EUROPE: The Geography of Battle

"War," says Nazi Theoretician Ewald Banse, "is above all things a geographical phenomenon. It is tied to the surface of the earth; it derives its material sustenance from it, and moves purposefully over it, seeking out those positions which are favorable to one side, unfavorable to the other."

Not every great general has succeeded in expressing this axiom of military science so sententiously. But every real master of strategy, from Carthage's Hannibal and Rome's Caesar to France's Gamelin, has understood the intimate relationship between troops and terrain, countryside and conquest, strategy and topography. Sometimes God is on the side of the heaviest battalions; sometimes, as in the case of Switzerland, He is on the side of the country with the tallest mountains. Geography has always decided where wars are fought and how they are fought. World War I was no exception. World War II is not likely to be—even though airplanes add to the geography of war a new three dimensional veneer.

In Europe, crisscrossed north and south as well as east and west by sworling mountain ranges, the theatres of war are limited with almost mathematical precision. Every great plain and basin in western and central Europe has been soaked in blood, every pass and gap and gateway has been powdered by the hobnails of marching men. Possession of the mountain bastions frequently determines just whose plains and basins are the site of bloodletting.

Bismarck once said: "Whoever is master of Bohemia is master of Europe." What he meant to say was that so long as Germany controlled the Bohemian bastion it would be relatively easy to keep invaders from the east from carrying warfare into the South German Basin or out on to the north German reaches of the Baltic plain. Similarly, command of the heights on either side of the Rhine has a lot to do with whether a war between Germany and France is to be fought in front of Munich or in front of Paris.

New Fields. If World War II takes one of its expected forms, with Britain, France and Poland lining up against Germany, Italy and Spain, nearly every historical theatre of battle in Europe might be ultimately involved. Because of the airplane, some quite unhistoric theatres might be involved as well. London, for example, has been safe from assault since William the Conqueror crossed the English Channel in 1066. In the World War air raids on London frightened a few shopkeepers, killed about 5,000, served chiefly to keep 300-odd British planes at home for defense instead of fighting in France.

But had war come last year, London might have been the scene of one of the most decisive battles in history. Modern Nazi bombing planes would have strafed it mercilessly. If they could have wrecked its essential services by perhaps a fortnight of intensive bombing—wrecked its communications, its power supply, its waterworks and sanitary facilities until plague stalked the streets and 10,000,000 human beings were thrown into horror-stricken disorder—the British Government might have been forced to make peace even at the cost of surrendering the proud British fleet.