To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [208]
PERSHING WAS CAREFUL, PHRASED HIS WORDS WITH PRECISION. “Monsieur Prime Minister, is it not convenient for you to pass your requests through the channels that my government has established? I had thought General Pétain and I had reached an agreement on this matter. I apologize if you were given a different impression.”
Clemenceau showed no emotion, seemed to stare past him. Pershing had expected him to be a larger man, someone with the commanding presence of Joffre or even Pétain. But Clemenceau showed the effects of age, a worn, round face, a thick, bushy white moustache with eyebrows to match. Clemenceau ran a wrinkled hand over his bald scalp, seemed bored with Pershing’s protest.
“It is entirely proper of me to send a cable to the French ambassador on any topic that my duty calls me to address. Forgive me, General, but there are conversations taking place in Washington as well as Paris that have direct bearing on the future of my country. If the ambassador chose to reveal my inquiry to Secretary Baker, that is not my responsibility.”
The man’s words rolled over him like a syrupy blanket. Despite Clemenceau’s display of disinterest, Pershing could see the steel in the man’s eyes. Even old age had not dimmed Clemenceau’s fire.
“I shall continue my discussions with General Pétain, sir—”
“General, forgive me if I display loyalty to my country.”
Pershing wasn’t sure what he meant, saw Clemenceau staring away, as though recalling some pleasant memory. Pershing waited, and after a long moment Clemenceau said, “There is much to preserve here, General. Our enemies would drive us into oblivion, erase France from the pages of history. We fight the desperate battle, and as you know, General, the battle does not go well. I am not so concerned that your army achieves your standards of preparedness. I am more concerned that we receive your assistance, to defend France against the scourge that seeks to destroy us. Is that too much to ask of you? Have you no sense of history, of compassion for your ally?”
Pershing wanted to respond, but Clemenceau seemed to drift away again. The man’s words hung in the air, pushing away reason. So, it matters not if our men are prepared, just so they fill your trenches. The arguments rolled through him, but Pershing could feel the futility of trying to convince this man of anything he didn’t want to hear. Pershing stood, made a short bow, said, “We shall do our best, Prime Minister.”
HE WALKED OUT INTO THE STREET, SAW HIS CAR WAITING UP THE block. The wind was sharp, a blade of ice cutting through his clothes. He felt frustrated, empty, had accomplished nothing in his meeting with Clemenceau. The door was held open for him, and he dove into the car, sheltered from the wind, said, “The hotel, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
He felt himself growing angrier, realized he had been completely mastered by Clemenceau. He had been surprised by the man’s appearance, had seen nothing of a tiger. But no, he thought, this tiger does not have to bite you to win the fight. All the absent stares, the carefully chosen words, all designed by a craftsman, someone who knows how to make his point without having to listen to yours. He thought of Joffre, a man used to making his own point, accustomed to stifling any disagreement. No wonder they despise each other. They both understand that power does not come to the man who shouts the loudest. It is certainly something that Douglas Haig does not understand. I expected bluster, grand pronouncements, and Clemenceau knew that, and so he kept it soft, sentimental. How can anyone argue with an old man who simply loves his country? But Clemenceau believes that President Wilson can be pressured, and so the cables and letters will continue to go to Washington. He recalled Baker’s letter, the first hint that Clemenceau was going above his head. Baker had been blunt to the French, had deferred the entire matter to Pershing’s authority. Pershing understood