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By Root 2558 0

suits, a group from some local college. He watched them for a moment, the young men paddling their rowboats into some kind of formation. Before this war is over, he thought, we may need all of you to go to France. There must be a better reason, a deeper inspiration than the simple call to arms, the great rallying around the flag. Teddy Roosevelt would inspire you by his energy, by the wonderful fantasy that if you joined him, he would lead you every step of the way, the great man out in front, sword held high, crushing his enemies, invincible, making you invincible as well. He is a symbol, and no one understands that more than he does. But symbols are not enough, not anymore. If we are to have any kind of impact on this war, we must change the very flow, the very nature of what is happening there. I cannot tell any man that he can serve us best by crawling into a hole and waiting for the enemy to find him. If I am to lead an army, I must be able to look those men in the eye, and convince them that they can rise up and charge the machine guns. I must convince those college boys to put all their dreams aside, their bright futures, and join us in our efforts. And the only way I can ever expect them to follow me is if I can show them that we can win.

WASHINGTON D.C.—MAY 24, 1917

He scanned each one of the portraits that lined the walls, could not help feeling intimidated by the history around him. There was activity in every direction, very different from what he had seen at the War Department. Now, the men were civilians, smartly dressed, moving with the crisp efficiency of responsibility. He watched them, thought, What must it be like to be here every day, to work closely to the center of so much importance? He looked back toward the entrance doors, saw two Marines in dress uniforms, the only other military men he had seen. They seemed to be watching him, stoic and unsmiling, and he nodded to them, reflex, shared the soldier’s inherent respect for the elite class of fighting man. Yes, if I lived in the White House, I would want those men watching my door as well.

For several days he had wondered if Wilson would summon him, would require a face-to-face meeting to bolster his confidence in this man who was to lead his army. Pershing had no idea what Wilson was like, or whether he might have some trait that Wilson would suddenly find objectionable. The president might still reconsider, he thought, might still regard me as one candidate among several.

He could not avoid the nagging doubts, had felt himself sucked into the vortex of intrigue that swirled through the capital, thought, How much pressure is Wilson under, how many of the old soldiers in this place have voiced their displeasure at my selection? He was still not comfortable with the thought of so many ruffled feathers huffing around the War Department, all the senior commanders who had been passed over for this extraordinary command. The talk had been muted, at least in Pershing’s presence. But they might be unleashing their rage right here, right into the face of Woodrow Wilson.

The door was pulled open, and Pershing glanced out to see more Marines, the men who had saluted him as he entered. They stood back, holding the door, and Pershing saw Baker, the small man stepping quickly, moving right past him.

“Let’s go, General. The president abhors tardiness even more than I do.”

Pershing obeyed, allowed Baker to lead him through the hallways the secretary had walked many times before. They stopped at a large office, and Baker moved toward a reception desk, said something to an unsmiling young man, who stood, disappeared quickly through a doorway that was flanked by another pair of Marines. Pershing began to feel more nervous now, fidgeted with his jacket, adjusting what was already perfect. The man emerged from the doorway, said, “Mr. Secretary, the president will see you now.”

The young man returned to his desk, had not even looked at Pershing. Baker was already moving through the door, and Pershing followed, glanced at the Marines, caught one looking back