Lord nelson sits at his cabin table, a huge chart of the Mediterranean spread before him. It is obvious that his overwrought nerves are very nearly at the breaking point. He frets and fumes, his fingers drum the table. “Where? Where can Villeneuve be?” Every fiber in his lean, leathery body longs for the information that will enable him to venture forth to the destruction of his enemy. But the information is lacking. The wastes of the Mediterranean are as grimly silent as the ghost of his adversary sitting on the opposite side of the chart, and until they speak, his anxious fleet is as becalmed as if it were in the center of the Sargasso Sea. He hurriedly writes, “. . . but I shall neither go to the eastward of Sicily nor to the westward of Sardinia until I know something positive.”
In the wardroom below two young officers while away the hours at a chessboard. There is no fretting and fuming here. Each is coolly calculating his best chances of victory, based not on where the enemy may be and what he may be doing, but where he is and what he is doing. Each is absorbed in the engrossing question of how to act.
The problems faced by the naval strategist and his ghostly adversary above, and the chess strategists below are precisely the same. They must merely bring a superior force to bear against an inferior enemy under conditions favorable to themselves. Therein lies victory. But before this disposition of forces can be made there must be complete intelligence as to the location and the ability of all of the forces involved. With this information the strategist is in a position to diagnose his problem, make his decision, and dispose his forces. For the chess strategist this intelligence is a simple matter. It requires merely a glance at the board. Fortunately, the development of peace-time intelligence methods has brought about a condition whereby opposing strategists may know with reasonable accuracy the ability of the other’s fleet. By “ability” we mean armor, armament, mobility, logistic independence, communications, and so on. Knowledge of one’s own fleet is axiomatic.
Thus it is that in order to make available to the naval strategist as complete intelligence as that enjoyed by the chess strategist we have merely to give him a continued story of the location of all of the forces involved. Of course, there are many allied facts which he may desire to know at any given time throughout a campaign, the ammunition and fuel available, the material condition of the ships, the morale of the personnel, but it may clearly be seen that if the true state of affairs is known at the beginning of the campaign, and the location of all the forces is known throughout the campaign, the allied facts are readily deducible. The continued knowledge of location becomes our primary interest.
This knowledge of location must consist primarily in projecting an eye to every corner of the far-flung field of operations and then communicating what the eye sees back to the master brain. The means of communicating the information back is today, and always has been, one of the prime functions of communications. In Nelson’s time “communications” were frigates and cruisers. In our time they are radio, telegraph, and cable. Tomorrow—it is a bold man who will guess what they will be. But, it is safe to say that no matter what they are, their aim will merely be to reduce to chessboard size the strategical theater of operations, just as that is the aim of communications today.
In this paper we wish to dwell on this particular phase of communications, to trace its development through the past century or so, and to glance at what we who are now active naval officers may well expect before we pass on to Snug Harbor.
During the campaign of Trafalgar, at which we peeked in the beginning, Lord Barham, in London, was strategically operating a number of fleets of which Lord Nelson’s was but one. Nelson’s fleet was the Mediterranean station with Villeneuve’s fleet as its particular objective. Villeneuve had escaped from his haven in Toulon and grave fears were necessarily felt in London as to where and how he might strike. A fresh disposition of forces was immediately necessary. But before Lord Barham could act with any degree of strategic soundness, he must know where his own forces were. But this was impossible, for Nelson, the key man in the situation, was missing. An entire fleet was to all practical purposes lost on the waters of the Mediterranean. In London one could only guess as to what Nelson might have done, where he might have gone. One contemporary letter, Yorke to Lord Hardwicke, stated, “. . . his only eye is directed eastward, and we shall find ourselves in a great scrape.” For at that time it did appear that the most natural explanation of his mysterious disappearance in the western Mediterranean was that he had gone to Egypt—with Villeneuve’s most probable destination the West Indies!
