To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [140]
Pershing stood, had heard enough. “Admiral, if you will excuse me. I should return to the Savoy Hotel. My staff is quite busy with our arrangements. I don’t expect to be in England for very long.”
Sims stayed in his chair, looked at Pershing with mild disgust. “I suppose you have your orders. Certainly you must obey them, if you can. But Washington has a lot to learn about its allies.”
Pershing made a short bow, pulled open the door to Sims’ office, moved out quickly. He did not stop, aimed for the front door of the embassy, passed between the Marine guards, moved out onto the walkway that led through a tall green garden. He stopped, took in a long breath, the thick fragrance of flowers and wet grass. He realized his fists were clenched, and he tried to calm himself, could hear voices behind him, Harbord, some of his other aides, catching up to him. He thought of Sims’ words, Washington has a lot to learn. Perhaps, Admiral. Perhaps we all have a lot to learn. But I do know that if we are to make any difference in this war, it cannot be by turning over our priorities to the British. And we probably don’t need American admirals saluting a British flag.
LONDON—JUNE 11, 1917
William Robertson had risen up from the lowest rank in the British army, had competed with Douglas Haig for overall command of the British Expeditionary Force in Europe. That job was made available after the removal of Sir John French, who had first led the British into the war in 1914. As the stalemate spread along the Western Front, Field Marshal French pressed hard for Britain’s withdrawal from the war. Though Sir John insisted his concern lay with protecting the British homeland from German invasion, his stance caused his commanders serious problems in their relationships with their allies in France and Belgium. London had no choice but to replace French, and Robertson, who had served as French’s chief of staff, assumed himself to be in line for the man’s job. But Robertson underestimated Douglas Haig’s political connections, including a warm friendship Haig maintained with King George V. When Haig was chosen to command the BEF, Robertson accepted the only position that allowed him to save face, that of Chief of the Imperial General Staff. As such, he was the link between Haig and the civilian power in London, specifically Prime Minister David Lloyd George. It was a difficult post at best, since Lloyd George despised Douglas Haig, and anyone who supported Haig’s strategies.
Robertson was a short pugnacious man, who made no effort to hide the social differences between himself and the rest of the British High Command. He spoke with a distinct cockney accent, dropping his “aitches,” the telltale British trait that labeled a man as a product of the lower classes. But Robertson spoke with no self-consciousness, was so completely different from the chilly tightness of good breeding, the elite who spoke with the perfect lilt of the king’s English. Robertson seemed to enjoy emphasizing his lack of breeding. There was something appealing about that to Pershing, a man who made no show of hiding his humble roots. It was a trait that seemed almost American.
CALL ME WULLY. THEY ALL DO.”
Pershing released the man’s hand, tried to unlimber the crushed bones that Robertson’s sturdy handshake had inflicted on him.
“Thank you, General, er, Wully. Not sure I can get used to that.”
Robertson retrieved a bottle of something dark, held it up. “No matter. Care for a bite of the tiger, General?”
“No, thank you. I must admit, things seem to be rather celebratory here this morning.”
“You mean the staff? Yes, I encouraged it. Pass around the old tart, as it were. Liven up the place. Hell, General, even Parliament’s raising