To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [194]
“Doesn’t feel that way, most of the time, sir. Seems more like a competition.”
Harbord’s words had gone through Pershing’s mind often, and he shook his head, said, “Napoleon said it best, Jim. His favorite enemy was a coalition. Two diverse nations, fighting side by side, two cultures, two personalities, two goals. They are so focused on what the world might be like after this war, who will dominate, who will gain, that they lose sight of the effort they must make to defeat the common enemy. The French and the English are oil and water. They have been enemies for centuries and suddenly they must cooperate. It may not work. The Germans must certainly understand that. Ludendorff has no doubt read Napoleon as well. Oil and water. It can be . . . seriously distressing.”
The door opened, and Haig’s aide was there, said, “Oh, General. The field marshal was concerned you had perhaps taken the wrong route.”
“A minute, Major. Just conferring with my chief of staff.”
“Of course, sir. Might I inform the field marshal you will be along shortly?”
“Please do, Major.”
The door closed again, and Harbord said, “The wrong route. That’s bull, sir. He’s concerned you were speaking with General Pétain.”
Pershing smiled. “Keep that to yourself, Jim. I don’t need you sharing my cynicism. I have a hard enough time being so very polite all the damned time.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
“Go on. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
Harbord moved out the door, and Pershing went the opposite way, pulled the door open, saw Haig standing with his aides, waiting for him.
“Marshal Haig, sorry to keep you. Had a few last-second instructions for Colonel Harbord.”
Haig seemed to accept Pershing’s explanation, tugged at his jacket, straightening the already perfect uniform, was all smiles now. Haig waited for Pershing to move up beside him, then began to walk, Pershing alongside, and Haig said, “I admire your restraint, General. You kept quite to yourself today. Must be difficult. Every man has his point of view. I should like to know yours.”
Haig’s aides seemed to hang back, giving the two men privacy, and Pershing heard the familiar voice in his head: Be careful.
“I hope your advance continues to be successful. We all require victories.” Pershing felt awkward, the words an empty formality.
Haig seemed not to notice, said, “Ah, yes. Quite. No worry. Every intelligence shows the Hun to be demoralized all along our front. We are taking enormous sums of prisoners. The beginning of the end, as I see it. If it wasn’t for this bloody weather, we’d have gained every objective.”
Haig’s optimism seemed forced, something Pershing had grown accustomed to. It had been the same in every meeting, the British commander putting the best face on his army’s progress, always the advantage, always the short road to certain victory. Haig was roughly Pershing’s age, a stocky stump of a man, his boots adorned with spurs, the man always with a walking cane or riding crop. Pershing could sense Haig’s aristocratic breeding, the distinctly British stiffness that made him the complete opposite of Wully Robertson. It was all the more amazing that Robertson and Haig should be such close allies. Though Prime Minister Lloyd George was clearly Haig’s political enemy, openly criticizing Haig’s decisions and strategies, Robertson had been successful at holding the prime minister at bay. For the moment, Haig’s command seemed secure, no obvious candidate waiting in the wings to replace him. But Pershing had seen intelligence reports as well, knew what so many in the French High Command seemed to know, that the great battle raging across Flanders was little more