Villeneuve must be followed. If Nelson were not on his heels some one must be sent. Such an eventuality had been foreseen and a so-called “flying squadron” had been organized from the forces under Lord Gardner in the Atlantic. Gardner’s beet, however, was not up to its full strength and the detachment would mean a serious weakening. But the risk was necessary and Collingwood with half of the flying squadron was detached with orders to go to Madeira and ascertain if any French or British ships had been seen to pass toward the westward. If positive information could be obtained that at least seven or more British ships of the line were in chase of the enemy, he was to return. If the intelligence could not be relied upon, he was to proceed to the West Indies and, after joining Cochrane, seek out the enemy.
Here was a broad strategic move which of necessity was bounded on all sides by a wall of “ifs,” not primarily because of a lack of information concerning the enemy, but because of lack of information concerning one’s own force! If Barham had known definitely that Nelson would take up the chase, Collingwood would never have been detached from his more important post with Gardner.
This order is one of which Sir Julian Corbett has said, “. . . and on that day were issued a series of those remarkable orders which always seemed ready for any eventuality . . . .” We are accustomed to think of “eventuality” when used in that particular sense, as being only applicable to what the enemy may be doing. But as we can so readily deduce, “eventuality” as applied to nineteenth century naval strategy, included not only what the enemy might be doing but where one’s own force might be and what it might be doing.
Contrast the situation just touched upon with a somewhat similar one a little over a hundred years later, but a hundred years which had seen the complete development of cable and telegraph and astounding strides in the development of radio. Once again the British Admiralty is directing the strategic operations of its various forces throughout the world. And once again it is exceedingly embarrassed with regard to dispositions, for von Spee with his German cruiser force has disappeared from his base at Tsingtao and is at large, presumably in the Pacific. But on this occasion there is no uncertainty as to where the British forces may be. Radio and cable have seen to that. The large chart hanging on the office wall is studded with pins which state, not where the British forces may be but where they are. That chart has been reduced to chessboard size with regard to the location of one’s own pieces. Admiral Cradock, on the coast of South America, receives the following cable:
. . . leave sufficient force to deal with Dresden and Karlsruhe. Concentrate a squadron strong enough to meet Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, making Falkland Islands your coaling base. Canopus is now en route to Abrolhos. Defence is joining you from Mediterranean. Until Defence joins, keep at least Canopus and one county class with your flagship. . . . Colliers are being ordered to Falkland Islands. Consider whether colliers ... should be ordered south.
Unlike the orders to Collingwood, these contained no “ifs” as to what the British forces might be doing. The only eventualities to be considered were what the enemy might do.
Intelligence as to the location of one’s own force is purely a function of the junior’s ability to report to his strategic superior. Barham was in ignorance regarding Nelson’s whereabouts only because Nelson had been unable to report. The Admiralty lords knew of the location of the ships which were mentioned in the cable quoted above only because the ships had been able to report. In Nelson’s time the transmission of a report meant the dispatching of a frigate. In Churchill’s time it meant transmission by radio to the nearest shore station and subsequent transmission by telegraph and cable to the Admiralty offices. In our time of short-wave radio transmission (unknown in 1914) it means a direct report to one’s strategic superior whether he be on the high seas or in an office in Washington, or at worst a report made by a series of radio relays.
The problem of the other element of complete intelligence, knowledge of the enemy, is far more baffling and, as we have already touched upon, is far from being solved, if indeed it ever will be.
Intelligence regarding the enemy in Nelson’s time was dependent upon the actual, physical eye. It might be an eye in one’s own force, it might be the eye of a neutral, a secret agent, or a traitor, but an eye it had to be. In our time we have the very same means and they remain our principal source. In addition, however, we have a source which was undreamed of in Nelson’s time, radio intelligence. This will be dealt with later.
The methods of gaining intelligence by actual observation are practically the same today as they were in Nelson’s time. We depend to a certain extent on the eye within our own force, just as he did. Our methods have been greatly refined, however, so that today a large body of naval science deals exclusively with the various methods of scouting and tracking. We depend as Nelson did on speaking friendly merchant vessels. We make use of secret agents within the enemy’s territory as Nelson did. But whereas in his day the means of communicating the intelligence were so slow that in many cases it could be used only in conjecturing the present situation, today, because of the practically instantaneous transmission interval, it may be used in constructing an accurate picture of the present situation. Thus the information, if we can get it, may be instantly and accurately applied to the process of reduction in size of the strategic board.
