To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [306]
There was no enthusiasm in Foch’s words, and Pershing said, “I must ask you, sir, if you intend to press Marshal Haig to transfer the American divisions now in his sector, to unite with our forces here. The British have been reluctant to approve such a move.”
Foch smiled now. “You are attempting to be diplomatic, General. It is not your most accomplished talent. I shall be blunt. It is not within my authority to order Marshal Haig to release the American divisions in his sector. That is a matter that you should address directly to him. My difficulties with Monsieur Haig go far beyond his regard for the troops under your command. He is intent on winning this war himself, at whatever cost that should require. Though I am certain the English would happily accept as much glory as he can bring them, his methods have made him enemies in his own government. Certainly it has made him the enemy of his prime minister. Mr. Lloyd George is seeking any means he can to remove Marshal Haig from his command, but thus far, the prime minister does not yet have the political power that would require. All he has been able to accomplish in his personal war with Marshal Haig is the removal of General Robertson.”
Pershing sat back, was surprised by Foch’s frankness, something he had seen only from Pétain. He knew that Foch was right, that Wully Robertson had been a casualty of the animosity between Lloyd George and Haig. Robertson had been named to command the British Home Forces, which no one could confuse with anything other than a demotion. Pershing understood now, with Robertson gone, Haig had lost a powerful ally in London. It was the perfect explanation why Haig seemed so overly enthusiastic about his latest strategy against the Germans. He had to be. It might be his last chance.
Foch looked down for a moment, then said, “Do you intend to pursue your plan to reduce the St. Mihiel salient?”
“I have no reason to change that plan. You have agreed that a breakthrough at the salient could open a wide doorway into the Saar Valley, and could put us in position to destroy the enemy’s transportation facilities at Metz.”
“We have not made a breakthrough there since the beginning of the war, General. The position was always too strongly defended.”
“Marshal Foch, on this point I must agree with Marshal Haig. The enemy is not as he once was. If the American troops can be positioned in force at the salient, I have no doubt that we can succeed in eliminating it.”
“You will require considerable artillery to do so. Tanks and aircraft as well, I would think. There could be difficulties in that area.” Foch was staring away from him now, something Pershing had seen before, the particular habit Foch had when he did not wish a confrontation.
Pershing felt himself rising up in his chair. “Is it your intention, sir, to alter the agreement you have made with us? I do not have to explain to you that we are dependent on French artillery pieces. You have been most cooperative in furnishing our tank school and our flying squadrons with the equipment they must have.”
“Cannot the English assume some of that burden, General? You know of the losses we have suffered.”
Pershing gripped the arm of the chair, understood now why Foch had come alone, an informal meeting. He wanted no witnesses.
“Sir, with all respect, the British have made it clear that they place the most value on our alliance as long as it holds the potential for supplying them with infantrymen and machine-gunners. Though Marshal Haig has promised to provide us with a number of their heavy tanks, they have thus far been tight-fisted with both tanks and their aircraft. Their artillery support has been provided grudgingly at best.” He paused, thought, To hell with diplomacy. “Are you telling me that if I pursue my plan to deploy the American First Army at St. Mihiel, and continue to plan for the reduction of the salient, that I can count on no support from our allies?”
Foch did not respond,