To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [126]
Baker seemed to wait for him, and Pershing was surprised at the magnitude of the office, wide, oval-shaped, a broad expanse of windows, and behind the desk, Woodrow Wilson.
Pershing drew to a stiff halt, stood at attention, waited for instructions, saw Wilson pointing to a chair without looking up. Baker sat, looked at Pershing, smiled, pointed to another chair, said, “General, um, at ease. There is no need for you to remain standing.”
Pershing continued to watch Wilson, who was still focused on the papers on his desk. Wilson picked up a pen, scratched his signature, looked at Baker now, said, “Railroads. They insist that I personalize every contract. Annoying men and their petty demands.”
Baker laughed, said, “I’m certain that one of them has a room entirely decorated with your letters, sir. You’re merely supplying his hobby.”
Wilson didn’t acknowledge Baker’s humor, looked to one side, pointed to a stack of papers, said, “We have a serious problem with the tonnage available for transport. The British are being dog stubborn about it. I’ve been urging the shipping people to jump into this with a bit more enthusiasm. Like trying to start a fire with a bucket of water. Ridiculous. Only way I can get any activity out of them is to sweeten their piece of the pie. I’m discovering that when you toss these industrialists the notion of a war, they begin to drool like so many children at a candy shop.”
Baker said, “They’ll come around, sir. The entire country is behind this.”
Wilson seemed to squint at Baker, nodded, said, “More or less. But I’ve learned already that we need the proper men in the proper position if we expect any real action. Forgive me, Newton, but most of us government fellows have been far too isolated from the actual workings of commerce. It has been brought to my attention that if we want to mobilize this nation, we must approach it as a business. If you want industry to cooperate, you must show them that they are going to turn a profit. We require ships. The shipbuilders require incentive to comply. Whoever believes patriotism is fuel enough is sadly misled.”
Pershing hung on Wilson’s words, was surprised by the man’s pale skin, his words coming in short labored bursts, breathless, a man who seemed totally exhausted. Wilson looked at him now, said, “Sorry to bore you with all this complaining, General. I suppose we should be formally introduced.”
Pershing stood abruptly, and Baker said, “Mr. President, may I present Major General John Pershing.”
Wilson leaned back in the chair, and Pershing held himself stiffly upright, didn’t know what to do. Wilson said, “Oh, please sit down, General. There are no photographers here. You’re making my back hurt.”
Pershing saw a smile on Baker’s face, eased into the chair again.
Wilson said, “General, we are giving you some very difficult tasks these days.”
Pershing glanced at Baker again, said, “Perhaps so, Mr. President. But that is what we are trained to expect.”
“You performed admirably in Mexico, General. Difficult tasks there as well. Or impossible. You caused this nation, and me, no embarrassment, which, in that situation, was perhaps the most important responsibility you had. Quite a different situation now. I imagine the French and the British have embarrassment enough to contend with. That shall not be our concern. I’m not especially cautious about what the newspapers have to say anymore. It’s the one advantage to serving out a second term. Though my enemies may continue to molest me in the public press, I can now ignore them. In this office, there is too much priority given to reelection, so much time spent by a first-term president watching his every step. The draft, for example. Some would say that was political suicide. You see the photograph in the newspapers, General? Embarrassing, to say the least. They put a blindfold on me like I was a ten-year-old playing some party game, had me choose the first lottery