For the methods of gaining intelligence in Nelson’s time we can do no better than to revert to the campaign off Toulon. The situation was briefly as follows. Villeneuve with his fleet was in the harbor of Toulon. Nelson was on the station with the express mission of seeking out and destroying the Frenchman. His plans were admirably laid, and, when the French fleet finally sailed, it was directly into the trap so cleverly conceived and so beautifully executed, until, by one of those freak strokes of the fortunes of war, Villeneuve spoke a friendly merchantman who had observed Nelson and whose information enabled Villeneuve to elude the dreaded Britisher. Of this Nelson was unaware and without definite information as to Villeneuve’s whereabouts he was compelled to lie in wait in the vicinity of Scardinia. During this anxious period Villeneuve was speeding to the westward, Gibraltar, and the open Atlantic.
The successful passage of the straits was made on April 8. On April 16, eight days later, Nelson received this information from a neutral. Of this report he wrote, “If this account is true, much mischief may be apprehended. It kills me, the very thought.” Two days later the same report was received from one of his own force, and not until then did he feel sufficiently confident of his information to set off in pursuit.
But he was too late. The Frenchman had escaped. That move could have been made ten days previously had radio existed, for an Englishman, Sir Richard Strachan in the Renown, had actually witnessed the French fleet sail through the straits and then had hurried on to warn Orde who was in the most immediate danger. Nelson had been left in ignorance and necessary idleness. Were we to follow the campaign into the more comprehensive one of Trafalgar as a whole, the weary chase across the Atlantic, through the West Indies and back to Europe, we would find many instances where those ten days of unnecessary delay on Nelson’s part had irrevocably changed the situation. Radio would have been a soothing balm to the particular temperament of Lord Nelson.
And so it undoubtedly was to the harassed officers in the British Admiralty in 1914. The complete ignorance of von Spee’s whereabouts was proving a far greater handicap to the disposition of British forces than his actual strength warranted. However, there were troop movements and trade lanes to be protected and no chances could be taken. There were ample forces in the Far East and on the eastern coast of South America to deal with him but his location must be known before any intelligent and economical disposition could be made.
Because of extraordinarily effective logistics, von Spee was able to remain in hiding during the first month of the war. About September 1, however, Numberg was obliged to put into Honolulu for the purpose of gaining information and transmitting dispatches to Germany. On September 6, she destroyed the cable station at Fanning Island. On September 14, Scharnhorst and Gneisenau appeared off Samoa and on September 22 off Tahiti. The report of each of these activities reached London on the very same day on which they occurred. It had taken Nelson ten days to learn of an enemy activity a few hundred miles away. It took his successors less than that number of hours to learn of an enemy activity halfway around the world!
Of the action at Tahiti, the German official account states, “. . . we had now to take into account that the enemy would know of the general intention of the voyage to the east from the appearance of the squadron off Tahiti.” The Germans were correct in their supposition but they were late in arriving at it, for on the same day as the receipt of the Samoan report the Admiralty had wired Cradock, “There is a strong probability of Scharnhorst and Gneisenau arriving in the Magellan Straits or on the west coast of South America . . .” and then proceeded to lay down detailed orders for the disposition of the forces under his command.
Whereas Nelson in 1804 was immeasurably hampered in playing his strategy in the cramped waters of the Mediterranean for lack of information, here were the Admiralty lords of 1914 playing their game in a major ocean on the opposite side of the world!
In all of the incidents cited, intelligence was gained by positive observation. Something was actually seen by a physical eye. The only difference brought about by the advent of rapid communications has been the dispatch with which the intelligence may be transmitted to the strategist. From every recorded incident of the World War, and from our own experience in more recent years, it may confidently be said that if the eye of the strategist can be projected, his mind will know what that eye sees within a very few hours, still well within the margin of time in which the strategist works.
