To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [313]
Pershing stared at the papers in his hand. “Excellent. Send them in.”
Pershing had known Drum for years, one of the first selections he had made to his staff. Drum was now serving as the First Army’s chief of staff, the new position Pershing himself had created. As they entered the office, Drum was smiling, seemed to know that he was not the reason for the meeting. Pershing looked at the other man, younger, tall, thin, the stiff stance, the same posture and formal demeanor that Pershing had carried his entire career.
“Sit down, gentlemen. Colonel Marshall, this is a fine piece of work. You have justified my decision in bringing you here from the First Division.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Marshall did not smile, seemed more relieved than grateful. Pershing could see the unmistakable signs on the young man’s face that betrayed lack of sleep.
“I have been told by Marshal Foch that this plan is in fact . . . impossible. It will give me some considerable delight to inform the marshal that he is in error.”
“Thank you, sir. I am not yet certain—”
“No one is certain of anything, Colonel. Marshal Foch may be correct. I believe that wars are won by those who can accomplish the impossible.” Marshall seemed to grow nervous, fidgeting, and Pershing said, “You have something to add to this report, Colonel?”
“Sir, I appreciate your compliments for my work. There are contingencies which I could not address. I am apprehensive that without proper artillery support, the initial attack on the salient could prove more difficult than I have outlined.”
“Too much artillery, Colonel, and we lose any element of surprise. The enemy does not yet know what our plans are. A lengthy bombardment will certainly tell him.”
“Sir, there is the question of the barbed wire. I believe we should make every effort to destroy the wire with artillery before the attack begins. I estimate a barrage of eighteen hours is required.”
Pershing shook his head.
“No. The men can deal with the wire firsthand. I have some thoughts on that subject that I will discuss with the engineers. Your report is precisely what I needed, to explain to Marshal Foch how we will accomplish our first mission, and then shift our divisions across the Meuse, to begin the second phase. This is no easy feat, Colonel. There are always contingencies. But thanks to your fine work, we have a road map to go by.”
“Yes, sir.”
He could still see the tension on Marshall’s face. “Colonel, you’ve done your job. Leave the rest to me.”
NEAR FRANCHEVILLE, SOUTHEAST OF THE ST. MIHIEL SALIENT—SEPTEMBER 4, 1918
THE CAMPS HAD BEEN PREPARED, SOME ATTEMPT AT CLEANING AND rebuilding the run-down shacks and storage facilities. For four years now, their occupants had been French, weary and battered troops who faced an enemy across a dismal no-man’s-land of wire and shell holes. But the French were gone, leaving behind the ruin and decay of the network of trenches that had been their home. Now, those same trenches had become notes on a map, with new names, new troop designations. This was now the American sector.
The Marines had marched mostly by night, on roads as congested and chaotic as any they had seen before. The traffic had been both men and machine, the familiar scene of French troops marching toward them, pulling away, vacating the position that the Second Division would now occupy. But the machines were different, none of the stinking ambulances, no wreckage of shattered wagons, disabled cannon, no signs of a fight at all. Most of the machines that rolled past them were artillery pieces, or trucks weighed down with supplies, all moving in the same direction as the men. There were ambulances as well, but they were clean and empty, moving in a line with trucks packed tightly with hospital supplies, some of the vehicles driven by Red Cross personnel. The Marines had tried to ignore the red crosses, avoided the glances from the medical people, medics and nurses no one ever hoped to see again. But distraction came easily, and Temple had been excited to see another kind of machine