To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [213]
They sat in silence for a moment, Pershing taking the cue from Joffre, who waited while the maid whisked the plates away from the table. The table was cleared now, the maid gone, and Joffre said to his wife, “My dear, would you permit us to take leave of you? If the general will allow me a few moments longer, I should enjoy a word or two more.”
The old woman rose from her chair, and Pershing saw a brief grimace on her soft face, betraying her frailty, some ailment she kept to herself.
She smiled at Pershing, said, “My apologies, General. It must be obvious to you that my husband’s invitation was not entirely without motives. I, however, always enjoy your company, regardless of the occasion.”
“The pleasure is mine, madam.”
Joffre led him now into a sitting room, closed the door, said, “Forgive me, John. I do not usually feel the need for such privacy.”
Pershing felt the man’s mood changing, waited for Joffre to lower himself into a wide soft chair. Pershing sat as well, said, “As you prefer, sir. It is your home.” He was still not completely at ease referring to the old man by his first name, despite Joffre’s frequent requests.
Joffre seemed to catch the formality, shook his head, smiled, and said, “I should hope you would consider me your friend, John. I have nothing further to gain it seems. It has been made clear to me that my country is done with me.”
The words carried a heavy sadness, and Pershing said, “Nonsense. You have far too much to offer.”
Joffre shook his head again, no smile now. “You are aware that General Foch is being considered to command the combined armies on this front?”
“Combined armies? No . . . I am not aware of any such thing. We have met to discuss his plans for a general reserve—”
“Yes, yes. I know all of that. Endless debate. Clemenceau insists it be so; Pétain insists it will not happen. The British are divided as well. The generals know how insecure their positions are, and so they do all they can to protect themselves. To Haig and Pétain, Foch is a threat. Perhaps even to you. It is why I had hoped they would choose someone else for the position. Foch is a good man, but he is fragile. There were other options open to Monsieur Clemenceau.”
Pershing understood now. “Options, such as you?”
Joffre nodded slowly. “It was not to be. For such an old man, I am regrettably naÏve. I had thought that my experience would reopen the door, that the Supreme War Council would consider that, if they desired one man to lead the Allied armies, it should be a man who knows how to lead. It seems, however, that I have made too many enemies.”
“I’m still not certain. . . . I have heard nothing about choosing anyone to lead the armies. Foch is merely proposing—”
“The general reserve, yes. Do not think me a fool, John. I often find a way to hear what is being said behind closed doors. The talk has been more energized in recent weeks. The Supreme War Council may not have the wisdom of military strategy, but they understand what so many of the generals do not. This war cannot continue to be fought as it has before. If we are to avoid catastrophe, we must fight as one army, with one supreme commander. Mr. Clemenceau has, I believe, convinced Mr. Lloyd George that the man should be Ferdinand Foch. Foch is not yet stained by defeat, and, despite his age and his infirmities, they believe he is capable of doing the job. He is certainly a man capable of holding a tight rein on Douglas Haig, which must be pleasing to Lloyd George.”
“But how can they bring that about? Pétain and Haig won’t even consider allowing Foch to command the reserve. I admit, I have agreed with their position. You are suggesting that one man, a Frenchman, will be accepted by the British as a supreme commander? I agree that the concept is a good one, perhaps essential. But how can it happen?”
Joffre shrugged. “They will find the right moment. War causes change, whether we wish it or not. Men rise and fall, heroes become fools, the anonymous become icons. Henri Pétain rose at the right moment to save the French army from