To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [109]
He waited now in a quiet office, manned by a single sergeant at a reception desk. The room was strangely quiet, and Pershing watched the sergeant, who seemed to perform his particular function with an emphasis on absolute silence. He had seen officers in the hallways, men moving about with casual politeness, acknowledging each other with a friendly nod. A few had offered the same gesture toward him, nameless men in identical uniforms. Pershing had moved through them at his usual pace, brisk short steps, did not speak to anyone, had been energized by the surroundings, as he was by his expectations. On the train, he had imagined his arrival there, marching through the hallways that would bring him to the office of the army chief of staff. He had expected a steady flow of activity and energy, an atmosphere he had tried to inject into his own command in Texas. It had always been a challenge, the combination of the duty and the climate oppressive enough to drain the fire from any man, except perhaps Pershing himself. But this was Washington, the very origin of power for everything he served. He could not help feeling the odd lethargy that seemed to surround the officers he encountered now, men moving with a leisurely stroll, seemingly unaffected by the monumental events of the past few weeks, virtually ignoring this new man in their midst, who marched sprightly past them, his boots echoing down the vast hallways.
He had imagined General Scott’s office to be a chaotic hub of activity, had anticipated working his way into the rhythm of an enormous vortex of policy and decision making carrying his country toward their first engagement of the war. But the fantasy had slipped away. As he stared at the quiet sergeant, he began to fidget, a nervous habit, had nothing to keep his hands occupied. He tried to see details of anything on the man’s desk, some bit of work, wondered now if the man was actually doing anything at all.
“Ah, General Pershing! Welcome! Excellent, do come in!”
Pershing stood, saw the familiar rigid pose of Hugh Scott. Scott was older than Pershing by a dozen years, but he still maintained the posture of a commander. He held out a hand, which Pershing accepted.
Pershing followed Scott into the brightly lit office, tall windows on two walls, the sunshine adding heat to a room that was already stiflingly hot.
“Quite a job in front of us, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Scott nodded, as if speaking to himself, ran a finger across the thick gray brush of his moustache. “Not like Mexico, I suspect.”
Pershing waited for more, then said, “No, sir.”
“It’s an honor, you know. Quite a responsibility for you. You will command a full division. Some people around here think that’s a new idea, that all we’ve ever had in this army is an organization of regiments. Disgraceful ignorance of our own history. People don’t realize that what we’re putting into place has been done before. It’s the legacy of men like Sherman and Hancock, men who understood that a division must be the foundation of the modern army. Are you prepared, General?”
“Quite so, sir. I’ve been working on the details. Going through the process of selecting those regiments I feel are most appropriate—”
Scott held up his hand, “Yes, yes. Certainly. You may discuss that with General Bliss. I have every confidence that you will assemble the kind of fighting unit our allies are expecting from us.” He paused. “I wish it was me, you know. I’d give anything to lead men into this war. It’s what every old soldier here hopes for. I spent the best part of my career chasing Indians. Something to be proud of, I suppose. But, not like this, John. Nothing like this.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best, sir.”
“I don’t imagine you’ve heard much of the talk