To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [301]
“Yes, sir. He knows his paperwork.”
Pershing ignored Mitchell’s sarcasm. “It is my feeling that the First Army requires a commander of our air forces who is something of an active participant in the use of aircraft. That would be you, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir. It would be.”
“Try ‘thank you,’ Colonel.”
Mitchell tried to hide his smile. “I mean no lack of respect, sir. Thank you, indeed.”
“All right. You’re dismissed.”
Mitchell rose, made a short bow. “I am grateful, sir. I may be an old army mule, but I know a compliment when I hear one. Thank you again.”
“Oh, by the way, Colonel, now that the Liberty engines are finally starting to arrive in some usable quantity, have you had the opportunity to test them?”
Mitchell closed his eyes for a second, and Pershing saw the familiar exasperation on the old man’s face. “I had hoped to save that bit of news for another day, sir. The engines work fine, except when they’re actually placed into an aircraft. Many of the available French airframes are too light, and the Liberty has too much power. There is a danger that the aircraft will simply come apart. The problem could be remedied by the use of a propeller that is compatible with the engineering of the Liberty, however . . . um . . .”
“What, Colonel?”
“It seems, sir, that when the contracts for the Liberty were granted to the manufacturers back home, no one considered that we should also build propellers.”
CHAUMONT—AUGUST 1, 1918
“It is entirely appropriate to offer this toast not only to the success of the American troops under General Pershing’s command, but as well, I feel it essential to note that a significant milestone has been reached. I believe General Pershing will acknowledge this to be accurate. There are now something in excess of one million American soldiers on the Western Front! I raise my glass in salute!”
Pershing stood, accepted Haig’s toast, said, “Thank you, Marshal Haig. Actually, we are closer to a million and a quarter, including support personnel. I have expectations that in the near future that number will be doubled.”
The officers chimed in with a chorus of salutes, glasses raised all around the long table. Haig was in full bluster, and Pershing sat, waited for more.
“Gentlemen, the success that our armies have enjoyed this past month is cause enough to celebrate. But I would offer my sincerest hopes for the immediate future. In a few short weeks, the flower of the German army shall be left hanging, shriveled on the vine, perhaps only to fall among the ruins of the devastation wrought by their own hands. We should offer a toast to the destruction of their leadership, those who would grind the civilized world under the boot heel of savagery!”
The British officers raised their glasses, and Pershing caught just a bit of hesitation from the French. He raised his own glass, the cheers of the British sweeping away the puzzlement on those French officers still digesting the awkward translation of Haig’s toast.
The luncheon had concluded, the various staff officers finding their counterparts, details of various operations and tasks that filled long lists. He had been surprised by Haig’s buoyant mood, knew that now, with the senior commanders retiring to the meeting room, he would find out why.
Pershing had his own agenda, had anticipated pressing forward with his plan to move most of the American forces southward, spreading the battle-weary divisions along the St. Mihiel salient. It was the one sector of the front where the Germans seemed content to remain in their trenches, the one sector that could actually be described as quiet. It was, for now, the ideal