To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [312]
Pershing felt himself draining of energy. “I have more than a million troops under my command here, and more than half of those are in position to launch the greatest assault in my country’s history. I cannot accept that such a sacrifice is seen only as an inconvenience to your people.”
“Not my people, John. My leaders. Never make that mistake. The French infantryman who will fight alongside you, the civilians who have lost so much in this war, they will know what you have done for them. If we prevail in this war, our leaders will make great noise about our glorious victory, but no one will be fooled.”
Pershing drank from the wineglass, studied the map. “Regardless of what Foch proposes, if we launch only a limited attack on the southern flank of the salient, it could be disastrous. Any breakthrough we make there could result in my divisions becoming pressed from both flanks, even cut off. If this attack is to succeed, we must launch it against the entire salient. I cannot become so distracted by all of this political absurdity.”
“No, you cannot. You have a far greater problem right in front of you. You propose to launch sixteen divisions into the St. Mihiel salient, then, when the salient is reduced, shift the greatest part of that strength to Foch’s new front sixty miles away. With very little time to rest and recuperate, those same troops will commence an assault through the Argonne Forest. Is this your notion of a compromise to Marshal Foch?”
“This is my plan to end the war.”
LIGNY-EN-BARROIS—AUGUST 31, 1918
He stood, made a short bow, caught the unmistakable scent of cologne. The French officers filed along one wall of his office, their commander stepping forward.
“General Pershing, it is my pleasure to officially remove my troops from the St. Mihiel sector, and transfer authority to you. May you enjoy considerable success against our enemy, sir.”
“Thank you. We shall do our best.”
“Sir, allow me to offer you . . .” The man turned, snapped his fingers, and one of the officers stepped forward with two thick books. “This first volume is our detailed plan for the assault on the St. Mihiel salient, and the other is our defensive plan. Please accept these as my gift. I hope you will find them useful.”
“Certainly, General. Most useful.”
There were more formal gestures, and after another minute, the Frenchmen filed out of his office. Pershing put a hand on the two books, glanced inside, saw three hundred pages. He shook his head, sat down in the chair, opened his top drawer. He pulled out a thin folder, removed the report, eight pages, his own detailed plan for the assault. Well, he thought, perhaps this explains why, four years later, they were still defending the same piece of ground.
He read the report again, the concise and specific details that had been prepared by Lieutenant Colonel George Marshall. Pershing had examined it a half dozen times, read it now with the same churning excitement that pulled him up out of his chair.
“Lieutenant Gray!”
The young man appeared, and Pershing said, “Do we know the whereabouts of Colonel Marshall? Has he appeared yet?”
“Sir, I shall ask.”
The young man disappeared, and Pershing heard commotion, voices in the offices. Gray returned, said, “Sir, Colonel Drum is here. He is accompanied