To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [136]
“Certainly, Admiral.”
He followed Stileman along the first row of troops, each man standing stiffly at attention. As he walked slowly beside the admiral, he saw that some of the Fusiliers wore the chevrons that signified a wound, some men displaying more than one of the insignia that carried such grim meaning. Of course, he thought, a unit of this much stature in the British army would have been among the first to go to the front. These men are veterans, as were those who climbed that hill in Boston. History indeed. Stileman leaned close to one of the soldiers, said something, a low sharp critique of the man’s collar. Pershing noticed nothing wrong with the man’s uniform, suspected that Stileman was putting on something of a show for him. He moved behind the first row, could see the backs of the uniforms now, the strip of antique cloth Stileman had referred to. Of course, he thought, the British pride themselves on their history as much as anyone. He held tightly to the words rolling through his mind, his response to the admiral’s show of polite arrogance. He could never say the words aloud, would not begin his introduction to the British military by insulting their pride. But Pershing knew his history as well, thought of Breed’s Hill, spoke to the admiral silently in his mind. In the event you may not be aware, those men in 1775 left a sizable percentage of their comrades on that hill. I assume if they know their history, they know that on that day, the British army received a serious bloodying at the hands of a band of ragtag rebels. Pride goes both ways, Admiral.
BUCKINGHAM PALACE—JUNE 9, 1917
“It has always been my dream that the two English-speaking nations should some day be united in a great cause, and today my dream is realized. Together we are fighting for the greatest cause for which peoples could fight. The Anglo-Saxon race must save civilization.”
The glasses were raised, and Pershing made a short bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty. On behalf of my president, I assure Your Majesty that the United States will make every effort.”
King George V wore the uniform of a British field marshal, the prerogative of royalty, another observation Pershing would never comment on publicly. The king was a short thin man, carried himself with perfect gracefulness, the officials surrounding him exhibiting their decorum, applauding or laughing at precisely the right moment, in precisely the right volume, so characteristic of the unquestioned respect the British aristocracy had for their monarch. Pershing had been interested to learn that the king had made changes to his monarchy in response to the effects the war was having on his countrymen. The changes were more symbolic than substantive, seemed to be a self-conscious attempt by the king to remove any traces of the combined British-German heritage of his line of succession. George’s family name had been Hanover, a direct link to German royalty, changed now to Windsor. Pershing had assumed the British people appreciated such a gesture, especially since no one, not even the king himself, could hide from the fact that Kaiser Wilhelm was his first cousin, and was as close to the British chain of succession as George was himself. Both men were grandsons of Queen Victoria, and in another century, Wilhelm might well have claimed his place on the British throne. Like so many Americans, Pershing was amazed by this strange quirk of European royalty, nearly every monarchy connected to their counterparts by a system of marriage and breeding that seemed nearly incestuous.
King George had made gestures that even his subjects knew were gestures of empathy. Again, the king sought to inspire the newspapers and the citizenry to feel that he shared their sacrifice. The glass in Pershing’s hand contained apple juice. George had ordered that no alcohol was to be served in the palace until the war was over. Even the typical grand feasts had