To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [131]
“They cannot be serious.”
Baker tossed the letters toward him, the pages spreading across his desk.
“Oh, but they are, General. And I have a feeling that this is just the beginning, the first volley, if you will.”
“I cannot believe Marshal Joffre would know of this.”
“Of course he does. He offered us a prediction of this very thing. Rules of diplomacy, General. He cannot simply tell us everything he knows. You had better get used to that. You must learn to sift through the talk to understand the meaning of what is being said. Forgive me, General, I do not mean to lecture you. But you will discover that men in positions of power often have a well-developed skill at saying one thing and intending another. Marshal Joffre is well aware of the orders you have been given. I can’t be certain, but I felt as though he was measuring you. Likely, they will all do that, each man pushing against your backbone, to see how much you will bend. I don’t mean to embarrass you, General, but I believe you passed Joffre’s test. I think he was pleased with what he saw.” Baker pushed the folders toward him, gathered the papers together. “From the contents of these letters, it seems apparent that our allies intend to push you harder than I predicted. Make no mistake that regardless of what kind of absurd expectations our allies place upon you, your command is the army of the United States of America. You will facilitate the final training of your troops by the means you deem most effective, and you will place your men in the field under your own terms. Neither the president nor I will ever suggest that you be dictated to by our allies.”
Pershing could hear anger in Baker’s voice, matching his own.
“Sir, I have no intention of allowing my command to become a recruiting agency for either the British or the French.”
Baker seemed to cool, said, “No, of course not. I am simply astounded by the presumption of their demands. I fear that once you establish your headquarters, you will be bombarded by this sort of pressure. Joffre is right. They will attempt mightily to seduce you.”
Pershing reached out, pulled the papers together, straightened the pile. “Sir, I assure you. They will not succeed.”
NEW YORK HARBOR—MAY 28, 1917
They moved with as much discretion as the operation would allow, Pershing’s entire staff and support personnel making the trip to New York dressed in civilian clothes. The War Department had been warned of German spy activity all around New York, and the possibility of someone having a line of communication to a German submarine carried the potential for disaster.
Pershing gathered the men on the wharf, prepared them to board the tender that would carry them out to the pier at Governors Island. He followed their anxious looks, every man scanning the rooftops along the waterfront, aware that army sharpshooters were discreetly in place, prepared to intercept any threat to the general and his staff. Pershing felt the same churning excitement as his men, waited as each man stepped aboard the tender. He would go over on the first boat, Major Harbord leading the second. Pershing watched as the seats were filled, one last space reserved for him, and he nodded silently to Harbord, moved quickly down the short plank.
The tender began to move, belching a thick cloud of black smoke, swirling the water behind them, the boat moving away from the dock. He did not try to hide his excitement, could not stay seated, pulled himself up, braced himself