Unfortunately, writers have always had a pronounced tendency to refer to events in ancient history. How much of this is due to vanity and quackery can remain unanswered.
—Carl von Clausewitz[1]

Alone among the military theorists whose works have reached the ranks of the strategic canon, the background and motivation of Sun Tzu—the purported author of The Art of War—remain shrouded in conjecture and doubt.[2] We know that Thucydides was not only the chronicler, but a general in the Peloponnesian War, Julius Caesar the architect of the Gallic War, and Machiavelli an active participant in Florentine diplomatic and martial affairs. Maurice de Saxe waded through the bloody fields of Malplaquet and Fontenoy, while both Jomini and Clausewitz kept their own formative experiences fighting in the Napoleonic Wars firmly in mind as they composed their respective theoretical works. But what motivated Sun Tzu (or its anonymous authors) to compose The Art of War? What were its historical precedents?

Despite Clausewitz’s noted pessimism over the utility of ancient historical analogies to inform military theory, he found enormous benefit in the use of more contemporaneous illustrations: “Once one accepts the difficulties of using historical examples, one will come to the most obvious conclusion that examples should be drawn from modern military history.”[3] Clausewitz clearly drew extensively from his study of Napoleon’s thoughts and actions to inform his own theory, and our understanding of On War relies heavily on the awareness of this link. Similarly, if we seek deeper insight into The Art of War, we should first attempt to understand what military examples relevant to its own author(s) might have influenced its composition. In short, we need to first ask ourselves: who was Sun Tzu’s Napoleon?

To answer this question, China’s oldest historical narrative, the Zuozhuan, helps us to better understand the arc of military history as it was conceptualized during roughly the same period The Art of War was composed. Documenting over 500 military actions covering a span of 255 years (722-468 BCE), the Zuozhuan provides a window into warfare’s conduct during the Spring and Autumn era.[4] We may  have doubts about the historical accuracy of many of the Zuozhuan narratives, but its description of the dramatic political and military transformations shaping the Sinic world during this epoch would have provided a common strategic framework amongst the literati of that time. Therefore, the Zuozhuan provides the best opportunity to hypothesize which contemporary military analogies—from Sun Tzu’s own perspective—might have informed his theoretical outlook.

We are not the Duke of Song...

One of the best examples of how thoughts on warfare began to evolve during this transformative period comes from the Zuozhuan’s description of a battle between a contender for hegemony, Duke Xiang of Song, and the forces of the state of Chu that fought with the duke at the Hong River in 638 BCE.

The armies of Song reached the battlefield first, formed their ranks, and awaited the Chu forces to ford the river. Duke Xiang’s military supervisor, Ziyu, urged him to attack the Chu forces as they enacted the river crossing, but the duke demurred. When the Chu army had finished crossing, but had not yet consolidated its forces, Ziyu once again failed to convince the duke to engage. Only when the Chu army was fully formed and prepared for battle did Duke Xiang give the order to attack. The result was a disaster for the Song. The duke was seriously wounded, his best warriors slaughtered, and his army forced to flee the battlefield.

Afterwards, the duke defended his hesitation on moral and ethical grounds, stating, “The noble man does not inflict wounds twice, nor does he take prisoners those with graying hair. When the ancients engaged in warfare, they did not take advantage of difficult terrain and narrow straits.”[5] His military advisor, Ziyu, expressed only contempt for this anachronistic notion of chivalry:

You, my lord, do not yet understand warfare. When powerful adversaries are trapped in difficult terrain and have not formed ranks, it means Heaven is assisting us. Is it not proper, while they are in narrow straits, to press an attack?...We make clear what is shameful and teach about warfare because we seek to kill enemies. If the wounded are not yet dead, why not wound them a second time? If you are concerned about inflicting wounds twice then you might as well not inflict wounds at all. If you are concerned about graying hair, then you might as well surrender to them.[6]

Shortly afterwards, Duke Xiang died of his battle wounds and Song’s bid for hegemony was extinguished. It is difficult not to read into The Art of War a continuation and refinement of Ziyu’s criticism of his sovereign’s antiquated concept of warfare. The text goes on to correct the duke’s fatal mistake explicitly in the ninth chapter: “When an advancing army crosses water...allow half his force to cross and then strike.”[7]

In several verses, the text appears to take head-on Ziyu’s concerns with a ruler who, lacking proper understanding of the realities of warfare, hinders the successful execution of military operations:

“He whose generals are able and not interfered with by the sovereign will be victorious.”[8]

