To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [134]
Finch moved up to the rail beside him, said, “Some of your chaps are a bit uneasy. Nothing to worry about. I’ve brought quite a few blokes across this stretch of soup. Ha’nt lost a soul yet. Good crew. It’s gettin’ harder to replace ’em though. Damned army keeps haulin’ ’em off to get blown to hell.”
“I’m keeping them occupied. We have far too much work to do. The more we can get accomplished on board ship, the further along we’ll be when we get to France.”
Finch slapped the rail, turned, looked across the deck.
“If you want, I can give ’em my usual lecture. They should know that there’s little to be worried about from Jerry. Most men who die out here don’t drown. They freeze to death first.”
Pershing wasn’t sure if Finch was teasing him or not. “Thank you, Captain. We’ll manage.”
“You been to sea, have you, General?”
“Yes. The Far East.”
“Ah, o’ course. Your tidy little war with the Spaniards. How ’bout Europe? You oughta take a trip to the Mediterranean sometimes. After this war’s past, though. Not such a fine idea these days.”
Pershing had kept the thought sealed tightly away, could not avoid it now.
“I’ve been across the Atlantic. With my family.”
“Ah, now, that’s nice. Holiday, then?”
Pershing did not answer, did not want to have this conversation. After a long moment he said, “When I left the Philippines, we came the long route. Had a lengthy holiday before we left Europe. A few years ago.”
Finch studied him, said, “Not a pleasant memory?”
Pershing stood up straight, his hands releasing the rail. “Sorry, Captain. I don’t mean to be rude. Might we change the subject?”
“My apologies, General. I had best be gettin’ back to the bridge anyhow. It’ll be dark soon. Change of shift.”
Finch backed away, and Pershing stared into the fog again, said in a low voice, “Thank you, Captain.”
It had been nine years since he had made the journey back to America by way of Europe. It was a much-needed vacation, an extraordinary opportunity for his wife and their two young daughters to see a part of the world so different from anything he had experienced, or anything they could ever imagine. Once they had returned to the States, Frances had given birth to two more children: a third daughter, and their son, Warren. Finch’s innocent question had stirred that awful place inside of him, the memories he did so much to erase. Warren was with Pershing’s sister, the eight-year-old held purposely out of the public eye. It was the unfortunate necessity now, the horrifying possibility of some enemy, German or otherwise, assaulting the general by assaulting his only remaining child.
Pershing stared again into the darkening fog, held tightly to the rail, closed his eyes for a brief moment. He glanced up toward the bridge, thought of Finch, of the man’s kindness. I should apologize. He has no idea. No reason for me to be rude.
He glanced at his watch, thought of the schedule, the next meeting with Harbord. He let go of the rail now, turned, moved carefully across the wetness on the deck, made his way to the stairs.
AS The BALTIC PLIED HER WAY SLOWLY EASTWARD, IN WASHINGTON, the streets and offices were coming alive with activity, a flood of citizenry who responded to Wilson’s entreaties, calls that appealed both to patriotism and pragmatism. All across the nation, the government began to rally all those who could perform the services that would ultimately prepare the country for the sacrifices and costs of the war. From food to fuel, textiles to hardware, to the creation of training facilities to house the vastly increasing number of young recruits, the entire country had begun to accept the