To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [114]
Pershing had heard the word too many times, commitment. He looked down for a moment, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Secretary, and I mean no disrespect. But I was called to Washington because I was to be given command of a combat division to be designated for assignment to France. Those are the only specific instructions I have received.”
“The first combat division, General. Be clear. No one was selected before you.”
“All right, sir. The first. Thus far I have spent considerable thought appraising those regiments which I believe should compose that division. I believe the men under my command can be made ready in a short time.” He paused, could see Baker staring at him with full attention, something he was not used to. “Mr. Secretary, I have not yet seen anyone else doing what I have been asked to do. No one, from the chief of staff on down, has provided me with any tangible orders. I have tried to find out if my division is to be a part of a larger force, and if so, how much larger. No one seems to know. I have tried to learn how exactly my division is to be equipped, if, for example, we are to put into the field a number of machine-gun units similar to what the British employ. Not only can I not find the answer, but no one in the Ordnance Department seems clear on what kind of machine guns we are to use in the first place. I have inquired of the quartermaster general how long it will require his department to furnish sufficient uniforms, boots, rations, backpacks, canteens, gas masks, and what not, before my men are fully prepared to sail for France. He has told me in plain language . . . he doesn’t know.” He felt his anger rising, tried to hold it tightly in his clenched fists. “Mr. Secretary, I appreciate your pledge of commitment to our efforts. I would be much more confident of our success if I heard less about commitment and more about activity.” He stopped, clamped his jaw tightly shut, closed his eyes for a brief second, thought, Too far, dammit. Too far. This is not the place—
“General Pershing, I believe I can address several of your concerns. First of all, you are quite correct that there is lethargy in Washington. It’s a disease that infects the comfortable. When I was appointed to this position, I discovered quickly that the offices around me were staffed primarily by men who spent long hours contemplating their eventual retirement, men who would do very little to disturb the calm waters of government.”
Baker retrieved a piece of paper from the drawer, held it up, said, “General Pershing, I have here the preliminary draft of an order the president and I have been constructing. It is not yet complete in its details, but it will be soon. Every observation you have offered me is essentially the same as I have experienced. Like you, General, I am not pleased. And the president is not pleased either. However, I assure you, wheels are beginning to turn. The machinery is coming to life. The president is, even now, summoning some of the most influential corporate and industrial leaders in this nation. Congress has appropriated the necessary funds. The American people are firmly behind the president’s declaration of war. What I find most distressing is that the lack of activity for which you have so little patience is found right here, in my own department. The men whose job it is to organize the army into a viable force are the very men who seem unwilling or uncertain how to begin the process.” Baker paused, thought a moment. “Do you know what embarrassment is, General?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I’m not so certain. Let me define it for you. When the president confided in his closest advisers his determination to respond to the increasingly dangerous moves by the Germans, he pointed a finger in my direction and inquired if the military minds in this department had considered any kind of specific plan for mobilizing the armed forces of this country. I was forced to respond that the only plan anyone had brought to my attention was a carefully crafted strategy for our potential invasion of Canada.”
Pershing felt his