To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [132]
In minutes, the journey was complete. He boarded at the waterline, moved quickly through the bowels of the ship, caught the stale odor, the odd smells that filled the lower decks of every ship, carrying him back to his days in the Philippines, the memories of long tedious hours on the Pacific. He climbed the stairway, reached the open deck, welcomed the fresh air. He moved to the rail, looked down at the wharf, where the supplies had been piled. The longshoremen moved with rapid efficiency, and Pershing recognized some of the crates and boxes, all the equipment and matériel his men would need to establish his first headquarters. The crates had been brought to New York as inconspicuously as the men themselves, but he saw writing now, large bold letters, realized that every pallet on the wharf had been marked, clearly identified with the words: General Pershing’s Headquarters—France.
He felt a cold turn in his gut, looked out toward the open waters of the Atlantic. How long had those crates been just . . . sitting there, for anyone to observe? He turned away, his back against the rail, looked across the deck of the ship, saw the black wisp of smoke from the second tender, Harbord and the rest of the staff now on board as well. Men in civilian dress were coming up on deck, seeking the fresh air, and Pershing looked down at his own gray suit, his clever disguise for this oh-so-secret of departures.
“Sir!” He saw Harbord now, the man puffing from the climb, and Harbord rushed to the rail, pointed, “There. I didn’t see them until the tender had docked.”
The music began now, and Pershing could see the band, a dozen bright gleaming instruments, a formation of guards holding a large billowing American flag. His men were lining the rails now, all staring down at the unexpected salute. The notes echoed up and over the ship, drifting across the open water, carried by the breeze, to any audience who might happen to hear. They were playing “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
“Good God. Who ordered that?”
“I don’t know, sir. But it appears they had plenty of preparation. They may have been here for hours waiting for us.”
Pershing looked back toward the city, thought of the newspapermen, so wonderfully cooperative, agreeing to print nothing of Pershing’s schedule, no mention of his departure, what would certainly be the most monumental piece of news a New York paper could print this day. He endured the final notes of the music, heard cheering from the wharf, could not look at it, wondered who else was hearing it as well. Now there was a sharp thundering roar, and he spun around, heard Harbord saying something, pointing again. Pershing saw the smoke, the battery on Governors Island unleashing the full fury of their guns, their own salute to the general’s voyage. Pershing lowered his head, closed his eyes, felt the vibration beneath his feet, the cannon continuing their thunderous ovation. After a long minute, it was over, and Pershing looked at Harbord, was surprised to see the man chuckling.
Harbord said, “Excuse me, sir. May we have permission to change into our uniforms again? I believe our secret is out.”
AT SEA—MAY 30, 1917
They sailed by way of Halifax, the ship delayed by the thickest bank of fog Pershing had ever seen. He had already begun the assemblies and meetings, the schedules posted for the department heads and their smaller staffs, the men becoming more familiar with their specific duties, the training that had begun first in Washington. They were not the only passengers on the Baltic, and Pershing was delighted to meet a number of British and Canadian officers, veterans, men who were generous enough to relate their various experiences to the Americans. The ship had become one great floating office building, conference rooms and classrooms, the staff adapting quickly to Pershing’s expectations of their roles.