To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [305]
The telephone rang, jarring him awake. He pulled himself from the chair, raised the receiver. “What is it?”
“Sir, this is the manager. I regret the disturbance, but I must inform you. Marshal Foch has asked to see you.”
Pershing was surprised, had no reason to think Foch was there at all. “Certainly. He may come up at his convenience.”
He moved to the mirror, straightened his jacket. The word settled into him now. Marshal Foch. The announcement had just been made, Foch named a marshal of France. It had to be Clemenceau’s doing, perfectly logical, the French government granting the ultimate recognition to their own man for the success against the German offensives. It was convenient for another reason as well. Now, Foch outranked Pétain, clearing up any lingering controversy between the two men. And, of course, Douglas Haig was no longer the only one among them who held the title of marshal.
He stared into the mirror, satisfied at his appearance, blinked the fog out of his eyes. There was a gentle knock on the door, and Pershing moved quickly, opened the door, saw Foch standing alone. Pershing backed away, opened the door wide.
“Welcome, sir. No staff?”
“No. Just an informal visit. I hope I am not inconveniencing you.”
Pershing saw movement in the hallway, aides emerging from McAndrew’s room, now McAndrew himself. McAndrew looked at Foch with surprise, said to Pershing, “Sir? Might we be of service?”
Pershing waited for Foch to move past him, held up his hand now, said to McAndrew, “Just an informal visit. If I need someone, I’ll call.”
He closed the door, saw Foch standing across the room, staring out through the glass doorway toward the open terrace.
“Would you care to go outside, Marshal?”
Foch turned, unsmiling, said, “No. Quite odd. I am not yet accustomed to the title. I never expected such a thing. We can sit here, if that is acceptable.”
“By all means.”
Pershing sat across from the wiry old man, could see Foch’s mind working. Well, he thought, there must be more to this than a polite hello. Foch put a hand on his chin, rubbed slowly, said, “I understand you have received some accounting of your casualties.”
“Yes.”
“The cost is appalling, yes? Among the Americans alone, nearly fifty thousand men.”
“The cost is always appalling. Over the past two months, we had nearly three hundred thousand troops engaged against the enemy. Nine divisions.”
“There are those in the French army who do not yet grasp all that you have accomplished. It had been suggested that no American army could become effective until next year. I was quite skeptical myself, and for that, I apologize. General Pétain has been your champion for many months. I have perhaps not granted him the respect he deserves.”
“General Pétain has proven to be a valuable ally. As have you, Marshal Foch.”
Pershing was beginning to feel uncomfortable, thought, He didn’t come here to pour syrup over me.
Foch stroked his chin for a second, said, “I have approved the troop movements, to allow your Seventy-seventh Division to retire from their position along the Vesle River. I assume you are still insisting that your troops occupy the St. Mihiel salient.”
“It is the only thing I have insisted upon for many weeks, sir. You know very well that my men require time to recuperate, to refit. We are receiving replacements to bring many of the divisions up to strength, particularly those who have given so much.” He paused, studied Foch’s expression, saw a slight frown. “You approved this deployment. Is there now some objection to my St. Mihiel plan?”
“Your troops have earned their rest. I do not anticipate any further