To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [127]
“Yes, sir. Under the circumstances, it is an efficient means of bringing a large number of men into immediate training.” Wilson seemed to weigh his response, nodded, looked at Baker. Pershing felt words rising up inside him, said, “Mr. President, if I may . . . I would suggest that the draftees be kept separate from the regular army units. It would make their training more efficient. Otherwise, there could be unhealthy competition within units, a display of elitism from the regulars that would only cause problems of discipline.”
Wilson looked at him, thought a moment, said, “Whatever you think is best, General. It’s your command.”
There was a quiet pause, and Wilson glanced over to the pile of papers. Baker said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. President. Your schedule is certainly busy these days.”
Baker stood, and Pershing followed his lead, was surprised by the abruptness of the meeting. Wilson leaned forward now, and Pershing saw tired sadness in the man’s eyes. Wilson nodded, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow night, Newton. A considerable gathering of African diplomats will be joining us for dinner. They are mightily pleased we are intending to rid their continent of the German menace. Not for you to worry, General. I don’t intend to send you to Africa. It’s simply another exercise in diplomacy.”
Baker made a short bow, moved away, and Pershing saw Wilson returning to his papers. He was uncomfortable now, felt something missing, had expected much more. He glanced at Baker, who waited for him at the entranceway, looked again at Wilson.
“Mr. President, please allow me to say . . . I appreciate the honor you have conferred upon me . . . the assignment you have given me. I realize the responsibility it entails. You may count on the best that is in me, sir.”
Wilson looked up, nodded slowly, said, “General, you were chosen for this task entirely on the basis of your record, and I have every confidence you will succeed. You have my full support.” He paused. “Oh, General, when you complete your journey, should the occasion arise, please offer my personal respects to both King George and President Poincaré.”
“Certainly, sir. Thank you.”
He spun around, followed Baker out of the office, and Baker kept moving, led him out toward the main entrance, the Marines obliging by opening the doors. They were outside now, the afternoon sun hovering over the Potomac.
Baker stopped, turned to him, held the same smile. “Nicely done, General. You’ve impressed him.”
Pershing was confused, said, “How? We didn’t discuss . . . I was anticipating some orders from him, details of what he expected me to do.”
Baker looked back toward the grand façade, the rows of tall columns that lined the entranceway of the White House.
“Tomorrow, General. I’ll have your orders in my office. Allow me to send a compliment your way. It is quite likely that the president appreciates that in all the myriad details he must contend with, between all the various industries that must supply our efforts, all the politicians who must be caressed, our allies, who are already thrusting their self-interests into his administration . . . General, it may be that the president feels as I do. Neither one of us expects that we will have to peer over your shoulder at every instance. You are the one man we can depend on to simply do his job.”
THE ROSTER OF OFFICERS WHO WOULD MAKE UP HIS STAFF WAS nearly complete, the result of long days examining the records of dozens of capable young men. But they were not all young. For the critical position as his chief of staff, Pershing had chosen an old friend from his long service in the Philippines, Major James Harbord. Harbord had been in the army for more than twenty-five years, had served with Pershing in the Tenth Cavalry. Of all the applicants Pershing had considered,