To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [311]
“I do not see how you can hold to that proposal, General.”
“If you will consent to commence your new plan at a later date, I believe the AEF could accomplish the goals we have previously agreed to. Once the St. Mihiel salient is reduced, we could begin transfer of as many divisions as practical to your proposed first line. Will you supply my army with the light tanks, artillery, and aircraft you have promised us?”
Foch tilted his head slightly, said, “What are you saying?”
“I am saying, sir, that if you will make good your promises to us, that if you delay your general attack by ten days perhaps, by September twenty-fifth, we shall take our place in line where you would have us. But first, we shall launch our attack as planned against the St. Mihiel salient.”
Foch was wide-eyed, made a small laugh.
“That is not possible, General.”
“We shall see.”
PÉTAIN HEADQUARTERS, NEAR NETTANCOURT—AUGUST 31, 1918
They met on a train, the rail cars set up as Pétain’s headquarters, allowing him far greater mobility. Pershing had arrived by midafternoon, did not have time for the usual graciousness of Pétain’s hospitality, the oasis of the luxurious lunch. They were alone now, Pétain’s usual habit, the staff officers left outside the one rail car that was now the general’s office. There had been few formalities, neither man expecting any ceremony from what had now become frequent visits. Pershing looked forward to the meetings far more than any other official gathering, realized that Pétain had become possibly the closest friend he had in France.
Pétain poured the wine, said, “You’re right, John. He does not have the authority. Once he agrees to the employment of troops, to the sectors where they shall operate, and once he coordinates the overall strategies among each of us, the details of the attack become the responsibility of each army’s commander. I am quite certain Marshal Haig feels the same way.”
“I believe Foch knows that. I really don’t believe he has any intention of dividing up the AEF.”
Pétain handed him the glass, and both men sat now. Pétain stared down at the table between them, shook his head. “No, of course not. It would be suicidal. The pressure is coming from outside.”
“Clemenceau?”
Pétain shrugged. “The prime minister does not confide in me. I am no longer of sufficient rank. But, yes, I would imagine that Monsieur Clemenceau feels very much as the English do. Both are accustomed to waging a quiet little struggle with each other to see who will truly win this war. It is not enough to defeat the Germans. One of us must rise higher than the other.”
Pétain reached out to a thick roll of paper, spread it across the table between them. “I believe my latest map is accurate as to your troop positions. Please correct any errors.”
Pershing scanned the map, saw a hard blue line, the distinct U of the St. Mihiel salient, various boxed numbers, the designation of the American divisions. “Yes, this is very close.” He paused. “I do not intend to alter my original plan.”
“I would not, either. It is the most effective plan we have at the moment. A breakthrough at St. Mihiel gives us the most direct route into the enemy’s vulnerability. A month from now, your troops could be standing at the gates of Saarbrücken. Which of course is why Marshal Foch is so insistent that it not happen.”
Pershing was annoyed now, said, “Does it always come down to that? Is every strategy designed first to ensure that a victory can be credited to the proper flag?”
“This cannot be a surprise to you, John. But it’s not simply glory, it’s about loss and sacrifice. Some of it can be explained by mathematics. The English and the French have lost more soldiers to this war than the size of the armies they began with. The Germans as well.