To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [276]
They were motoring to Montigny, Clemenceau insisting on visiting a billet where Americans were still undergoing training, a concept that Pershing felt was still foreign to the old man. Pershing was still intimidated by him, knew that Clemenceau would control any conversation, and so, until the old man was ready to speak, they would ride in silence. After a long moment, Clemenceau said, “They salute you, General. It is no longer just for me.”
“I am always impressed by the graciousness of the French people, sir.”
He didn’t know what else to say, had learned that any silence around Clemenceau would not last long.
“Permit me an observation, General. Mr. Lloyd George has his friends and his detractors, but I do admit that I admire his energy. When he pursues a goal, he is relentless. General, have you given further thought to the British demands?”
Which demands? The silent question rose in Pershing’s mind, but he fought the urge to spit the words, said, “I’m sorry, Monsieur Prime Minister. Of what do you speak?”
“I am told that they expect one hundred American divisions on the ground by next spring. Is that a reasonable expectation?”
The subject had been wrestled with for weeks, Lloyd George and his ministers pounding the issue both in France and in Washington. Their urgency had been made even more intense by the American success at Château-Thierry. Pershing stared forward, measured the tone of his own voice.
“I appreciate the necessity of the British hopes, Monsieur Prime Minister. However, I must point out, as I have done to Mr. Lloyd George, and Marshal Haig, and several other British officials: Beyond the logistical problems of assembling, equipping, and training what would amount to nearly three million soldiers, plus another million support personnel, all of whom must be housed and fed and transported on your soil, there is another difficulty that I regret that my government and the American people would find difficult to accept. Given the size of our fighting units, one hundred American divisions would equal approximately two hundred French or British divisions.”
Clemenceau said nothing, and Pershing paused, closed his eyes for a brief moment.
“Monsieur Prime Minister, right now, on the Western Front, the combined strength of the French, British, and Belgian forces totals one hundred sixty-two divisions. What the British are asking of us is that America furnish you an army that would be considerably larger than the total of what is now engaged. I have no doubt that this would have a positive effect on the outcome of the war. But in fact, sir, by a simple . . . by an exercise in mathematics, you can see that if we did what the British are asking, the Americans would outnumber the Germans on the Western Front all by ourselves. America is willing to make a sacrifice for our allies, but, as I have explained previously, there is a difference between what is possible and what is not.”
Too far, he thought, you were too blunt. Dammit! He waited for some kind of explosion from Clemenceau, heard a small laugh instead.
“Mathematics is not a subject I enjoyed in school, General. I shall not mention the matter again.”
Pershing let out a long breath, and after a pause Clemenceau said, “I am not surprised by the depths of British desperation. Great Britain has been defeated by this war. Her glory is past.”
It was an oddly blunt statement, and Pershing was curious now, said, “Why do you say that, sir?”
“She has lost far too much of herself. Besides a generation of her young men, her navy, her shipping interests have suffered to extreme. I do not believe they can ever recover. Her empire will suffer as well. Her colonial soldiers