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coast, the journey brief and quiet. At the wharf there had been another reception, another band welcoming him with the playing of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” more military guards and civilian dignitaries. The ceremonies had been blessedly short, and Pershing and his staff had boarded a train, were told it would offer them a scenic journey through some of the most beautiful land in France. Pershing was appreciative of the hospitality, welcomed the train ride, but not for the reasons his hosts had suggested. His visit to England had been grueling, an unending flow of appointments, five days of meetings and receptions, a continuous display of social pleasantries, pledges of respect and mutual admiration which had too often been combined with patronizing lectures and discreet browbeating from his British hosts. He had learned a great deal in London, did not begrudge his British counterparts their opportunity to have their say. But for the first time since his arrival, he could admit to himself, and to his staff, that he was utterly exhausted. As the train rolled and bounced through the region called Picardie, Pershing did not gaze at scenery. With the ceremonies on the French wharf behind him, he took full advantage of a quiet few hours on board the train. While many of the staff officers passed their time by gazing at the lushness of the French countryside, Pershing made his way to a private berth and slept all the way to Paris.

THEY RODE NOW IN A PROCESSION OF GRAND AUTOMOBILES, PERSHING in the lead car. He sat beside Paul Painlevé, the French minister of war. It was a singular honor, of course, carefully planned so that Pershing’s entire senior staff would feel included in the formality of the official welcoming. The hosts had been insistent, and Pershing had agreed that his staff should be spread among the procession of limousines, each accompanied by a French official of some considerable rank and importance. It was a symbolic gesture so that none of the Americans would feel slighted, something that seemed to matter a great deal more to the French than to anyone on Pershing’s staff.

Painlevé was as pleasant a host as Pershing had met so far, reminded Pershing of Newton Baker. Neither man had been formally trained in the military: Baker was a lawyer first, Painlevé rising to prominence as the French education minister. But both men had stepped into their roles with the backbone to confront their generals. It was typical of any military, that the men in uniform believed themselves to be the only ones who understood strategy and tactics. That kind of arrogance had cost Marshal Joffre his job, and Nivelle as well. To Painlevé’s credit, he had campaigned vigorously against Nivelle’s bombastic claims about his great plan, insisting that France’s beleaguered army should settle into a defensive posture. When Nivelle’s attacks collapsed, Painlevé’s star had risen further, and he had moved quickly, pushing Nivelle aside, and elevating Henri Pétain to the position of commander in chief. Painlevé and Pétain had already shown that the civilian ministry and the field commanders could work together, something that had not yet happened in France. Pershing could not help wondering if Pétain and Painlevé had cemented their relationship at the expense of the former commander of the French forces, Marshal Joffre. Since his arrival Pershing had already learned to read significance into seemingly insignificant arrangements. In the procession of limousines, Joffre was somewhere far behind the lead car.

As the procession moved out in line from the train station, Pershing was surprised that the limousine had its top removed, that he would ride beside Painlevé in the open air. He had removed his hat, would not suffer the embarrassment of suddenly losing it should the driver not see fit to drive slowly. But the car moved at a leisurely pace, and Pershing had another surprise. Along the streets outside the railway station, an enormous crowd of people had gathered. He had expected that Paris would be busy, that even with the war, the daily lives