To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [146]
Harbord closed the doors, and Pershing saw a wide smile on the face of William Sharp, the American ambassador.
“They won’t leave, you know. They have heard about this day for too long.”
Pershing shook his head. “I never expected this. So much emotion in these people.”
“Exactly, General. They have endured the worst part of this war. Not one of them is unaffected by some sadness. So much despair. You cannot imagine what I hear every day. Did you see how many women there are? It used to be that a woman alone in some parts of Paris had, well, a meaning. Now, she is more certainly a widow than a prostitute. The city is so very different than when I first arrived here.”
Pershing moved to a chair, sat, an aide filling a cup of coffee for him. “How so, Mr. Ambassador?”
“It was appropriate once to describe Paris as a paradise of sorts, unique in the world. But these people have been crushed by this war. Every day they wake up wondering if today is the day the Germans will arrive. Every leader has tried to give them hope, has given them the same promise, that soon their army will be victorious, that their land will be rid of the Germans. There have been too many promises, and none have been kept. These people have lost hope, have lost confidence in their government, in their generals. The only promise that seemed to make any difference was that, one day soon, the Americans were coming. I was truly apprehensive that if that promise was not fulfilled very soon, the French would simply give up fighting the war. It almost happened, you know.”
“Yes, I was informed. I met with Marshal Joffre in Washington.”
“Ah, yes, he informed me. The savior of that particular crisis was General Pétain. You will meet him very soon. He is a man beloved by his people. But he is giving them promises as well. I just hope that you have not arrived here too late.”
Pershing sipped from his coffee cup, said, “I’m not sure what benefit my arrival will have. It will require considerable time to bring sufficient troop strength here, train and equip them, and put them into the field where they can be of good use. Surely General Pétain understands that.”
Sharp laughed. “General, look outside. Your arrival has already changed these people, renewed their hope. I know very little of equipping troops, and all that you must still accomplish. But the despair of every official of the French government will be brightened by what happened today. In every office, at every reception, you will be appreciated for all that you have brought to their people.”
“But for how long, Mr. Ambassador? America is still a long way from fighting this war.”
PARIS—JUNE 16, 1917
Pershing had already gone through much of the same routine he had experienced in London, meetings and luncheons, putting faces on the familiar names. But the differences between London and Paris continued to multiply. No dignitary, from the president, Raymond Poincaré, to the various ministers, to Joffre himself, had sought to impress him with their advice, their appraisal of just how the Americans should fit in to the war. It was clear that France had suffered badly from the breakdown in relations between the civilian government and the military command. Joffre’s heavy-handedness, his insistence that the civilians simply stay out of his way, was replaced now by a spirit of compromise that made Pershing uneasy. It was one thing for a military commander to respect the authority of the civilian leadership. But the generals still had to command, had to focus their energy on the enemies in front of their army, could not seek out the approval of the various ministers for every major decision. Though Henri Pétain was revered by his troops, morale alone could not change the obvious. Neither the French nor the British had found a way to push the Germans away. The French had been so badly bled and so frightened by the mutiny in their army that Pershing began to wonder if what Wully Robertson insisted was in fact true. They might