To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [142]
They are your allies, General. Pershing held the words inside. He shared none of Robertson’s enthusiasm, said, “I appreciate your desire to see a unified front against our common enemy. But I cannot commit to placing American troops anywhere in line until we have assembled numbers sufficient for them to become an effective fighting force.”
Robertson paused. “How much time do you expect you will need, General?”
The cheer had evaporated from Robertson’s voice, and Pershing felt himself relaxing, no longer swallowed up by Robertson’s waterfall of energy. “We are bringing forth a division of primarily regular troops first, men whose training has come mostly from experience. These are being supplemented quickly by National Guard units, who require only a moderate amount of training. Beyond that, as you may know, the president has instituted a draft system, which along with a great number of volunteers, will supply the vast bulk of our armed forces in the months to come.”
“How many months?”
“I have no way of answering that, General. My country is committed to making a difference in this war. But I’m certain that you understand that sending inadequately trained soldiers into the line is . . . unwise.”
“Then by all means, General, you should adopt our suggestion, and bring your troops here. Nowhere in America can they receive the training that will equip them for trench warfare. In a short few weeks, the basics of survival on the front can be imparted without difficulty.”
Trench warfare. The words stabbed into Pershing’s brain. “Perhaps we should discuss this further. Please accept my apologies, General Robertson, but I have a number of meetings today, including one I am especially looking forward to. I am expected at Ten Downing Street within the hour, to meet with the prime minister.”
Robertson sniffed, said, “Well, certainly, General. Even Mr. Lloyd George should be in a positive frame of mind today. Our success at Messines should brighten up even those dreary hallways.”
Pershing stood, thought a moment. “Oh, one more point I must address. I have been concerned about the availability of transport tonnage. Though we are prepared to use every available transport ship, the floating tonnage available in America is minuscule compared to Britain’s merchant fleet. I’m sure you have received our official requests through the navy. I cannot seem to find anyone who can offer me some exact figures on how many ships and of what capacity can be provided to assist in the transport of our troops and supplies.”
Robertson had lost all of his bluster now, said calmly, “Not much I can offer you on that point. If you don’t know now, you will find out soon enough. We lost some three million tons of shipping in April alone, another million and a half in May. If the German U-boats continue to destroy merchant shipping with this rate of success, in a short time England will face starvation. You want shipping, General? Come up with a plan to stop the damned U-boats.”
HE SAT IN THE REAR OF THE LARGE AUTOMOBILE, THE GRAND LIMOUSINE provided by his hosts. He had exhausted his calendar and his patience, thought now of the Savoy Hotel, the place where his staff had made the most of their temporary quarters.
The auto stopped at an intersection, and Pershing looked out, saw slow-moving crowds, people finding their way home after the routine of their workday. He studied the faces, saw an occasional smile, some spark of energy in a conversation. But most of the people moved in silence, a slow plodding gait, expressionless faces, no outward sign that anything in their lives was amiss. He had heard the talk at the various receptions, how many families had lost at least one soldier, how many more were caring for young men who came home with the awful debilitating