To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [155]
The march would take the Americans to the Picpus Cemetery, another piece of sacred ground. This was a place Pershing had especially wanted to see, the one place in Paris that held more meaning to the Americans than it would for the French. It had been nearly a century and a half since one French officer had sailed to America, a man who disobeyed his king so that he could fight for George Washington and the rebels who were desperately trying to wage war against the British. The man had indeed served the colonists, had become one of Washington’s most respected generals, had made a contribution to American independence that had endeared him to America and put his name in the schoolbooks, familiar now to every American child. The man had died in 1834, and a tomb had been erected in his honor. Pershing would finally see it. The tomb was at the Picpus Cemetery, and the man was the marquis de Lafayette.
THE MEN MARCHED INTO FORMATION, AND PERSHING WAS WAITING for them, smiled at the sight of a massive moving garden. The women began to fall away, finding their own place in a wide gallery of spectators, the soldiers self-consciously removing the flowers from their uniforms, many of them staring up in his direction.
There were speakers again, most of them brief, and Pershing could not help but notice that the highest-ranking French official was now the Minister of War, Painlevé. He wasn’t sure if he should feel slighted by the absence of so many of those from the first ceremony, Poincaré, even Joffre not finding the time to attend. No, this is not about them, this ceremony is ours alone. Perhaps they know that. Perhaps it was appropriate to allow us to come to this one very special place.
The speakers had come and gone, the words of the American ambassador to Belgium now drifting out over the crowd. Pershing could see his soldiers still fumbling with the flowers, some of them discreetly slipping a blossom into their shirt, something to carry to a place . . . not nearly so pleasant. The thought shocked him, and he focused on the men, could see faces now, men in glasses, some with moustaches, some with freckles, most of them very young. He felt embarrassed at himself, so much concern about their appearance, thought, What does it matter? If anyone doubts our resolve, and dares to judge us by our martial appearance, to hell with them. I have had enough of parades and luncheons, and petty arguments about which of our allies we prefer. In a little while, these men must be prepared for anything that awaits them. It has been so in every war we have fought, and it will be no different now. They will learn discipline and they will learn the mechanics, they will shoot and march and become proficient with the bayonet. But more, each man will know in his own heart why he is here, and what he must do. He had thought of it often, what it was that made a man fight, what propelled a man to step into the line of fire. We have had it in us since the beginning, he thought, since Boston and Chapultepec and Gettysburg. It is something in being an American, perhaps, an anger bred into us, defiance, rebelliousness, a kind of strength we draw upon when the cause is just, when the challenge is set before us. Some would say it is the worst part of man, and anyone who lived through our Civil War would understand. We don’t always require an enemy beyond our borders to call out the fire. The inspiration comes from the heart, and the cause might divide us, or even destroy us. In the Civil War, we suffered a cost that was beyond any horror we could imagine, because we poured that fire into each other. That fire is still in us, in every one of these men. If I did not believe that, I could not lead these men into this fight. Out there we will face an enemy who knows what it is to win. We will stand up to soldiers who have become accustomed to the