To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [332]
Pershing had rarely seen Mitchell so positive, the older man seeming to vibrate with raw energy. “How many pilots can we put in the air now?”
Mitchell pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, slid it across the desk. “We have near six hundred ready to fly. The French have another three hundred they’ve placed under my command.” Mitchell was smiling now. “You ever think you’d see that? I’m guessing Marshal Foch has learned something about Americans. Give us the damned tools, and we’ll get the job done.”
Pershing did not share Mitchell’s bouncing enthusiasm, scanned the paper. “Eight hundred and fifty aircraft.” He looked at Mitchell now, saw the same smile.
“Yes, sir. Eight hundred and fifty aircraft. Every damned one of ’em French. And every damned one of them under my command. It won’t even be a fair fight, General. You imagine what that kind of air power looks like? Old Fritz will see a black cloud of Nieuports and SPADs, and run like hell. Might not need the infantry at all.”
Pershing slid the paper back to Mitchell, stared down at the desk for a moment, and Mitchell said, “What’s wrong?”
Pershing shook his head. “It won’t be that easy, Bill.”
“Aw, hell, General, I know that. It’s just fun to feel like things are happening around here. You know what I mean. The French are finally on our side. The enemy’s in for the fight of their lives. I’ve never seen so many high-brass officers so enthusiastic. All the damned clerks and floor sweepers are finally out of my way. Eight hundred and fifty aircraft, General! I wish I could be up there with ’em.”
Pershing looked at Mitchell now, said, “There’s no chance of that, is there, Colonel?”
“ ’Course not. I’m just primed for it. I wish I knew why you had the gripes. Sir.”
Pershing leaned back in the chair, could not share any part of Mitchell’s good mood. “A great deal depends on what happens in the next week. I wish I could look away from that. You’re right. Everybody in this headquarters is ready to charge out there with the front-line troops. I don’t have the luxury of that kind of enthusiasm.”
“Why the hell not?”
Pershing thought a moment.
“In my whole life, there has never been anyone I admired more than Ulysses Grant. I’ve studied him, his strategy, what he accomplished against Lee. I’m not embarrassed to admit that Grant is a hero to me. But Grant wasn’t perfect. He made mistakes, awful mistakes. I can’t help thinking about Cold Harbor. His men were as enthusiastic as these men here, as you. They had pushed the rebels all the way down to Richmond, newspapers in the North predicting a quick victory, Lee’s army being swept away, not capable of standing up to the might of the General Grant’s invincible wave. And at Cold Harbor, all that changed in one hour.”
“I know my history, sir. Cold Harbor was one mistake. Grant still won the war.”
“He never got over the cost, how many men died because of his mistake. He never got over it. Whatever happens tomorrow, there will be a price, and it will not be paid by me. It will be paid by a half million American boys. I hear officers talking all the time about their careers, making their mark on history. The French spend half their time thinking about Charlemagne, Attila, Napoleon, all the magnificent fights that took place on this same ground. But I don’t fault the French. It’s in all of us. How arrogant of any of us to believe our soldiers are willing to die so we can take our place in history.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I think you’ve been around Europeans for too long. You’ve forgotten what these doughboys came over here for. No American soldier I know is fighting just for you. And not one of them is waiting for Joan of Arc to drop down on the damned battlefield, just so they have a cause to chase after. They’re risking their lives because they believe it’s the right thing to do. And it’s up to you to lead them the same way. We have a good battle plan, and the right support. The men are trained and equipped. And across the way, when Fritz sees just how many American boys are coming his way, how many of my damned SPADs,