To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [113]
“May I speak freely, sir?”
“I have opened the door, George. You may step through.”
“You have not once mentioned Mr. Wilson, sir. Is it not the responsibility of the president to begin the process? Should not the policy and the energy come from him?”
Pershing knew that, like so many of the officers who had been in Mexico, Patton had little respect for Woodrow Wilson.
“Correct. But the president must delegate.”
“Has he? You have said yourself that no one is designated to command the effort. How does this nation build an army that for a generation has been allowed to dissolve itself? Except for the Southern Department, of course. But sir, someone must make the important decisions, and that has to begin with the president. The man lacks iron, General. He always has. You know how I feel. It was the same with William Jennings Bryan. A suitable secretary of state for a country that intends on becoming the world’s punching bag. At least Mr. Bryan had the decency to resign. But Woodrow Wilson . . . any man who claims he is too proud to fight . . . forgive me, sir, but that is a coward’s boast.”
“Enough, George. I am aware of your feelings about the president.”
“You gave me permission to speak freely, sir.”
“Freedom is reliant on wisdom, Lieutenant. Regardless of what we believe to be his errors, President Wilson is still our commander in chief. I cannot allow such talk in my presence.”
“Of course, sir. My apologies.”
“Apologies are not necessary. What I would prefer is to find some breath of fresh air in this city that would allow me to prove you wrong.”
He looked toward the door, saw a man in uniform moving quickly toward the reception desk. Patton watched as well, and Pershing stood, said, “Appears to be a courier. Perhaps he is looking for me.”
He saw the clerk point in his direction, and the soldier saw him now, stepped crisply in his direction, saluted, said, “Forgive me, sir. Are you General Pershing?”
“Yes.”
The man handed him a piece of paper, said, “This is for you, sir. Secretary Baker requests your presence, at your earliest convenience.”
Pershing unfolded the paper, saw the same request in writing. He looked at Patton, said, “Excuse me, Lieutenant. Another meeting to attend.”
THE MARINE HELD THE DOOR OPEN, WAITED FOR PERSHING TO STEP through, then closed it firmly behind him. He expected another gathering of army brass and gray suits, was surprised to see Baker by himself, dwarfed by the man’s wide desk.
“Please take a seat, General.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Baker was looking at a stack of papers on his desk, slid them into a drawer now, said, “You need to know something about me, General. Despite what you may have heard, this office is firmly committed to waging war on the enemy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Baker tilted his head forward, smiled. “Don’t believe me, right?”
Pershing wasn’t sure what to say, and Baker still smiled, leaned back in his chair.
“I’m not just talking about the Germans. There are enemies to our commitment right here, in Washington, and I’m not talking about spies and such. Perhaps you’ve already encountered some of the problems we face.”
Pershing felt a screaming need for caution, said nothing. Baker seemed to appraise him for a moment, pulled open a drawer beneath his desktop, retrieved a piece of paper.
“Despite the insults and criticism so many of your colleagues are spewing about with such vigor, the president is genuinely committed to providing the means to win