To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [279]
Pershing saw the soft smile, felt the kindness in the man’s words. “My apologies. I have no right to carry on like some angry schoolboy.”
“Let us sit, then. That bench, there. Then I will tell you why you are wrong.”
The meeting had concluded with a luncheon that Foch did not attend, and Pershing felt the rumbling in his stomach, the meal that seemed now to gather into one hard lump. He had said little throughout the meal, engulfed by his fury, the dull shock, the familiar frustration with Allied commanders who could not be swayed from their one unchanging chorus.
He had always enjoyed Pétain’s hospitality, the privileges that a French general enjoyed, the chefs who provided the elegant table, the explanation why Pétain had difficulty fastening his belt. It only added to Pershing’s anger, that a perfectly wonderful meal could not be enjoyed, had instead tied him up in knots.
Pershing followed him toward the shady place under the awning of an old shed, the two men sitting. Pétain continued to wipe his brow, and Pershing said, “We can return to your office. I did not anticipate the heat.”
“No, it is fine. I should escape that place more often, summer or not. There is more that is stale than just the air.” He paused, said, “You said exactly the right thing, John. General Foch shares an unfortunate trait with Monsieur Clemenceau. Neither of them enjoys hearing the truth. You cannot imagine how difficult it was for Foch to concede to you that our own troops could not have protected Paris.”
“Forgive me, Henri, but do you agree—”
“I agree that our troops could not have protected Paris. We could not have prevented the enemy from crossing the Marne, and once across, the Germans would have had every advantage. There is no sector of our lines that can sustain a vigorous attack. It matters not what I believe. It is a fact. Since March, the Germans have extended their lines in three different sectors of the front. The only place where they did not stop themselves was at Château-Thierry, and that was only because you were there.”
“Your prime minister believes that even if Paris falls, the French will go on fighting. I was surprised to hear that.”
“I am not. Monsieur Clemenceau is the conscience of France, the master of all our hope. He does not see what you and I see, because he chooses not to. If Paris falls, Clemenceau, or someone else, will find himself at the reins of a government that must accept the price of defeat. All talk of war or support for the army will be replaced by talk of peace at any cost. Any cost, John. If Germany has her way, we will no longer agonize over such concerns as Alsace and Lorraine, as we have done for forty years. That will be like pennies to a banker. With the Germans in Paris . . . France might as well cease to be. It is my nightmare.”
“The enemy will not cross the Marne as long as we are there. I don’t believe he is anxious to test the Marines again. But Ludendorff will not sit still. He will push until he finds the weakest point.”
Pétain leaned back on the bench, a hand on his stomach.
“Foch will agree with your plan. You may not see that now, but it will happen. First he must answer to Clemenceau, convince the prime minister that your plan is the final option. It is the dance that Clemenceau requires of him. It is a mystery, though.”
“What?”
“Foch is a devout Catholic, as are many of the officers in this army. Clemenceau has a distinct dislike of Catholics. It is something in our culture that goes back to the revolution. Most officers are discreet in the manner of their religious practice; however, Foch practices his faith in full view. Some would call it defiance. And yet Clemenceau chose to put his full support behind him, out of all the possible candidates, Joffre, Guillaumat, d’Espérey, even me. It is a mystery.”
Pershing thought a moment, said, “You said it yourself. Perhaps General Foch dances well.”
Pétain laughed.
“Advice to you, my friend. When