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By Root 2408 0

several days of continuous meetings, military and civilian. He appreciated the growing number of opportunities to speak with Pétain, both men understanding the challenges and logistics they had to grapple with. The civilians were another matter, and Pershing had been called upon by various ministers who held tightly to their own importance. It had become his routine, nearly every day a visit from some local official, a low-level minister of some department, the typical annoying protest that the man’s authority was being ignored. The wounded official would almost always be accompanied by Pershing’s own staff officer, or some other American who was the target of the complaint, whose duty had somehow trespassed into the Frenchman’s perceived realm of total authority.

The requests for his time came from higher-ups as well, from Lloyd George to Painlevé to ministers from other Allied governments, including both Italy and Portugal. More often the meetings came about because someone in authority felt the urgent need to impart their advice or criticism to the American commander, or make some attempt at lobbying their own viewpoints as to how the Americans should perform, advice that Pershing could now predict before the meetings even began. Not even Ambassador Sharp could serve as a buffer between Pershing and the affairs of state he was called upon to address, Sharp himself having no expertise at all when it came to military matters. But occasionally, the requests for his time came from someone Pershing actually enjoyed talking to, Pétain in particular, as well as the generals under his immediate command, men like Fox Conner and Hugh Drum, or the First Division’s efficient and likable operations officer, George Marshall. Included in that select group was Billy Mitchell.

“SIR, COLONEL MITCHELL IS HERE.”

Pershing pushed his papers aside, stifled a yawn. “Send him in.”

“Hello, General. Nice day for a plague of locusts, wouldn’t you say?”

Pershing knew to expect some strange greeting from Mitchell, usually laced with humor. But Mitchell was not smiling, and Pershing said, “If you say so, Colonel.”

Mitchell sat down without permission, was the one man Pershing would allow to make himself so completely comfortable without the proper show of protocol. It was the one concession Pershing made to the man’s extraordinary longevity. Mitchell was five years older than Tasker Bliss and the retired Hugh Scott; within months, he would reach his seventieth birthday. No other American officer in France could make that statement. Pershing glanced at his papers again, his mind drifting over the blur of words.

“What’s on your mind, Colonel?”

“Mind. Now there’s something. We all have one, you know. Problem is, there’s so few men around who actually know how to use the one they’ve been given.”

Pershing looked at the old man, had gone through this routine before, knew that Mitchell had a serious point behind this show of curmudgeonly grouchiness. But there was still no humor in the man’s words. He was surprised by the anger in Mitchell’s scowl, said, “Whose mind might you be referring to, Colonel?”

“Well, for one, there’s the pea-brained genius who set the physical standards for our pilots. That wouldn’t be . . . you, sir?”

“No. I consented to allowing General Foulois to implement the policies that the War Department sent with him.”

“Ah, yes. Ben Foulois. I haven’t checked my French dictionary, but I’m guessing the translation of his name. Fool-wah. Now there’s a man whose name fits him like a well-oiled boot.”

Foulois’ arrival continued to be a sore point to Pershing. His original selection of William Kenly to head the AEF’s Air Service had been suddenly preempted by Tasker Bliss, Bliss deciding to appoint Benjamin Foulois to replace Kenly, without even discussing the matter with Pershing at all. Foulois had simply arrived in France, with orders from Bliss to assume command of the air service. Pershing had known Foulois in Texas, a woefully inept commander of the army’s futile attempt to bring aircraft into the pursuit of Pancho Villa.