To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [147]
Pershing had already absorbed a heavy dose of the dark despair that draped over every part of the French government, and the shatteringly desperate hope that poured out from the French people. He still had to learn if the French army would allow the Americans the time and the resources that Pershing required, and what the French would expect them to do. The one man who had the answers was Henri Pétain.
PÉTAIN WAS SIXTY, ONLY FOUR YEARS OLDER THAN PERSHING, BUT there was age in the man’s face that told Pershing a great deal about the pressures of the war. Like Joffre, Pétain was a large man, with a thick white moustache, but unlike Joffre, Pétain was now in the epicenter of everything the war was doing to France.
They had met at Pétain’s headquarters, and there had been lunch, a modest affair, nothing like the grand spectacles that Pershing was becoming used to. Harbord had come with him, the rest of the staff far too busy now to enjoy any kind of lengthy luncheon. Most of Pétain’s senior staff had been present, as well as several front-line commanders, all of them cordial. Pershing had been surprised by how many of them had a reasonable skill for speaking English, something he deeply appreciated. But the dishes were gone now, the wine bottles whisked away by a stiffly efficient swarm of orderlies. Pétain led several of them to a large sitting room, and Pershing saw one wall covered by a large map, hanging over a long narrow table. The table was covered with smaller maps, thick pads of paper, and Pétain moved toward the table, stopped, and Pershing saw a self-conscious hesitation, thought, Well, of course, a roomful of military secrets.
Pétain seemed to think to himself for a brief moment, then turned, said, “Gentlemen, I wish to spend a few moments alone with our guest. General Pershing, if you wish, my chief of staff could provide Colonel Harbord with a tour of my headquarters. Is that acceptable to you?”
Pershing glanced at Harbord, who had stayed just behind him, and Harbord made a quick nod. Pershing said, “By all means, General. Colonel Harbord, please report to me when your tour is complete.”
“Yes, sir.” Harbord made a short bow toward Pétain, said, “Thank you, sir.”
The others filed out, and the room was empty now except for Pershing and Pétain. Pétain moved toward the map, said, “I do not make good the, um, small talk.”
Pershing laughed, caught himself. “Neither do I, I’m afraid. I enjoyed the company of your staff. General d’Espérey is most impressive.”
Pétain turned, faced him, said, “He is one of the best we have. It is the one good fortune that can result from disaster. Good men rise to the top. One great service Marshal Joffre performed for this army was that he would not be patient with stupidity. In peacetime, it can be forgiven. In war, a bad general is even worse than a traitor. He is a murderer.”
A dozen responses ran through Pershing’s mind, but he said nothing. Pétain turned away again, moved toward a lone window at the end of the room, pushed a dark curtain aside, glanced out through piercing sunlight. He pulled it shut again, darkening the room, said, “My apologies for the thickness of the air. We keep the window covered. I trust my security, but one pair of eyes in the wrong place . . . well, I do not have to tell you. You have been busy, I understand.”
“Quite busy. The French people have been most gracious. Our hosts have offered every convenience.”
“A polite way for you to say that you wish they would leave you alone.”
Pershing started to protest, let it go. Pétain was smiling now, and Pershing saw kindness in the man’s face.
Pétain said, “I would prefer that you not be regarded as some sort of special guest while you are here. Does that suit you?”
“Whatever you prefer. This is your headquarters.”
Pétain was looking at him, studied his uniform, scanned down to Pershing’s boots. “You are not a man who enjoys relaxation, eh, General? I can tell by your stance, your