In this war we have seen battles with a fighting front extending more than forty miles. Using the terms “fighting front” in this connection, I do not mean that the opposing armies were simultaneously, or even occasionally, engaged along every mile of this distance. As a matter of fact, they came actually into collision only at certain points. But they were, nevertheless, in contact, tactically speaking, along the whole front; which means that any advance of either combatant must quickly result in direct collision with the enemy. Even thirty years ago a commander would have found it impossible to keep in tactical touch with an army so widely distributed. The efficiency attained by modern field telegraph and telephone systems offers the explanation. Formerly a commander took his position during the progress of a battle, if possible, on an eminence from which a comprehensive view of the field could be had. Frequently this position could be reached by hostile fire, and it was never so far removed as to put the commander out of direct contact with his troops. So stationed, surrounded by his staff, he would observe the progress of the battle, receiving from time to time reports from his subordinates, and directing them through his aids, who carried the messages on horseback.
To-day circumstances place a commander completely out of sight of his army. He is usually located at least ten or fifteen miles from the firing line, and in many instances is even farther away. He sits in a room, whence radiate telephone and telegraph lines to the remotest portions of the field, placing him in instantaneous communication with his principal subordinates. The famous painting of Napoleon at Austerlitz represents, in the popular eve, a commanding general directing a great battle. But it belongs to the warfare of the past. The artist who aspires to depict the direction of a modern battle must show a man seated at a table on which is spread a huge map dotted with little flags indicating the location of the opposing forces, with an ordinary desk telephone at his elbow. In an adjoining room is a switchboard, where sit alert operators ready to connect the commander with any of the field headquarters. From this room, also, comes the steady clicking of a score of telegraph instruments, busily receiving and sending messages. But for the military uniforms of the messengers and the going and coming of staff officers the man at the table might be a stock operator directing, through his brokers, a deal in steel or railroad securities. Even the stenographer at his elbow is not lacking, but sits quietly taking messages under dictation, to be transmitted presently by telegraph. Other officers copy these messages and file them away, after putting them under a time-recording stamp, to show the hour they were sent, so that afterward delinquencies may be located and responsibilities fixed. Thus, apart from the excitement and horrors of the battlefield, a general sits at a desk and calmly directs the battle. He hears that this attack has been repulsed, that reënforcements are needed here, that ammunition is running low there, that this division has been cut into pieces, that those troops have been two days without food, and so on, along his forty miles of front, and takes his measures accordingly. This picture is not fanciful. With due allowance for the fallibility of all human devices when subjected to the strain of abnormal conditions, it is substantially correct.
Another striking development is the prolongation of battles. In even the most recent wars three days’ fighting have been enough to exhaust armies, and some commentators have ventured predictions that battles of the future would be quickly decided. Quite the contrary has happened. In this war we have seen battles which lasted ten days, almost without cessation. Of course, it must not be assumed that the same troops fought all the time; but, for that matter, neither did they in prolonged battles of the last great wars. One of the great battles in Manchuria might be called a series of battles. For instance, in the fighting around Liao-Yang there were at least half a dozen distinct engagements, some of them fought many miles distant from each other, and by entirely different troops. Yet it is quite correct to speak of these engagements as one battle, since they were fought by troops under the same general command and with the same general objective. All great battles include many minor collisions, attended by widely varying success, yet it is only the general result that counts. The principle is the same, regardless of the area involved. The tactical variations possible on a battlefield extending forty miles are no