The problem of projecting the eye of the strategist is one of operations. Communications can serve only to link the eye and the mind and in this particular phase of gaining information it can go but little farther. There is another phase, however, in which communications projects an eye of its own—radio intelligence.
Radio intelligence may be broadly defined as that which we learn concerning the enemy from what he does with his own radio. It results from the fact that radio channels are not private property. Roughly, they belong to any one who has the equipment suitable for their use. Radio intelligence comes about solely because one side is able to listen in on the radio transmissions of the enemy. In its present development it may be broadly divided into four main elements: the direct interception of messages, observation of the volume of traffic, negative observation, and the location of the enemy by means of radio direction finding.
Intelligence from the direct interception of messages is, of course, dependent upon our ability to decrypt the enemy messages once they have been received, unless the enemy has been foolish enough to send valuable information in plain language. The writer has not been able to find any such incident in the annals of the Great War.
Examples of the interception of encrypted messages and the subsequent decrypting, however, are many and illustrative. Practically all of this work was done by the Allies, for the Germans showed a surprising ignorance of radio intelligence throughout the war. The interception of enemy messages is merely a question of having receivers suitable for the work and having operators capable of copying. The work of decrypting the messages once they are intercepted is a phase of the general art beyond our scope here. Suffice it to say that the primary axiom laid down by cryptanalysts is that no system of cryptography is secure. The corollary is that any system may be broken provided enough messages utilizing it are obtained, and enough time is available. These facts have been proved time after time.
The English developed a series of listening posts along their coasts which fed German messages by the hundred into the famous Room 27 in Whitehall where the work of decrypting went on. The results of this work were amazing and were probably climaxed by receipt of the information which led up to the Battle of Dogger Bank.
The intelligence submitted to the Admiralty on March 23, 1915, by the decrypting unit, was considered so reliable that telegrams went forth to Scapa, Rosyth, and Harwich, giving not only the orders for a sweep by all available vessels, but information as to the exact composition of the enemy force which might be expected at a certain spot at a certain hour. Frothingham has laconically stated, “under the circumstances contact was inevitable . . .” and the Battle of Dogger Bank was the result.
It is interesting to note that the Admiralty telegram in this instance included the warning that radio would be used only in emergencies. The more information one derives from the enemy’s radio, the more chary will he be in the use of his own.
If, as occurred many times during the war, and will occur again, the enemy’s codes are sufficiently secure so that no effective information may be obtained from them, then it becomes necessary to deduce intelligence from merely the volume of his radio traffic. It may readily be seen that unless precautions to the contrary are taken, any unusual activity of a fleet will cause a corresponding increase in his dispatch information and orders. This fact the British used with devastating effectiveness. They kept accurate records of the number of messages handled over all of the German circuits and when the volume rose above average, a decided movement could be expected. The prophecies were correct more often than not.
It was information derived from this means with which the British fleets sailed from their bases on the day preceding the Battle of Jutland. There had been meager indications for several days of some sort of enemy activity. Of this the Official Narrative states, “By May 28, however, it became clear that some considerable movement was afoot” and the Admiralty Blue Book goes on to say, “On May 30, 1916, the Admiralty received news which pointed to early activity on the part of the German fleet …” The net result of all the intelligence received was the following telegram sent to the commander in chief by the Admiralty, “You should concentrate to eastward of Long Forties ready for eventualities.” The Battle of Jutland took place the next day.
The moral is obvious; either keep the circuits filled all the time, or allow no increase in their use as a result of prospective activity. This the Germans eventually learned.
All of the examples of intelligence by observation which we mentioned above were of the positive type. Something was actually seen. As is well known, however, in many cases the failure actually to observe, negative intelligence, may be of equal or far greater value. Nelson, for instance, when he finally reached the Atlantic in his chase of Villeneuve was still in a quandary as to his proper course of action. Should he pursue to the northward or continue across the Atlantic to the West Indies? Negative intelligence finally enabled him to follow the latter and the correct course, simply and solely because Villeneuve had not been seen to the northward for three weeks. The obvious conclusion was necessarily that he had sailed on to the westward.
