To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [195]
Pershing followed Haig into a small building, could smell food now, the warm aroma of fresh bread. A tray of teacups was offered to them, Haig’s aides snapping to their duty. Pershing took a cup of steaming water, followed Haig’s lead, submerged a metal ball into the cup, the tea leaves spreading a light brown stain through the water.
Haig said, “I see that your troops are arriving at a somewhat slower pace than predicted. Difficult situation, no doubt. If I may inquire, what kind of strength do you have on the ground now?”
“Approximately eighty-five thousand, including the officers. I have maintained for some time that expectations must be realistic. I cannot produce soldiers out of the air.”
Haig rubbed his chin, nodded. “Ah, quite so. But this truly does bring home the point. Your recruits are undergoing a great deal of training in the States, which consumes considerable time. I should think you would acknowledge our invitation as an appropriate one, General. However, knowing your objections, I have modified it a bit. General Robertson and I have conferred, and have devised a plan where your battalions should be introduced and incorporated into British brigades, their percentage of the whole increasing on some fixed schedule we may yet determine. As their numbers increase to the majority in the brigade, your officers would assume command. This will eventually free up the British lads to go on their way, where they will be used elsewhere, likely to be transferred into other British divisions, which, as you know, are dreadfully undermanned. Eventually, these brigades will be wholly American, completely under your command, having received their training, I might say, by the finest officers in the world.”
Pershing sipped his tea, absorbed Haig’s words, a different proposal than he had heard before. “I fear, sir, that the French would have objections. We have agreed that the Mihiel Salient is an appropriate sector for our concentration. If I accepted your plan, where would we position these brigades?”
Haig set his cup down, and Pershing was suddenly uncomfortable, as though Haig was sensing a weakness, some crack in Pershing’s unwavering resolve.
“Your agreement with General Pétain places you in the midst of French forces, which I have always found to be . . . inconvenient. I believe that any American army should more appropriately be placed at the intersection of our lines and the French. I would insist that we begin incorporating your battalions at that point. I believe General Pétain could be convinced of the wisdom of this plan.”
I am not sure of that at all, Pershing thought.
Haig continued, “You realize, General, that this would allow us to make available additional shipping that might otherwise be engaged in different pursuits. I believe the navy could be convinced that your agreement with this plan could constitute a priority in the allocation of our transport tonnage.”
Haig had laid his cards on the table, and Pershing understood, it was the same game the British had always played: Do it our way, and we’ll provide you the ships.
“I should take this under advisement, sir. It is not a decision I would make without discussion with Washington.”
“Of course! I would expect nothing else!”
Haig was beaming again; Pershing kept his polite smile and finished his tea.
HEADQUARTERS, AEF, CHAUMONT,
FRANCE—NOVEMBER 9, 1917
He paced behind his desk, stared down at the dispatch, thought, It’s not their fault, not Baker’s, perhaps not even Bliss’s. It cannot be anyone’s fault. That’s always the defense for this sort of stupidity. If no one is truly in charge, then no one can be held accountable. Damn them all to hell!
“Colonel!”
Harbord