“There are occasions when the commands of the sovereign need not be obeyed.”[9]

“If the situation is one of victory but the sovereign has issued orders not to engage, the general may decide to fight.”[10]

Moreover, the text delves deeply into the myriad ways one can best use terrain to one’s own military advantage and elevates deception to a level of military necessity, further eroding the duke’s vision of warfare based on ritualized and predictable modes of combat. Millennia later, during the Second World War, Mao Zedong seized on this historical vignette to announce that the Chinese Communist forces would not abide by any political, military, or moral limitations in its fight against the Japanese, stating: “We are not Duke Xiang of Song and have no use for his asinine ethics.”[11]

Echoes of the Zuozhuan continue. In the seventh chapter, Sun Tzu warns that if a commander insists on “marching forward a hundred li to contend for gain, the Three Armies' generals will be captured.”[12] This was not a hypothetical prediction. In 627 BCE the state of Qin hastily dispatched its forces across the state of Jin’s territory in the hopes of quickly striking the temporarily unguarded northern border of Zheng. Approaching the Yao Hills of Jin in an exhausted state, the Jin army attacked the interlopers, decisively defeated the straggling Qin troops, and “captured Mengming, Xiqi Shu and Bai Yi,” the respective generals of Qin’s Three Armies.[13] Many other verses from The Art of War also appear to have direct linkages or distinct parallels with Zuozhuan narratives, and knowledge of these historical factors will assist Westerners in gaining a deeper understanding of the text’s more vague pronouncements.

Tactics Without Strategy Is the Noise Before Defeat

Most importantly, the Zuozhuan forces us to rethink aspects of The Art of War that some have come to believe represent core features of the text.[14] One of these is the commonly held view that Sun Tzu was primarily concerned with grand strategy, whereas Western military theorists overemphasize the operational and tactical levels of war.[15] A frequently cited verse supporting this viewpoint is Sun Tzu’s recommendation to first attack the enemy’s strategy, next his allies, only then his army, and as a last resort, his cities.

What we commonly translate as strategy, though, is the Chinese character 謀 (mou), which is more accurately rendered as stratagem, plan, or scheme. As used during this era in a military context, mou was neither an ends-ways-means analysis of overall state power to achieve national security objectives nor an “upstream engagement of the target before it is an actual enemy.”[16] It was either a simple operational plan of attack or else a tactical method to confound the enemy before the commencement of battle.

To get a sense of the scale and scope of mou in Sun Tzu’s milieu, consider an exchange between the King of Chu and one of his advisors at the Battle of Yanling in 575 BCE. Surveying the enemy’s preparations moments before the fighting commenced, the king inquired why Jin’s officers were gathering near their own central army. His advisor replied: "They are devising their stratagem (mou) together."[17] As this was being developed only after both sides mobilized and deployed their armies on the battlefield, we should temper our assumption that mou refers primarily to actions at the level of grand strategy, rather than mere operations or tactics.

So how would one “attack the enemy’s mou” in the context of warfare during this era? In 615 BCE, the army of Qin seized a portion of Jin’s territory. The Jin army marched out to expel the invaders, but upon reaching their position decided to establish a defensive perimeter and starve them out. According to the Zuozhuan, “the men of Qin wanted to fight.”[18] When the Qin commander asked his advisor for an assessment, the advisor stated Jin had recently promoted a commander named Yu Pian. He further explained, “It is surely he who has made this plan [mou], and they are going to use it to wear down our troops.”[19] The advisor added that another subordinate commander, Chuan, was “weak: he knows nothing about military affairs. Combative and reckless, he also hates the fact that Yu Pian is assistant commander of the upper army. If we send light troops to provoke him, that would work.”[20] When Qin sends a probing force against Chuan’s formation, he responds as predicted:

"We have put our grain provisions in sacks and sit here in our armor. Surely it is the enemy that we are after! But when the enemy arrives, we don't attack. What are we waiting for?" A military officer said, "We are going to wait." Chuan said, "I am not aware of the plan [mou]. I am going out alone." He then took his cohort and went forth.[21]

Fearing that one-third of their forces might now be captured or destroyed by Chuan’s impetuous action, the entire Jin army reluctantly “went out to fight.”[22] Thus, Qin successfully attacked Jin’s mou.

