To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [333]
“STILL NOTHING FROM THE BRITISH, GENERAL?”
Rockenbach shook his head. “No, sir. They are adamant that nothing can be spared. It is apparent that Marshal Haig is concerned about his own attack along the San Quentin front. I detected a considerable amount of nervousness among his subordinates.”
Pershing sat back in the chair, and after a long moment, said, “General Rockenbach, is it your opinion that the tanks currently available to us will provide sufficient support to the infantry?”
“Forgive me, sir, but I don’t know how to respond to that. With the latest battalions the French have made available to us, we should field over three hundred fifty light tanks, half of them piloted by our own people. I don’t know how we can measure their effectiveness until the battle has concluded.”
Pershing looked at the faces of the other officers, all standing behind Rockenbach.
“No, I don’t suppose it is a question anyone can answer.” He wanted to say more, held his words, thought, they don’t need to hear my doubts. He looked up at Rockenbach again, studied the man, saw the face of an administrator, the kind of man Billy Mitchell would have little patience for. But Rockenbach had done his job, had secured as much cooperation from the French tank corps as anyone could hope for.
“You have your orders, gentlemen. I’d like to see your tanks on the streets of Berlin one day.” It was a useless boast, and Pershing thought, They don’t need some damned glad hand from me.
“Dismissed, gentlemen.”
They began to file out, and a thought flashed into Pershing’s mind. “General, one more moment.”
Rockenbach turned, the others now out of the room. “Sir?”
“Tell me about Colonel Patton. You solve your, um, dispute?”
Rockenbach looked down for a brief moment. “I wasn’t aware that this had reached your desk, sir. I didn’t think it significant enough—”
“All right, Sam. I’m not sticking my nose into your command. I just want to know if George is going to be in the field tomorrow.”
“Absolutely, sir. I believe the colonel understands my complaint with his performance at St. Mihiel. I understand he is your close acquaintance, sir—”
“Forget that, Sam. He’s under your authority.”
“Well, sir, if I may be blunt, he’s just a bit bullheaded. He’s a brigade commander, and he insists on leading the tanks himself. I have had to remind him that his place is at Corps headquarters, to coordinate the movements of his tank platoons with the infantry commanders. There were long periods during the battle when I couldn’t locate him at all. I’ve had to contradict his order that his men carry rifles, and fight alongside the infantry if their tank is disabled. We didn’t train these men so they can suddenly become foot soldiers.”
Pershing nodded, suppressed the smile.
“As I said, sir, I believe we have come to an understanding. Colonel Patton knows to remain in close contact with me as much as possible. He has proposed creating a forward command center, to link up a communications line with corps headquarters. He convinced me, with admirable restraint, that a good combat leader should at least be in touch with his lead units. It was something of a compromise.”
“You’re in command of the tank corps, Sam. You don’t have to compromise with anyone.”
Rockenbach smiled. “If you say so, sir. But if I may ask, General, how would you handle him?”
Pershing laughed now. “I suppose, no matter what I tried to do, he’d find some way to be out there. Maybe we should just let him drive a damned tank.”
SEPTEMBER 26, 1918
THE LESSONS OF ST. MIHIEL HAD BEEN LEARNED, AND EVEN BEFORE the artillery barrage began, he prowled among the large fuel trucks, inspecting, surprising the drivers, who had pried a few minutes’ sleep from the misty darkness. The trucks would supply the gasoline for the smaller horse carts, which would be drawn forward behind the last wave of reserve tanks.