Clausewitz’s trinity has been much misunderstood. Some recent commentators have
proclaimed that we now inhabit a post-Clausewitzian era, because, allegedly, war is no
longer largely an enterprise conducted by governments with armies on behalf of their
societies (Van Creveld, 1991; Honig, 1997). Instead, so the argument goes, the state is in
decline and much, probably most, of contemporary warfare is waged by non-state entities
for purposes that do not lend themselves to national interest analysis. That view does not
seem to be supported by the text of On War. A careful reading of what Clausewitz wrote
reveals that his trinity, certainly his primary trinity, comprised passion, chance and
reason. The people, the army and its commander, and the government were cited as what
should be understood as a secondary trinity, one by no means strictly essential to his
meaning. The primary trinity will be busily at work in warfare of all kinds, between
adversaries of every character who are fighting for any set of purposes that has political
significance.
In addition to the ‘remarkable trinity’, Clausewitz’s theory of war offers the power-
ful ideas that war has a permanent and unique ‘climate’, and that all of warfare is
troubled by ‘friction’. Again, as with all of the theses and ideas introduced already
from On War, the climate of war and friction permeate the whole of strategic history.
They are vital elements in every bloody episode in the past two centuries. Recall that
Clausewitz’s climate of war is the product of danger, exertion, uncertainty and chance.
Uniquely among strategic theorists, Clausewitz emphasizes that war is ‘the realm of
chance’ (p. 101). This is valuable, albeit seemingly obvious, because many a war or
campaign has been launched in the false confidence that chance has been eliminated
by careful planning. In addition, the uncertainties of war stressed by Clausewitz are liable
to be ignored or understated by policy-makers whose capacity to confuse their wishes
with what is feasible can be astounding. There is a term which describes an extreme,
almost euphoric, condition of strategic overconfidence: the ‘victory disease’. Both
Germany and Japan suffered from this malady in 1940–2, while the United States showed
symptoms of its presence in the mid-1960s over Vietnam, and in 2003 with respect to
Iraq.
‘Friction’ is among the most potent concepts in the strategist’s lexicon, yet it is among
the most difficult to apply pragmatically. The idea holds that things go wrong in war. Not
only do enemies behave in unexpected ways, but mistakes are made by flawed, tired or
overstressed soldiers. Moreover, nature is always likely to intervene to harass human
grand designs. As usual, with friction Clausewitz serves up a concept that defies direct
operational application, yet which should function educationally as a warning of the
utmost significance. Many have been the war-waging disasters that descended upon
politicians and soldiers who did not anticipate the serious possibility of friction on such
a scale that operations could be endangered or even rendered impractical. Napoleon’s
invasion of Russia in 1 8 12, and Hitler’s emulation of that disaster in 1941, offer
especially rich pickings for those who treasure deadly examples of friction at work.
Among the general theorists of war, only in Clausewitz’s writing is heavy emphasis
placed upon what can go wrong and how sovereign chance may prove to be. It should be
noted, however, that Thucydides also recognized the importance of chance in war
(Strassler, 1996: 44). As a general rule, theorists strive to sell their ideas as a certain
source of strategic benefit. They do not see advantage in pointing out how great are the
risks in war.
Clausewitz and the theory of war 25