To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [275]
He stared at the floor again, felt drained of words. He felt angry with himself, thought, So many meetings, so damned much talk. Now, it matters. And I don’t know what to say. He looked at them, said, “We were given a task. Some suggested that the job was beyond us, that nothing we could bring to this war would have any impact, that we were too slow, too inexperienced, too incompetent. Too damned late. They were wrong. I have heard so much defeatism, gloomy talk that this war has grown too big for anyone to solve, that all of Europe is simply destroying itself, helpless to stop the inevitable. It is a peculiar trait of Europeans that they stare back at their own history, see the world as it used to be, and make their decisions based on what was.” He paused, felt suddenly emotional, held it tightly. After a moment, he said, “Gentlemen, let no one hide the truth, let no patronizing words of praise from politicians disguise the honesty of what you have accomplished. Because of the sacrifice and the spirit of the men under your commands, right now, in Berlin, as well as in Paris, the maps are changing, the strategy is changing. You have accomplished what so many thought was impossible. You have changed the war.”
WITH THE STUNNING SUCCESS BY THE SECOND AND THIRD DIVISIONS at halting the German offensive along the Marne, the voices of the Allies had grown louder still. The congratulatory letters came of course, all manner of gracious respect for the magnificence of the stand by the Americans, especially the work of the Marines. But with the hearty handshakes came raised expectations, and from London to Paris, the ministries and military command centers were already calculating new ways to put the Americans to good use in every front of the war.
The calls came from other quarters as well, from Rome, where Prime Minister Orlando began to insist that Americans be sent to northern Italy, to help contain the ongoing threat from the Austrian and German presence there. The British began to suggest other uses for the American troops, a mission to the Balkans perhaps, or Romania, freeing valuable British forces so they could be sent to bolster their ongoing drive through the rugged sands of the Middle East. The most prominent civilians, Lloyd George and Clemenceau, tempered their hopes with the smooth patronizing words of the skilled politician. It was the kind of pressure that infuriated Pershing, the carefully phrased kindness, the deference and respect, punctuated by word from Secretary Baker that all the while, entreaties were being made to Washington, the continuing clumsiness of the efforts to persuade President Wilson to bring General Pershing to the correct frame of mind. Though Pershing held tight to his anger, keeping his outbursts confined to his staff, the only man who could effectively defuse Pershing’s fury was Baker. And no matter the pressure that flowed toward Washington, the secretary of war continued to assure Pershing that nothing had changed. Pershing was still in charge.
CHAUMONT, FRANCE—JULY 1, 1918
The crowd filled the plaza, old and young, flowers and flags, the tearful cheers for the man who brought out the emotions and inspired the wounded spirit of the French people. Pershing followed Clemenceau out of the hotel, watched as the people poured out their affections toward the old man, reaching out to him, some touching his hand as he passed. They cheered Pershing as well, but Pershing knew by now: this audience belonged to Clemenceau.
He followed the old man into the limousine, waited for Clemenceau to get comfortable in the seat. Behind Pershing, the French officers moved to the second car. Pershing waited for them to be seated as well, saw an acknowledging wave from General Ragueneau, the liaison officer for General Pétain.