Clausewitz distinguishes two types of boldness; straightforward bravery and a more intelligent and reflective courage, which knows what it is doing. Both are necessary. He says in Book Three of On War, that a soldier, whether a drummer boy or general, can possess no nobler quality than boldness; but higher up the chain of command, the greater the need for boldness to be supported by a reflective mind. The reason is that command becomes progressively less a matter of personal sacrifice, and more a matter of concern for the safety of others and for the common policy. Yet a distinguished commander without boldness is unthinkable; though how much of this quality remains after he has attained senior rank, is another question. When it is retained, and there is boldness and a reflective mind present in the same person, he says they amount to genius. He adds that the actions of Alexander fascinate because of their extreme boldness, those of Frederick may be more satisfying to the intellect, because they were dictated by inner necessity. Valour, to my mind, sums up both types of boldness; colloquially both physical and moral courage.
There is no physical danger in asking questions in Court; yet it is a bold thing to break free of convention, and pursue a new line of questioning, with your opponent and the judge prepared to tear into you if the line of questioning goes wrong. And until you have had one or two successes, you cannot possibly know whether it is going to go wrong. And if it does go wrong, no more work from that prosecution office, or from those defence solicitors! So you begin in a small way, and develop your ideas slowly. In Chapter 2 of Man’s Relationship with God, I give two examples of my success. The first was a prosecution for being in charge of a motor vehicle, when unfit to drive through drink; not it will be noted driving whilst unfit. Most people listening would have thought it a trivial case in an East Riding Quarter Sessions, that hardly mattered. To me it was a pearl beyond price; one of the few cases that gives me unspoiled memories. It taught me that I knew what I was doing; and that what I was doing was right. The second was a case in which I persuaded the two accused to convict each other. I persuaded them to develop their stories in such a way that they were incompatible with each others’, and incompatible with the fact that the Police had interviewed both of them. It was the zenith of my craftsmanship; and for the next 18 years it was variations on the theme. Only in the last case I did as an advocate did I take things a stage further. It was a re-trial, which is usually a ritual performance. But I had an unexpected piece of luck, and I was able to take advantage of it, and exploit it to bring the whole defence down like a house of cards.