To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [112]
During their shared duty in Texas, Pershing had become well acquainted with Patton’s family, had developed a friendly correspondence with Patton’s father-in-law, Frederick Ayer, a wealthy New England industrialist. But Pershing’s acquaintance with the young lieutenant had opened the way to another relationship that had caught Pershing completely off guard. It had been less than two years since the death of his wife, and he had poured so much of himself into his work as the only salve that could hold the awful pain away. Pershing had rarely been a sociable man in the first place, and no one would ever have suggested that the recently widowed man should make any attempt to fill that emotional gap in his life. But then, he had met Patton’s sister, Nita.
It could easily have become the stuff of scandal, and both Pershing and Nita knew enough about social chatter to maintain discretion. When they met, Nita was only twenty-nine, not much more than half his age. Neither of them had expectations of romance, and as their relationship continued to grow more serious, he could not help wondering why a charming and pretty young woman would be drawn to a crusty old soldier. No one had been more surprised at their connection than the young Lieutenant Patton, and if Pershing had any fears about the dangers of idle gossip, he soon discovered that George Patton was the perfect weapon against anyone’s indiscreet talk. Patton could exude a fierce athleticism that would intimidate any man in Pershing’s command. To Pershing’s immense gratification, the young man had made it very clear to everyone in the headquarters that the general’s private life was precisely that.
Pershing led the young man to a small table in the corner of the lobby, and they sat, Patton keeping himself stiffly upright, something Pershing encouraged in all his officers. Both men sat quietly for a moment, and Pershing knew that Patton would never speak until Pershing resumed the conversation. He glanced up, saw a couple descending the staircase, waited for them to pass by, saw Patton staring ahead. Pershing smiled slightly, thought, Neither one of us does this sort of chitchat very well.
He had always felt a strange kinship to the young man, saw so much of himself in every habit Patton had, felt above all else that he could trust him. Pershing was beginning to understand that in Washington, trust might be a rare commodity. He glanced around the lobby again, saw no one who might overhear, said, “Have you prepared Beatrice for the probability that you will be leaving soon for France?”
Patton seemed to snap awake. “Absolutely, sir. She knows well my responsibilities.”
Pershing grunted, saw Patton looking at him, a question in the young man’s eyes.
“Lieutenant, permit me to be blunt. I’m not certain I know my responsibilities, much less yours. I have detected a reluctance in this place for anyone to actually . . . do anything. It is puzzling. I don’t pretend to know everything that must take place to create a force of arms sufficient to our needs. But I believe I know how to begin the process. The word is mobilization. Simply put, Lieutenant, we require motion, organization, the appointment of men in the proper position who have the authority and the ability to get things done. Everything from artillery to boots, from rifles to rations, every detail must be addressed.”
“Yes, sir. Most definitely, sir.”
Pershing glanced around the lobby again, saw a desk clerk now, the man tending to his paperwork. Pershing leaned forward, his arm on the table, his voice in a whisper.
“Nothing is happening, Lieutenant.