihood depends on the sea. dispatch.bazaarofwar.com/p/grand-strate…
Then there’s the problem of *executing* grand strategy: tough when many sectors of national power are in private hands, but easier in an oligarchy of noble houses which are the major economic actors.
Among the most promising military applications of AI is staff work. Tons of routine products—intel summaries, orders, etc.—can be generated much faster by machine. Does this mean staffs will reverse the historic trend and begin to shrink?
No: they’re about to explode in size.🧵
In the Napoleonic era, a divisional or corps staff was never more than a dozen soldiers, whereas today it’s pushing toward a thousand for formations of about the same size. Part of a general trend in tooth-to-tail ratios.
The reasons are fairly obvious: modern armies are more complicated, requiring more logistical coordination, fire control, etc.
BUT. There’s a subtler effect at play too: Jevon’s paradox. Simply stated, the more efficiently a resource can be used, the greater the demand.
The North Africa campaign of WWII is the much more famous of these. It saw the exploits of three of the most famous commanders of the war—Rommel, Montgomery, and Patton—as well as some of the most dramatic back-and-forths. But what were Axis objectives there?
For Italy, it was a primary theater, one in which to establish a Mediterranean empire.
Things were more complicated for Germany. This was never fully settled, but included: 1. Keep Italy in the war 2. Deny it as a springboard for invasion of Europe 3. Take Egypt, the Middle East