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wounds. But the people in the street seemed to go about their routines with mindless purpose, and Pershing thought of Sims, the man’s insight into the British way. The government would not dare tell the people how severe their challenge might still become, no one wanting to risk a panic over the impending food shortages. Instead, the people would hear of Messines, of Marshal Haig’s abrupt change of fortune, inspiring stories of the soldiers of the commonwealth, coming home to fight for their motherland. This time it was the Anzacs, a story so similar to what had happened two months before. Then it had been the Canadians, four divisions of gallant men who charged out of their trenches alongside Nivelle’s Frenchmen, and, after a vicious fight, captured crucial German high ground along a stretch of land called Vimy Ridge. It was one of the few bright spots in Nivelle’s grand disaster, and the outpouring of celebration for the Canadians had given the English people a much-needed cause for cheer. Of course, there is no disputing the need, he thought. In every war, it is the people who give so much, whose morale is so tested. But these people have already given far more than even their own government will tell them. And what of Messines, the magnificent triumph? He had learned more about the British breakthrough at Messines. The fighting is still going on, and no one, not Robertson, not any civilian official, knows what might yet occur. He thought of Ulysses Grant, the mine explosion at Petersburg. Another history lesson. The mine had worked, accomplished all that Grant’s people had told him it would. But then, there had been breakdown, poor execution, and Lee’s troops had rallied, closing the gap. The enormous opportunity had clamped shut, and in the end, even Grant himself accepted that the great success had turned to defeat. If that happens at Messines, what will the newspapers say then?

His meeting with Robertson was a heavy stone in his mind, and Pershing was beginning to have a new appreciation for diplomats, those men who must hold so tightly to their true feelings. After three years of war, the British High Command was still training their men on the tactics of trench warfare, and, of course, they would insist the Americans should do the same. Pershing felt a twisting frustration in his mind. It is simply all they know how to do. And yet no one believes it is the right way to win a war. No, we will not teach Americans anything of the sort. The only way to remove your enemy from in front of you is to remove him. A man with a rifle and a bayonet is far more useful than ten men sitting in a hole, hoarding their supply of hand grenades. He thought of George Patton, the young man who had his own saying about how to fight. You advance until you bump your nose. No matter what the British believe, Americans will learn to move forward.

He sat back in the seat, stared to the front, could see a man in uniform hobbling past the front of the limousine. The driver waited patiently for the man to pass, the car beginning to move again. Pershing could see the man clearly now, one pants leg rolled up, supporting himself on a wooden crutch. Pershing closed his eyes for a brief moment, his weariness complete. In two days, I will be in France, he thought. More parties, more celebrations, more heads of state and generals and men who will tell me what they expect me to do. He thought of the telegram from his father-in-law, so far in the past now: How much do you speak French? Pershing’s response had been absolute in the affirmative, the only logical response to what was obviously a question from the senator that carried a great deal of hidden meaning. Once Pershing was in Washington, the question of his fluency in French had not been raised again. Obviously, he thought, in the next few days, the issue might indeed come up. There was only one problem. It was his one great failure from his years at West Point. He spoke very little French at all.

PARIS, FRANCE—JUNE 13, 1917

THEY DOCKED AT BOULOGNE, THE FRENCH PORT CLOSEST TO THE English