To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [274]
He scanned the face of Joe Dickman, the Third Division commander, a much larger man than Bundy, and saw satisfaction as well. Dickman was an emotional man, loud of voice, as prone to deep laughter as he was to tight-fisted anger. But there was no need for display now, Dickman as aware as anyone in the room that the Third Division had defied overwhelming odds, and by holding to a difficult line along the Marne River, had prevented the Germans from coming across. Though the Third had not suffered the extraordinary casualties of Bundy’s division, Pershing knew that both men understood that if not for the heroics and resolve of the men who marched under their commands, the Germans would be in Paris.
He realized now that the only one looking directly at him was Harbord, and Pershing could not hide the smile, the tough square-jawed man offering him a silent nod. The others seemed not to notice, would probably not understand what it meant. But Pershing knew. It was Harbord’s thank-you.
Throughout the mountainous ordeal of organizing the AEF, Harbord had been the primary cog in so much of the machinery, the only man Pershing could easily send in his own place, the man who had even less tolerance than Pershing for the grotesque inefficiencies thrust upon them from both Washington and Paris. But as the AEF began to function more smoothly, Harbord had surprised Pershing by requesting that he eventually be assigned duty in the field. It was the sort of request Pershing had grown accustomed to. So many of the capable staff officers had become frustrated by the tedious misery of their jobs, none more so than the impetuous George Patton. Pershing understood the yearning, a need to fulfill some deeply personal mission that did not involve an office. Not all the officers pleaded for command in the field. Some were left over from the army’s prewar custom of political reward, men who had no place anywhere other than behind a desk. Others were perfectly suited for the roles assigned to them, like the amazingly energetic George Marshall, men with a talent for organization. Though Harbord had been indispensable as Pershing’s chief of staff, Pershing could not deny the passion and the abilities that lay behind the man’s request. In early May, as the Second Division had completed its preparations for moving to the front, Pershing had finally granted Harbord his field command. Though Pershing had full confidence that Harbord could handle the task, he had to believe that not even Harbord himself expected to command anything like the firestorm that erupted around Belleau Wood. Though Pershing had felt the loss of Harbord on his staff, he had to concede that, at Belleau Wood, the right man may well have been put into the right job.
“Gentlemen, please sit. You’ve earned it.”
The staff officers responded, and chairs were dragged forward, the senior commanders finding their seats. Pershing waited, the room growing silent again.
“You have no doubt seen the letters. I have ordered that the contents from every significant correspondence be communicated to your commands.”
There were nods, low voices.
“Yes, sir.”
“We received them, sir.”
Pershing stared at the floor for a long moment, had rehearsed his speech, but it seemed ridiculous now. He had known most of these men for years, some for most of his career. They didn’t need speeches. He thought a moment, looked up, said, “There is irony in this, of course. Those who are most vocal in their praise of our successes are the very leaders who have provided us the most formidable obstacles. I will not belabor the point. I have accepted their kind wishes exactly in the spirit