Negative radio intelligence is of the same general nature. It results from a failure to observe the enemy’s radio and deductions made therefrom, but, as we shall see, it is of far more doubtful value and may lead to the most incongruous results.
To return once more to the campaign in the Pacific in 1914. Cradock, with a force inferior to the combined German squadron, was cruising north along the coast of Chile, seeking out if possible, the separated units of von Spee’s squadron. Leipzig, in a generally northern direction, was heard calling merchant vessels in the vicinity. After a considerable number of such messages had been intercepted, Cradock deduced that Leipzig was alone on a commerce raiding expedition and easy prey for his force. He therefore formed a scouting line and his ships steamed north on diverging courses, so that when the entire German squadron was sighted several hours later the British forces were badly separated and in no position to commence the Battle of Coronel which ended in a major catastrophe for them.
It was a pure case of negative radio intelligence. But Cradock had relied too strongly on the fact that no other ships of the German squadron were heard. He completely overlooked the fact that the Germans might deliberately set such a trap, as indeed they did. The German action on this occasion was the first known instance in history where radio had been aggressively used to give false information and it is one of the few instances throughout the war in which the Germans showed any of their well-known cunning, shrewdness, and scrupulous attention to detail in the handling of their communication facilities.
Curiously enough, von Spee, who profited so greatly by the incorrect use of radio intelligence on the part of his adversary at Coronel, came to his own doom by a somewhat similar mistake. For several months von Spee, by means of cable and radio, had been on intimate terms with the German Admiralty. He had made regular reports and had received accurate and timely information with such amazing efficiency that he became overconfident in the benefits which rapid communications had brought to the field of strategy. He believed implicitly that the news of any major change in the composition of the British force in his locality would be promptly received. In the very simplest terms, he believed that the strategic board had finally been reduced to chessboard size.
And so, faced with the alternative of making for home or crowning his achievements with an action against the Falkland Islands, he based the enemy’s strength on his current information, and accordingly chose the latter alternative. But just as Cradock did only a month before, he counted far too greatly on the accuracy of his information. Sturdee with his two battle cruisers, the Invincible and Inflexible, had been dispatched from the Grand Fleet with such secrecy and had been so successful in keeping out of sight during the voyage across the Atlantic that von Spee was the first German to know of their presence in the Falkland Islands on the morning he made his attack.
The fast and hard-hitting battle cruisers were far too strong for the Germans and the gallant squadron was completely annihilated. Only one of their five ships was able to escape and she merely escaped to an eventual destruction.
These two cases are glaring examples of the necessity for even more careful interpretation of negative intelligence in this day of rapid communications.
The fourth general element of radio intelligence, direction finding, is of such recent origin that we can find but few instances of its use in war time, and those were of doubtful value. Since the World War, however, the development of direction finders has been astounding and their effectiveness on the intermediate bands is so great that no mariner will willingly put to sea without one for navigational purposes. And because of this effectiveness, only a naval commander with suicidal intent would use these frequencies in the face of the enemy when he desires to keep his whereabouts unknown.
By the very nature of the electro-magnetic waves involved, the development of high-frequency direction finders is still in the nebulous stage, so that these frequencies may be used for communications with considerable impunity. If and when effective direction finders for the higher frequencies are developed, an equally effective gag will have been placed on transmission of all types, at least until contact has been established, or until such time as the transmission of information is of sufficient advantage to offset the disadvantage of revealing one’s position.
Radio intelligence, as we have endeavored to point out, is the price we pay for the benefits of radio itself. Every time we open up with a transmitter we are giving to the enemy an opportunity to learn something concerning us. The fleet which is willing to forego the use of radio entirely will completely deny to the enemy the benefits of radio intelligence. But the fleet that does that will be reverting to Nelson’s time, or at best to Dewey’s time, with regard to methods of communication. The thought is, of course, utterly ridiculous. No amount of inadvertent information which the enemy may gain as a result of the use of our radio will be more detrimental to our cause than the state of deafness and dumbness which would result from throwing our radios overboard. We will never do that. We must simply bend our efforts toward giving the enemy as little information as possible from our radio and toward the development of methods whereby we can squeeze his radio dry of every possible bit of useful intelligence.
