To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [124]
The former president was the most popular public figure of his day, and had been the loudest voice criticizing Woodrow Wilson for his policy of American neutrality. Pershing had served under Roosevelt in Cuba, and like every officer in Roosevelt’s command, Pershing shared the respect and affection for the man who had become an iconic hero to the American people. But Roosevelt was past his time, the words in his letter reflecting what Roosevelt himself knew to be true. Pershing was surprised by the man’s hope for a senior command, as though by his status alone he could once again lead an army. It gnawed at Pershing that it might be his task to deny Roosevelt’s request by offering a carefully worded lesson that Roosevelt himself must surely know. Longevity is not a qualification for ability. But there was more to Roosevelt’s request than some search for a final day in the sun, and it brought home to Pershing how the army had changed. Roosevelt had been vocal in promoting his own efforts to raise a division of volunteer soldiers, with himself in command. The news was trumpeted loudly by the popular press, and Pershing had little doubt that a sizable number of men would rally to the great man’s call. It was reminiscent of the problems that had plagued the army during the Civil War, and before, popular public figures placing themselves at the head of their own troops. From George Washington to Robert E. Lee, military leaders had found themselves dealing with personalities instead of leadership, and in nearly every case, personality had not been enough. Eventually, even the most popular political figure had been swept aside, defeated by his inability to do the job. As much as Pershing loved Teddy Roosevelt, the old man’s request had to be rejected.
Roosevelt’s letter, and his public campaign on his own behalf had taught Pershing a hard lesson. From his first hours of receiving his new responsibility, he had found himself thinking of the men who had filled this role before him: Washington, Winfield Scott, Ulysses Grant, each man in his own time confronted by a job that required the one ingredient most of the old guard in their armies would not understand. Each one of them must surely have made the same observation, Washington at Trenton, Scott at Mexico City, Grant at Petersburg. Each had been successful because each one understood that he faced a war that was different from any that had been fought before. He stared at Roosevelt’s letter, thought, The nature of war has changed yet again, and the men who gained their experience twenty years ago might not be the men who can adapt. There is always technology to contend with, new weaponry, communication, new ways of moving troops. But nothing in our training has prepared us for what is happening in France. In the Civil War, generals committed their men to slaughter because they did not understand the power of the rifled musket. Now, there is the machine gun, poison gas, the grenade, the flamethrower, even the aeroplane, so much deadly genius, so many new and efficient ways of killing. For all the death and horror of this war, the only adaptation those generals have made is to dig deeper holes in the ground, protect the foot soldier by hiding him. Both sides have accepted that the best response to the new technology is defense. And so, three years later, no one has any idea how to make it end.
He set Roosevelt’s letter aside, stood, moved to the window, stared out into sunlight. There was a gathering of small boats on the Potomac, men in white