Similarly, attacking the enemy’s allies should not be thought of as conveying complex diplomatic machinations in the vein of a Richelieu or Bismarck, but literally by its plain meaning—physically attacking the enemy’s allies on the field of battle. Warfare during the Spring and Autumn era was dominated by a small coterie of more powerful states—usually Qi, Jin, or Chu—who generally went to war only after co-opting weaker domains to join their coalition. These lesser powers often constituted the weak link of one’s tactical formation. At the Battle of Xuge in 707 BCE, Zheng faced the Zhou king’s elite forces along with a coalition of troops from the small states of Chen, Cai, and Wei. A Zheng commander quickly determined that the superior option was to first attack the weaker allies:

Chen is in disorder and none of its people have the will to fight. If we engage them first, they will surely flee. When the king's infantry looks back and sees this, they are sure to fall into disarray. Cai and Wei are unsupported and will assuredly flee beforehand. Afterward, we can concentrate our army upon the king's infantry and bring the matter to completion.[23]

Following this course of action, Zheng decisively defeated the king’s coalition. Nearly two centuries later, attacking weaker alliance partners before engaging the main enemy’s army endured as a highly advantageous tactic. In 519 BCE, as a more powerful Chu army and its allies bore down on the state of Wu’s comparatively smaller force, one of Wu’s commanders proposed the following battleplan:

Chu can be defeated. If we divide our army and first attack Hu, Shen, and Chen, they are certain to flee first. When these three domains have been defeated, the armies of the princes will be shaken in their purpose. When the princes are divided and disorderly, Chu is sure to turn in wholesale flight.[24]

The Wu army followed this advice and, after the defeat of its allies, the stronger Chu army did “turn in wholesale flight.”[25] What these examples highlight is that interpreting Sun Tzu’s “attacking plans and allies” as non-violent diplomatic, psychological, and economic exertions pursued at the level of grand strategy prior to the outbreak of war is a problematic assumption. More likely, this verse was meant to be an operational suggestion levied against the main opponent’s battlefield stratagems and weaker alliance partners shortly before commencing the attack. The intent was to impact the enemy’s readiness, morale, and momentum adversely just before launching one’s own assault, not months, years, or decades before a decision to engage in hostilities had even been contemplated.

Conclusion

In the most recent translation of Sun Tzu, professor Michael Nylan posits: “What is not up for debate, then, is the emphasis that The Art of War places on strategic thinking.”[26] I disagree. Everything we think we know about this abstruse text is ripe for vigorous discourse and renewed scrutiny. Our modern interpretations demand continuous reappraisal. Are we accurately conveying the thoughts of the original authors, or simply filtering their words through our contemporary mores?

The context provided by the Zuozhuan makes it far more challenging to view The Art of War as the work of a solitary creative genius heralding a bold new conceptualization of war. Rather, it should be seen as a skillful distillation and synthesis of ideas debated widely and experimented with extensively over the preceding centuries of Chinese military history. Even Sun Tzu’s iconic goal to win without fighting might not be as revolutionary a concept as we tend to believe. This is hardly a novel viewpoint. Qing dynasty scholar Li Yuanqun remarked that, “Sun Tzu’s thirteen chapters...certainly contain reliable material, but as they were all written after the Zuozhuan, the Zuo is certainly the progenitor of military tactics (bingfa).”[27] Another Qing scholar, Yao Ni, adds that the Zuozhuan “excels in discourse on the art of war.”[28]

The context provided by the Zuozhuan makes it far more challenging to view The Art of War as the work of a solitary creative genius heralding a bold new conceptualization of war.

In the West, though, we tend to imagine The Art of War springing Athena-like from the head of a singularly prescient martial prodigy. Western theorists who treat Sun Tzu as hagiography, such as B.H. Liddell Hart and John Boyd, laud the work not from the vantage point of hermeneutical analysis, but from a flawed assumption that its ambiguously translated verses almost certainly conform to—and therefore validate—their own theoretical preferences.[29] We need to stop untethering the text from the historical and cultural milieu of its origination. The Art of War’s brevity and malleability will ensure it remains a popular and frequently quoted classic in the West. But for those seeking deeper insight into the evolution of Chinese strategic thinking, it remains an important but insufficient means to that end. Sun Tzu’s compact thirteen chapters are merely the start of the journey.

John F. Sullivan is a former U.S. Army China Foreign Area Officer. He is currently a JD candidate at the University of Hawaii’s William S. Richardson School of Law.

Have a response or an idea for your own article? Follow the logo below, and you too can contribute to The Bridge:

Enjoy what you just read? Please help spread the word to new readers by sharing it on social media.

Header Image: Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn Period (Pinterest)

Notes:

[1] Carl von Clausewitz, On War, trans. Michael Howard and Peter Paret (Princeton: Princeton University Press), 174.