One of the most poignant of axioms is that the advent of a new tool to the realm of naval warfare changes not one iota the underlying principles, merely the methods of applying those principles. The field of rapid communications is simply a new tool for the use of the naval strategist and tactician. It takes its place alongside steam, armor, the torpedo, the submarine, and more recently the aircraft.
It has had less chance of changing the principles of warfare than had any of the innovations which we mentioned. Communications were in Nelson’s day, and they are in our own, nothing more than the ears through which the naval strategist hears his intelligence and the mouth through which he issues his orders for the execution of his plan. Merely the methods of communications have changed. But in the process of changing those methods, several marked effects have been brought about on the playing of the game of strategy, if not on strategy itself.
First of all its tempo has been quickened merely by virtue of the speed with which intelligence may be received and orders may be issued. The strategist knows where his own forces are and if knowledge concerning the enemy exists in his own domain he has that, not next week or even tomorrow, but today. Strategy ceases to be a thing of the week and the month and becomes a thing of the day and the hour. Long periods of consultation and meditation are not possible. The strategist must think quickly and act decisively, for a result of rapid communications has been a marked increase in the precision with which each problem must be attacked.
There may be a dozen correct solutions to the problem based on intelligence that is two weeks old and only one correct solution to the problem based on intelligence two hours old. How for instance, could there have been but one correct solution to the strategical problem based on the intelligence that a certain number of German battle cruisers and light forces were to be at a certain spot on the Dogger Bank at a certain hour on the following day? So precise were the terms of the problem that an equally precise solution could have been expected from a midshipman and so precise were the orders issued that Commodore Tyrwhitt told his destroyer captains on the day previous to the action that, unfortunately, some of them would be missing the next day.
Contrast it with the lack of precision with which Barham was forced to send out Collingwood in search of Nelson and Villeneuve. Barham would undoubtedly call the strategy of this generation mere child’s play, but, fortunately, we are judged by the standards of our own time.
On the other hand, how could the Admiralty have gone so far wrong in its solution of the strategical problem off the coast of South America that Cradock met a German force vastly superior to his when it had been known for months that such a force existed in those very waters? The answer to that question is still a bit obscure, but contemplation of the question brings up a third effect of rapid communications on the game of strategy—a lack of appreciation of the necessity of correct interpretation of intelligence.
In his book on the campaign of Trafalgar, Sir Julian Corbett has said:
Of all parts of the art of war there is none perhaps of higher value than the interpretation of intelligence. At the end of our long series of maritime wars with France, the faculty of interpretation had reached in the sea service its fullest powers. So wide was the theater, so slow the means of communication, and so precious every rare item of news, that sharp necessity had developed an acuteness of sense that gives at times the impression of second sight.
That was said about officers of 1804. Cradock at Coronel in 1914 showed not only a lack of second sight, but of almost any sight at all. Von Spee in his gallant but foolhardy dash up to the Falkland Islands showed no understanding of the limitations of negative intelligence. There is not the slightest indication that the communication officers of the German fleet even so much as understood the meaning of “radio intelligence.”
The need of keen interpretation of intelligence was just as true in 1914 as it was in the day of which Corbett wrote. And it is just as true today. The amazing deficiencies which we find along these lines in the annals of the World War may be partially pardoned on the grounds that rapid communications were new and untried in war. Mistakes were bound to crop out. But not so today. The strategist of tomorrow must never rely on the misinterpretation of intelligence as an excuse for shortcomings. The lesson has been sufficiently told.
Communications can promise but very little for tomorrow in the strategic field. In the tactical field there are worlds to be conquered. But here, the end of the road is in sight. It is true that radio is a relatively new art, but the depths have been sufficiently plumbed so that we may know that unless some radically new principles are uncovered, development will consist in merely refining the methods which are already in use. The “word will be gotten around” in a more effective manner. Ranges and reliability will be increased and the delays in transmission will be reduced.
For the strategic board is still far larger than the chessboard and the ideal may still be sought.