To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [129]
Pershing said nothing, waited for Joffre to speak. The old man seemed uncomfortable in his chair, shifted his large frame to one side, said, “I am supposed to be pleased that my government has found a place for me. My official title is chairman of the French Mission to America. It is a kind description for a man who has been put up on a shelf.” Pershing sorted through the man’s syrupy accent, didn’t know how to respond. Joffre shifted in the chair again, said, “Forgive me for getting to the point, General. If you are not offended, may I offer you some advice?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“I am told you are a man who does not enjoy the sound of his own voice. In France, that will make you the exception. I believe it will also serve you well.” Joffre chuckled now, put a hand on his round stomach. “Forgive an old man his memories, General. When I was in school, very young, and not so . . . large, there was a group of older boys, a nasty lot, who enjoyed taking advantage, what you would call a bully. I had been abused by these boys for some time, several of my friends as well. I grew tired of explaining to my father why I had bruises on my face. It does a boy no good to have his father accuse him of cowardice. So I devised a plan. I found a weapon, a short piece of stout wood. I hid it in the brush, where I had been assaulted many times. I imagined the event over and over in my mind that I would launch into my enemies with screaming fury, bashing them to bloody submission. I believed it to be a perfect plan. One day, they were waiting for me, and instead of submitting to their beating, I quickly retrieved my weapon from its hiding place. I ran at them like some madman, swinging the stick wildly, shouting all manner of threats, fully intending to gain my revenge. One of the boys jumped at me and pulled the stick from my hands, and just like that, I was defenseless again. They found my exhibition so amusing that after that, they left me alone. But I will never forget the boy’s words. He said, ‘Next time, get a bigger stick.’ ” Joffre paused, cocked one eye at Pershing. “Forgive me, General. Old men talk too much. You do not understand my meaning.”
Pershing glanced at Baker, who was watching Joffre with silent respect. Pershing said, “On the contrary, sir. You are telling me that if I am to achieve any respect in France, I must have the weapons.”
“Very good, General. That is exactly what I am telling you. There is much speculation what America can bring to this war. There are hopes and there are doubts. It will be up to you, and your people, to show all of us what kind of ally America can be. I must warn you as well. All the loud men, civilians and generals, they will try to seduce you. You are the young maiden, descending into a labyrinth of power, jealousy, and mistrust. Forgive the description, General, but I know of no other that describes what you are yet to experience. My country and the English are both desperate for the weapons you can bring to this war. Both sides will claim that their needs are the greatest, that their sacrifice has been the most painful. Both will call on you to offer up your men to their army first. And they will test you. They will want to see how big is the stick you wield, and they will seek out your weakness. I see you have a stiff back, General. Your resolve must be stiff as well. Already, my government is making its demands. I am certain the English are as well.”
Baker said, “I was prepared to discuss that with the general today, Marshal Joffre.”
“Of course. That is not my affair. Forgive me, Mr. Secretary. I have talked for too long. I am now trespassing.”
“Not at all, sir.”
Joffre pulled himself up from the chair, and Pershing stood as well.