[2] Modern sinologists doubt that an actual historical figure named Sun Tzu ever existed, and instead speculate that he was a backwards projection of a legendary military authority meant to lend The Art of War more didactic weight when it was composed in roughly the mid 4th to early 3rd century BCE. For a good overview of this debate, see Victor H. Mair, “Soldierly Methods: Vade Mecum for an Iconoclastic Translation of Sun Zi bingfa” Sino-Platonic Papers, 178 (February, 2008), 7-25.

[3] Clausewitz, 173 (emphasis added).

[4] Much like Sun Tzu’s text, the dating and authorship of this classic is fiercely debated. However, a plausible case can be made that similar to The Art of War, the Zuozhuan came into its final form by roughly the 4th century BCE. See Wai-yee Li, The Readability of the Past in Early Chinese History (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2007), 33.

[5] Zuozhuan: Commentary on the “Spring and Autumn Annals,” trans. Stephen Durrant, Wai-yee Li and David Scharburg (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2016), 357.

[6] Ibid, 357-359.

[7] Sun Tzu, The Art of War, trans. Samuel B. Griffith (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1963), 116.

[8] Ibid, 83.

[9] Ibid, 112.

[10] Ibid, 128.

[11] Mao Zedong, “On Protracted War” in Mao on Warfare (New York CN Times Books, Inc., 2013), 124.

[12] Sun Tzu, The Art of War, trans. Ralph D. Sawyer (New York: Basic Books, 1994), 197.

[13] Zuozhuan (Lord Xi, Year 33), 449.

[14] The phrase “strategy without tactics is the slow road to victory, tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat,” is frequently misattributed to Sun Tzu. It does not come from Sun Tzu or any other ancient Chinese text, and it is most likely a modern invention. Our general mischaracterization of The Art of War as singularly focused on strategic concerns, though, probably accounts for the ease with which we mistakenly attribute it to Sun Tzu.

[15] Michael Handel’s view reflects the conventional wisdom: “In direct contrast to Clausewitz and Jomini, Sun Tzu places the highest priority on defeating the enemy (preferably by non-violent means) before the war breaks out.” Michael I. Handel, Masters of War: Classical Strategic Thought, (London: Routledge, 2007), 59 (emphasis in original).

[16] Lukas Milevski, Grand Strategy is Attrition: The Logic of Integrating Various Forms of Power in Conflict (Carlisle Barracks, PA: United States Army War College Press, 2019), 44.

[17] Author’s translation. The original Chinese simply reads 合謀 (hemou). Durrant et al. translate this as: "So as to plot their strategy together" Zuozhuan (Lord Cheng, Year 16), 835. As I argue in the article, the fact that this is being developed moments before battle commences suggests that “strategy” is not the most precise term to describe this action.

[18] Zuozhuan (Lord Wen, Year 12), 529.

[19] Ibid.

[20] Ibid.

[21] Ibid.

[22] Ibid.

[23] Zuozhuan (Lord Huan, Year 5), 91-93.

[24] Zuozhuan (Lord Zhao, Year 23), 1621-1623. The Wu commander who proposed this plan, Gongzi Guang, will several years later murder his cousin, King Liao, and seize the throne of Wu. Known thereafter as King Helu, he is the sovereign who supposedly hires the itinerant general Sun Tzu, according to Chinese historian Sima Qian’s brief biographical sketch. Sinologists, however, doubt the veracity of Sima Qian’s tale, and while the Zuozhuan covers King Helu’s reign in significant detail, it makes no reference to a figure named Sun Tzu or Sun Wu.

[25] Ibid.

[26] Sun Tzu, The Art of War, trans. Michael Nylan (New York: W.W. Norton Company, 2020), 16.

[27] Ralph D. Sawyer, The Tao of Deception: Unorthodox Warfare in Historic and Modern China (New York: Basic Books, 2007), 19 (quote edited to update Chinese transliterations to the more modern pinyin system).

[28] Wai-yee Li, 54.

[29] A biography of John Boyd describes a late-night call Boyd made to a friend, breathlessly relaying his discovery that Sun Tzu’s text nullifies the validity of Clausewitz’s theories. As the book recounts: “Spinney sleepily muttered something about von Clausewitz’s work being more than one hundred years old and that it was never completed and—. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Boyd shouted. ‘I got the fucker now. I got him by the balls.’” Robert Coram, Boyd: The Fighter Pilot Who Changed the Art of War (New York: Back Bay Books, 2012), 332.