To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [153]
They assembled first in the lush courtyard at Les Invalides, the enormous art and military museum that had been constructed originally by Louis XIV as a hospital for his wounded veterans. Les Invalides was also the burial place of Napoleon, and to the French people, there was perhaps no more sacred piece of ground. The elite of French society had been assembled, and Pershing stood beside President Poincaré, studied the crowd, so many of Paris’ most familiar faces. He saw Joffre now, the old man leading his wife by the arm, stopping to greet friends, making his way through the crowd with no show of self-consciousness. Pershing had met with Joffre several times, had found the man’s wife completely charming, had begun to feel a genuine affection for the man who still allowed himself to be seen at such events. It would have been easy for Joffre to sink into bitter hostility with the government, his removal from power seen by some as a shameful disgrace. But Joffre had a new role now, was still sought after for counsel by some of the most powerful men in France. Joffre was an asset to his country for another reason as well. He was greatly revered by his veterans, old soldiers who joined him in the procession even now, survivors of the Franco-Prussian War, men with canes and wheelchairs, whose loyalty to Joffre would never waver. It was the same affection the young soldiers felt for Pétain, that intangible dedication that the foot soldier feels for a select few at the top. It often had nothing to do with a commander’s skills or genius at tactics. It was respect in the mind of the private that the general was one of us. Too many generals tried to capture the love of their troops by big talk and bluster, a strategy that had never worked. Pershing had never tried to do anything like that himself, had sought only to lead his men with his eyes focused firmly on accomplishing their task. He had never expected to be loved, never thought that he would ever have the mystique of men like George Washington or Robert E. Lee, men who inspired their troops as much as they led them. Now, it was Pétain, the man who some said had single-handedly put down the French mutiny.
The French troops had been put into formation, all the while, a band playing soft music, welcoming the crowds as they assembled. Pershing knew the Americans were waiting out beyond the grounds, and he caught a brief nod from Poincaré, the signal for the Americans to join the assembled mass. Pershing glanced to the side, saw his staff watching him, and Pershing made a nod of his own, the prearranged order, a signal passed out beyond the crowd. Pershing gazed over the French battalion, perfect and precise, the men in their sky blue uniforms, each face staring ahead, no distraction from the audience that surrounded them. He looked now at the gate, saw the first glimpse of movement, the Americans marching in, moving to their designated space. Pershing could not hide a slight smile. The crowd began to hum, audible over the music, and Pershing saw now that the Americans were not as precise, were having difficulty keeping the lines together, finding their place. The uniforms were not as neat, wrinkled shirts, men in tired khaki and dull leather boots. Pershing felt a low burn in his neck, the smile long gone, had never thought the men in his command looked like anything other than soldiers. But now, with the perfection of the French formation and the perfect neatness of their uniforms, he was suddenly embarrassed.
The Americans were all in formation now, their entry complete,