To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [133]
HE HAD PLANNED SMALL GAPS OF TIME IN HIS CAREFULLY STRUCTURED schedule, just enough to allow a short stroll on the deck of the gently rolling ship. He had stepped gingerly across the slick wetness of the deck, but his boots did not have grip, and he moved to the rail, one hand gripping the freshly painted steel cable that lined the bow. He stared out through the fog, tried to find some hint of a horizon. The fog was washing along the sides of the ship, rising up and over the deck, more chilling wetness, and he looked out over the rail, saw the spreading wake as the ship cut slowly through smooth black water. He stared straight down, thought, How deep? Not feet. Fathoms. A great many fathoms, probably. I should take a look at the chart. Well, perhaps not. Some things are best unknown.
He had already seen men who would not sleep in the confinement of their small quarters, who would suffer the discomfort of a thin hard blanket, just to be near the stairways. Many of the men had never been at sea, knew only what they read, the horrific tales of U-boat attacks, mass drownings, the names of those ships that inspired the fear: Lusitania, Arabic, Hesperian. Some of the men were more afraid of the fragility of the ship itself than they were of enemy U-boats, speaking to themselves in soft whispers of names like Titanic. Pershing tolerated their uneasiness, would never order a man to confront his most irrational fears. Pershing understood himself that U-boats were as real as any menace these men might ever encounter. To deny that was foolishness.
He kept his own mind focused on the job at hand, all the challenges of assembling the headquarters. The First Division would be embarking only a few weeks behind them, would arrive in France through seaports that Pershing had never seen, twenty-seven thousand men making their way finally to facilities provided by the French, where they would complete their combat training. Pershing’s first responsibility would be to those men, to guaranteeing that what the French offered was genuine, that the housing and supply depots even existed at all. The First was mostly regular army, consisting of the regiments that Pershing himself had selected, some of them veterans of Mexico, the units that he had once believed would be his only command. Now, their designation carried more significance than Pershing could ever have predicted. The First Division would be the first American army unit ever to set foot in Europe, would most likely be the first Americans in the combat zone of the Western Front.
He kept his gaze downward, tried to measure the ship’s speed, guessed, ten knots, maybe less. The lack of progress was frustrating.
“Ah, General. I thought that was you. Saw you from the bridge.”
Pershing saw the figure of the man moving toward him through the fog, knew the voice before he saw the face.
“Captain Finch. No need for you to come down. I took a stroll. Had a few minutes to spare.”
“No problem, a’tall, General. Love the fog, truly do. No U-boats about, for certain. Jerry can’t see for damned in this stuff any better than we can. Makes for a slow but carefree voyage, if you know what I mean. Won’t last though. We get close to Iceland, we’ll start the old zigzag. Should pick up a destroyer escort thereabouts.”
Finch always brought a smile to Pershing that he tried to hide. The man was near Pershing’s age, had been at sea all his life, knew his ship like most men know their own beds. Finch spoke