To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [108]
UNDER PLANS UNDER CONSIDERATION IS ONE WHICH WILL REQUIRE among other troops, four infantry regiments and one artillery regiment from your department for service in France. If plans are carried out, you will be in command of the entire force. . . .”
The telegram had come from the chief of staff, General Hugh Scott, had been labeled “For Your Eye Alone,” a designation Pershing had rarely seen. The cloak of security had caused a hum of excitement among his staff, all as curious as he was why Washington would suddenly reach out to him with such an obvious show of dramatics. Pershing had found it unlikely that San Antonio would be crawling with spies, German or otherwise.
The telegram from General Scott was not the first hint that something significant was brewing in Washington. Before Scott’s order had come another brief note that was far more casual, with the return address of his father-in-law, Wyoming senator Francis Warren. Pershing had distinctly mixed emotions about any note he received from his in-laws. Despite their respect and continuing kindness toward him, any communication carried a hard reminder that his relationship existed with them only because of Pershing’s marriage. He knew that his wife’s death had certainly devastated her family as much as her loss tore into him even now. Pershing knew his relationship with her family could never be comfortable, no matter how often they tried to reach out to him. But their connection through the tragedy of their shared loss had been intruded upon by events that enveloped the entire nation. Warren’s brief telegram had surprised him far more than General Scott’s official statement about military planning. Though Pershing had put the machinery in place to prepare his men for some eventual use overseas, his father-in-law had brought the stark reality home. The note had simply read: “Wire me today whether and how much you speak, read, and write French.”
NEAR WASHINGTON, D.C.—MAY 9, 1917
The train was close to the city now, and he stared out the window, had given up trying to concentrate on his notes, all the details of the new combat unit the War Department expected him to command. In the short time since General Scott’s instructions had arrived, Pershing had spent as much time as his waking mind would allow going over the details, organizing what would become a fully staffed division. He had no orders yet, no specific assignment that called for so much preparation, but it was simply his way. He would focus first on the numbers, what would be required to supply a force of twenty-five thousand men, nearly double what he had commanded at Fort Bliss. He had assaulted the task with a burst of enthusiasm, something he had never experienced in Mexico. He found pleasure in immersing himself in the creation of an efficient fighting machine, one division of what might become a massive buildup of American force. Pershing’s energy was fueled by the reports that flowed out of Washington. Congress had responded to Wilson’s declaration of war with unbridled support, and vast sums of money had already been allocated to fund the military expansion. It was gratifying to Pershing that the politicians seemed to be aware that sending American troops to France would require an enormous mobilization of men and equipment that the country had not seen since the Civil War.
As the train rolled through the last remnants of a long day, his mind began to let go, to focus more on the lush greenery of the Virginia countryside, and finally, the lights of the city, the train rumbling onto the bridge across the Potomac. There would be nothing else for him to do today. Tomorrow was another story.
WASHINGTON D.C.—MAY 10, 1917
He had gone first to see his father-in-law, the unavoidable responsibility, an obligation that was so much more than simple courtesy. The visit had been cordial and blessedly