To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [152]
“You want to fight, George?”
Patton seemed to jump in his chair. “Just the opportunity, sir. Please, I do not dislike my current assignment. I just hoped that perhaps at a later date—”
“Not yet. Too much to do here. I need people who know how to put discipline into the air. You’ve done a fine job managing the support personnel. I have thought you might do as well running the motor pool. We’re receiving a number of vehicles very soon. I want them kept in perfect condition, maintenance, and appearance.”
Patton seemed to sink. “The motor pool, sir?”
“They need discipline too, George. We’re still a long way from doing any fighting. Show me you can handle a squadron of trucks, and we’ll see what else might develop.”
“As you wish, sir.” There was no energy in Patton’s voice, and Pershing felt himself pulled back to the papers on his desk.
The young lieutenant was at the door, said, “Sir! Excuse me, sir, but you should see this!”
“What is it?”
The young man moved into the office, stood stiffly at attention, clutched a newspaper in one hand. “Sir, this was just brought in by one of the men. It is the newspaper from Nantes.” He held it out.
Pershing unrolled it, saw the headline, stood up, slammed the paper down on the desk, shouted, “What the hell is this? Who authorized this?”
Patton leaned forward, read the headline, and the young lieutenant held his pose, said, “No one here, sir.”
Pershing shouted again, “Out! Both of you! Get me the press liaison, Major Palmer. Now!”
The office was empty now, and Pershing paced behind his desk, sat heavily in his chair. He held up the paper, said aloud, “Dammit. What the hell are they thinking?”
He sorted through the words, could see numbers, details of regiments and brigades, the names of commanders, Sibert, Bullard, Bundy, his commanders. It was a full account of the arrival of the First Division, details of the strength of each regiment, the names of the ships they had debarked, where they were stationed. He could hear the telephone ringing in the outer office, heard a flood of conversation, and in a short minute he saw the lieutenant again, the man standing in the doorway, stiff and formal.
“Sir. Major Palmer has just telephoned. Also, Ambassador Sharp. They have seen the newspaper accounts as well. It’s in all the papers, sir. French and British.”
“Have Major Palmer in my office as quickly as he can get here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pershing was alone again, tossed the newspaper aside. Palmer will deal with this, he thought. I won’t have to tell him twice. Frederick Palmer was the military overseer of the American press contingent, but Pershing had no one who dealt directly with the reporters from the Allied papers. Well, he thought, we will now. Whether it’s Palmer himself, or someone he recommends, we will find someone who knows what a damned secret is. Is this the way it happens here? Some gentlemen’s agreement between the French, English, and Germans? You tell us where your people are; we’ll oblige you in return. No, of course, it’s not like that. This is just more of the same, more of what I’ve seen everywhere I’ve gone. They are desperate for good news. So here you have it, in the tiniest detail. Tasker Bliss and his damned moral victory. Well, General, here’s another one for you. The French have been informed that our First Division has landed. Of course, this victory can be shared all around. The Germans will know as well.
PARIS—JULY 4, 1917
The request had come from President Poincaré himself that Pershing allow the French people to express their gratitude for the arrival of the first wave of American combat troops, by offering a celebration in honor of Independence Day. Despite all the logistical problems that Pershing still had to confront, the increasing workload for him and his staff, this was an invitation that he could not refuse.
It had been suggested