To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [139]
Sims had answered his own question, and Pershing waited for Sims to sit, then moved to his own chair. Sims was still talking, suddenly pointed a finger at Pershing’s face, said, “Without those destroyers, we might easily have lost you. The U-boats patrol that stretch of ocean on a regular basis. Can you imagine the stupidity of that? Send our army’s top man over here without a hint of protection. They would have done it too. Damned fools.”
“Who—”
“Bill Benson. That whole department. How the hell can the navy’s chief of operations make any decisions about what we need out here when he sits in his cozy office in Washington? I have been insisting for weeks that they put more antisubmarine forces out here, but Benson and his timid little cadre of secretaries claim that the coast of the United States cannot be left vulnerable. Vulnerable to what? Does anybody truly believe the Germans are suddenly going to begin shelling Charleston? Or that Kaiser Bill is going to send his troops ashore in Massachusetts? The greatest threat to us is right out there, General. Ask anyone who has cruised anywhere close to Ireland lately. That’s where the Germans are; that’s where the ships are being sunk. And that’s where we need the damned destroyers. Not in some backwater yacht basin in Virginia. Washington has a lot to learn. Have you seen the figures? The shipping losses for last month alone are staggering. You won’t read about it in the papers here. The Royal Navy gives out about a quarter of the real figures. They’re worried that the British people might find out how bad off they really are. All the civilians know is that it’s getting tougher to buy sugar and gasoline. In a few months, even bread could be a luxury. I don’t know what you’ve heard in Washington, General, but these people are in serious trouble. Our allies are crumbling, and if we don’t get some real manpower and hardware over here soon, this war will end.”
Pershing felt punched by Sims’ words. He thought of King George, the exaggerated expectations.
“I had not heard the situation expressed in quite that way, Admiral. I admit that I was caught off guard by the king’s somewhat overstated hopes.”
“You didn’t make him any promises, did you?”
“Certainly not. The only promises I can make are what I believe myself. The First Division should arrive in France in a few weeks. Beyond that, I can only offer what Washington provides, at the speed they provide it.”
“Take my advice, General. Don’t promise anyone anything. Until you see the First Division marching down the gangplanks of their ships, even you can’t be sure when they’ll arrive. Right now, not just their arrival, but their very existence, is just one more rumor. And, if I may ask, General, why are they going to France? The British have been expecting our troops to arrive here. I had thought we would be turning our infantry over to the British army.”
Pershing was growing annoyed now, would not begin a debate with the one man in England who should not have those kinds of expectations.
“Admiral, my orders are to maintain the American army in Europe as a distinctly American force. I thought you would have been informed of that. Perhaps it was an oversight.”
Sims grunted. “Fine little hole they’ve dug for you, General. You been to see Robertson yet?”
“No. My appointment with General Robertson is day after tomorrow.”
“Well, you’ll find out for yourself what the British expect. I get a great deal of information from General Robertson’s office. He’s nothing like Tasker Bliss. You might assume that the Chief of the Imperial General Staff would simply be another puppet officer, dancing to the tune of his prime minister. Not so. Wully Robertson has guts, General. Just like Douglas Haig. The British have