Ever read an historical account that mentioned a “scorched earth” campaign? Ever thought about what that really entailed? Ever considered that a group of people—or maybe just an empowered leader—made the tough decision that the protection of their lands were of greater value than the lands themselves? What a choice! What a decision to have to make.
The concept of scorched earth conjures images of fields set afire, villages reduced to ash, livestock slaughtered, and wells poisoned. What’s more, these things which might have been considered depredations were they accomplished by the enemy, are actually done by the owners themselves in a bid to prevent their use or usefulness to that enemy.
What does such a thing look like? More to the point, perhaps, what does it feel like to set fire to the barn your great-grandfather built and your grandfather and father both shed blood to protect? How does one slaughter livestock that cannot be safely evacuated, casting aside the plans for a harvest feast or simply the long hoped-for return on investment those animals represented? What is it like to run a torch through fields of wheat lovingly and painstakingly nurtured since the day you and your family put the seed itself into the ground? How do you contemplate the very real prospects of starvation for you and your children all for the sake of executing a risky military tactic?
This is what lies behind any historical mention of a scorched earth campaign, and yet that meaning—what it really meant to the people doing the scorching—is generally lost on us. The decision to ruin the land rather than let it fall into the enemy’s hands is a tough one, and comes with all kinds of less-than-desirable effects. It brings to mind the easy, if imperfect, analogy of burning one’s car (without insurance, mind you) in order to prevent a carjacker from taking it. Who does that? Is that type of extreme resistance something that even resonates with us today, or have we become so inured by the safety nets of our time that actual sacrifice—voluntarily giving something up for the good of the larger group—has completely lost its meaning to society in general?
One of the more well-known examples throughout history of this type of defensive tactic was the Russian withdrawal before Napoleon’s Grande Armee in 1812. Less well-known, perhaps, was the scorched earth policy instituted by King Vercingetorix, last leader of the Pan-Gallic movement, before being defeated by Julius Caesar in 52 B.C. Even fewer know of the campaign conducted by the Scythians in response to Persian invasion in 513 B.C.
In the Russian example, compliance was spotty and not strictly enforced by the Czar’s agents and so the devastated area recovered from the experience in a relatively short amount of time. Not so for the Gauls or the Scythians, both military powerhouses before the campaign, neither ever again constituted a significant military threat to their neighbors. While the Scythians, at least, maintained their independence, in living a nomadic, pastoral existence, the ruin of so much of the available pastureland completely undermined their economy. This left them literally the victims of their own success. They remained in possession of lands ruined by the very act of defending them.
And there are many more such episodes throughout history though perhaps few on such grand a scale as these. Still, that decision to burn your livelihood—to destroy the village your ancestors built—must never have been an easy one to make. It goes so much further beyond the decision of one cornered soldier to give up his life in a suicidal final charge. Goes beyond the decision by a desperate government to form units of suicidal troops who wouldn’t expect to survive any given battle or engagement. This is the calculated and intentional rolling of the dice for one’s whole family—maybe the entire family line going back countless generations—as perhaps the last chance to defeat a powerful enemy. And if not defeat them, at least turn them back, preserving something of greater significance for the long-term.
I’ve quoted history podcaster Dan Carlin in this blog before, but in his telling of Caesar’s campaign against the Gauls he posits the question “What cause would you be willing to give your life for?” He returns to the question later in the segment by asking “What happens when the cost of one of those items ends up being something else on that list of things you’d be willing to die for?” Is there any doubt that people throughout history have been willing to lay their lives on the line to defend the lands they and their communities possessed? Is there any less doubt that folks of any time period are willing to defend their loved ones with their lives? So what is a scorched earth policy but the defense of the latter at the expense of the former?
Could you do that? Could you make that decision? Could I? And if not, how dire would circumstances need to become in order to change that answer? It’s worth thinking about, perhaps, for in the answers to those questions lie the key to what’s truly most important in our lives. What would you be willing to die for? What would I?
M. G. Haynes