To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [137]
The invitation to the palace had been a surprise to Pershing, the monarch providing transportation for Pershing and his senior staff right at portside, a special royal railcar attached to a train that had carried them directly to London. Pershing expected a stiff and formal ceremony, grand propaganda for the newspapers, all manner of bluster and pronouncement for America’s unity with her mother country. But the king was personable, even informal with Pershing, something that seemed to surprise some of the British dignitaries. Pershing watched George carefully, keenly aware that any clumsy mistake an American might make in this extraordinary surrounding could be magnified enormously in the press, and even in Washington. The king seemed to ignore his audience, spoke to Pershing as if they were alone.
“I should look forward to meeting your President Wilson someday, General. I admire a man of conviction. It is no simple task to unite a great nation such as America.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. President Wilson has instructed me to offer his sincerest respects, to Your Majesty and the English people.”
It was the one remark Pershing had rehearsed, but George seemed to appreciate the sentiment. “Your president is far more intimately involved in the policies of his government than the monarchy here, you know. It is a marvel to me that he has such powers, particularly in times of war. In England, the monarch must entrust the leadership of his government to stay the proper course. Have you made the acquaintance of the prime minister, Mr. Lloyd George?”
“No, Your Majesty, not yet.”
“Ah, you shall, certainly. Exceptional man, the prime minister. All business. Takes this war quite seriously, as of course we all must. This nation has made extreme sacrifices, General. The losses have been unbearable. It outrages me that the kaiser allows his aeroplanes to bomb our cities, with no regard to the damage he inflicts on those who have no say in this war. And what is worse, he has unleashed his submarines to prowl our waters without conscience. Their destruction of our vessels has cost uncountable civilian lives. Even the innocent suffer, General. I am hopeful that your navy will make a significant contribution to stopping this menace. We should expect a considerable quantity of destroyers, so I’ve been told. Please convey my deepest hopes to your president in these regards.”
“I shall do that, Your Majesty. The affairs of our navy do not fall under my direct command. I can only advise.”
“Ah, certainly. Your Admiral Sims is presently in London. I expect that you have much to discuss with him. But you do control your aviation forces, yes?”
It was one of the questions Pershing had expected, though perhaps not from the king of England.
“Yes, Your Majesty. Any American aviation which will be deployed in Europe is under my authority.”
“Splendid, General. I find that truly wondrous, the modern era, soaring high above the earth. I can only imagine the terror struck in the hearts of the foe in his underground shelter as these beasts of the air swoop low, guns ablaze! It inspires me, as it must certainly inspire our men in their trenches. I am told that in a very short time, your country might be providing us with fifty thousand aircraft. It is a magnificent gesture, to be sure. The enemy cannot withstand such an onslaught.”
Pershing hesitated, felt the hum of expectation in the room, all eyes boring into him, the anticipation of his encouraging response.
“Your Majesty, I regret that someone would offer such a claim. My command has no such plans, and I know of no aeroplanes that are awaiting shipment. It is an unfortunate fact that hope often breeds exaggeration. My country has every intention of fulfilling its goals. However, I have learned that my own expectations must be tempered by the reality of our situation.”
It was as diplomatic as Pershing had ever tried to be, and