To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [330]
“No, General, you did far more than we could have hoped. I speak not for myself, but for all the people in this valley. Look before you. The Meuse River has given us the most beautiful valley in France. Now the people can return here without fear.”
Pershing moved closer, and Madame Poincaré put out her hand, touched Pershing’s arm. “We chose this site for the view of the valley. Look there, the forests, the farmland still green. I have so missed this place.”
Pershing followed her gaze, could not turn his eye from the desolation that spread across the wide valley, blasted fields, clusters of black trees stripped bare, roads cut and broken, the wreckage of trucks and wagons. All along the horizon, there were columns of black smoke, the remains of German ammunition dumps and supply bases, destroyed in haste as the Germans pulled away. She is fortunate, he thought. She can look beyond what a soldier sees.
Madame Poincaré turned to her husband. “We can begin rebuilding immediately, yes? By next summer perhaps, the house could be ready. It has been so long.”
Poincaré wrapped her with his arm again, nodded slowly. Pershing wanted to back away, leave them to their quiet moment. Poincaré stared into the wreckage of his home again, said, “General, my wife is correct. It has been so long. A civilian can only know of war what he is told by the generals. Please tell me, tell both of us, that this will end soon.”
Pershing looked out across the valley, stared at the horizon, where his army was digging in, preparing to hold the ground where the enemy had been swept away.
“It will end soon.”
PÉTAIN HEADQUARTERS, NETTANCOURT—SEPTEMBER 21, 1918
My Dear General,
The American First Army, under your command, on this first day has won a magnificent victory by a maneuver as skillfully prepared as it was valiantly executed. I extend to you as well as to the officers and to the troops under your command my warmest congratulations.
Marshal Foch
Pétain finished reading, and Pershing said, “I received a very kind message from Haig as well.”
Pétain handed him the cable from Foch, said, “I would expect that. No one can argue with victory. Might I be honest with you?”
It was a strange question coming from Pétain.
“I would expect nothing else.”
Pétain stared at him for a moment across the wide desk.
“I apologize to you, John. I am embarrassed to admit this, but for some weeks now I have had doubts about your strategy. I did not believe you could assemble your people as quickly as you did. I did not believe you could launch your assault at least until September twentieth, and even then, I anticipated that your battalions would be so badly jumbled and confused that there was the potential for disaster. I could not keep such a secret from you.”
Pershing was not surprised, knew Pétain well enough to accept his gloomy predictions, a pessimism that still drifted through most of the French army. Pershing did not smile, said, “So, what do you think now?”
Pétain pointed to the paper in Pershing’s hand. “I think that Marshal Foch has offered you his apology as well. He is more the politician than I am, so he does not use the word.”
Pershing smiled now, thought, he is more of a politician than he admits. He didn’t answer the question.
Pétain said, “I was frankly surprised when he accepted your plan. No reasonable tactician would agree to such a plan. You make your attack and then simply move most of your army to a new front. Marshal Foch had every expectation that by conceding to your stubbornness, his timetable for the general assault would be severely delayed. However, since you are deploying your troops and their support with remarkable speed, it seems there will be little delay after all.”
“I do not apologize for the confidence I have in the people in my command. Call it stubbornness if you will, but I know what my officers can accomplish. The credit for the logistical plan belongs to Lieutenant Colonel Marshall. The credit for the victory at St. Mihiel belongs to the troops.”
“Now