To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [212]
He spoke for another thirty minutes, his anger focused and precise, detailing the lengthy list of difficulties, shortages, and roadblocks that his staff had finally worked to overcome. He was pleased that his words had the desired effect, so many men with so much authority, listening with wide-eyed surprise at the difficulties of equipment and supply Pershing and his men had confronted. From Foch to Pétain, from Robertson to Haig, came surprising pledges of support, assurances that each man would look hard into the failings of the various bureaus and ministries that should have been monitored more closely, promises that the minor officials and bureaucrats who had done so much to delay the Americans’ progress would be dealt with. He stopped short of detailing so many of the problems across the ocean, the delays in providing adequate training facilities, the continuing challenges of mobilizing the industrial might of the United States toward the priorities Pershing had begged for. The fault lay with many, mostly in the offices of the General Staff in Washington, the men who languished in the lackadaisical atmosphere inspired by their leadership, men like Tasker Bliss, who stood beside him now wearing an expression of profound shock and embarrassment. Pershing would say nothing to him in such a forum, would wait until later, a private moment, when Tasker Bliss would be reminded who carried the full authority of President Wilson, and who commanded the AEF.
PARIS—JANUARY 26, 1918
His calendar was a mass of scribbled appointments, his staff scrambling to sort out the incessant calls for his attention. But through the noisy clamor for his time had come one invitation to a simple lunch. It was to be an informal affair, and Pershing had received the assurance that there would be no official presence, no need for proper diplomatic protocol. Pershing accepted gratefully, felt instinctively that for one brief moment he was being offered a quiet port in the storm.
“Marshal Joffre, this was delightful, thank you.”
Joffre pushed himself back from the table, rubbed the round mass of his stomach. “Small delights can be made large in times such as these. I thought you might enjoy a diversion from your routine. And, perhaps some conversation. Not all of the old men who hover around you have evil in their hearts.” Joffre laughed, and Pershing smiled, felt himself loosening up, relaxing for the first time in weeks.
Throughout the pleasant lunch, Joffre had been true to his word, no talk of strategy or the business of the army, none of the pressures Pershing had become used to weathering from so many of the men of influence. Joffre’s wife had dined with them, a pleasant surprise. Pershing had met her several times before, at many of the various functions that her husband was called upon to attend. She spoke with a quiet sweetness, but there was strength behind the softness; Pershing sensed that she was not at all hesitant about speaking her mind. Even Joffre had acknowledged that though he once held an iron grip on France’s military, he was not quite so powerful