To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [154]
THE CEREMONY AT LES INVALIDES WAS COMPLETE, AND NOW, THE second phase of the day’s events would begin. Pershing was escorted down from the platform, guided to a waiting limousine, while back in the open ground, the American troops were filing out into the street, preparing to resume their march. Pershing had already made arrangements to move ahead of the parade, to take a parallel course that would put him in front of his men, reaching their destination first. The car began to move, and he saw Poincaré climbing into another limousine, the various French dignitaries making their way out, most not following, satisfied with their participation in the event. Pershing felt a gnawing sense of depression. He did not expect anything spectacular from the men of the Sixteenth, would scold no one for their appearance. They were regulars, but many of them were new recruits, so typical of nearly every unit in the new army. They had come to Paris only after enduring the misery of a dangerous sea voyage, terrified by constant rumors of submarine attacks. Once they had docked at St. Nazaire, they had disembarked into an alien land, were still finding their way to camps and training facilities where each man knew that for a long while yet he would continue to drill and march and learn. Pershing could find no fault with the men or their officers, and yet, there was something wrong, something he struggled to explain to himself. Nothing had been said, the French officials perfectly polite, but Pershing had seen the looks, glances among the officials, the hum from the audience. The word came to him now: doubt. What did they expect? I have told everyone who would listen, every meeting, every social gathering, we need time. Do these people require a better explanation than what they saw today? These men are soldiers, and they might be the best we have. But they are not ready to fight, and they are not veterans of this war. They are not prepared to stand up beside your battle-weary regiments. If you wish us to fight, then we must first create an army, and it cannot happen overnight just because you need it to happen. If that makes you uncomfortable, if the appearance of my men causes you to whisper and mock, then perhaps that will be of benefit to both of us. Perhaps now you will believe me.
His limousine left the main avenue, moved along a side street. The driver had his instructions, stopped at an intersection, the car now perched on a hill, overlooking the parade route. Pershing could see down to the main avenue again, was surprised at the thick mass of onlookers who had lined the way. The American soldiers had left their French counterparts behind, were marching under their own flag along the route that would take them to their final destination of the day. Pershing left the car, walked down the side street, move up behind the massive audience who stared out, already waving their banners, a surprising number of flags from both countries, nothing like the politely restrained audience of aristocrats at Les Invalides. People were calling out, glimpsing the American soldiers, and Pershing found his smile again, could see the vanguard of his column, their colors flying briskly, the men glimpsing out to the sides at the mass of onlookers shouting to them. The flowers began now, the crowds responding as every French crowd had responded, noisy and happy, flowers raining down, this time directly on the soldiers themselves. Women began to step out of the crowd, some curling their arms into the arms of the delighted