To the Last Man - Jeff Shaara [383]
MARSHAL JOFFRE, I HAVE BEEN AUTHORIZED BY THE PRESIDENT of the United States to bestow upon you one of my country’s highest military honors. I am honored to present to you, sir, with the Distinguished Service Medal.”
Pershing removed the medal from the box, pinned it on the man’s coat. There was a silent moment, no boisterous toasts, the two men looking into the other’s eyes. Pershing was suddenly emotional, felt a tightness in his throat, unexpected, embarrassing.
After a long pause, Joffre said, “Your recognition is gratefully accepted, General, and that of your president. I have always appreciated that you are a man who holds to his beliefs in what is right, and then performs accordingly. That is a valuable part of being a general. It is not always so useful for a politician. I admit to some regret that these days, I am neither.”
“You will always be a soldier, sir.”
Joffre laughed. “There you are, once again. Trying to sound like a politician. I assure you, General, at my age, one does not think in terms of what will always be.”
Pershing saw the frailty in the old man now, watched as Joffre moved to his chair. Joffre sat, motioned to Pershing’s officers. “Please, gentlemen. Do not be so formal. Your ceremony has concluded. We may become friends again.”
Harbord said, “Marshal Joffre, perhaps it would be best if we waited outside. I should enjoy speaking with your chief of staff. I have not seen him in some time.”
Pershing appreciated Harbord’s gesture, and Joffre said, “Certainly, General Harbord. Colonel Fabre was looking forward to seeing you again.”
Harbord leaned down toward Pershing, said, “Sir. If you will permit—”
“Go on, General. I’ll be along shortly.”
The door closed, and Pershing was alone with the old man now, noticed that Joffre seemed to be somewhat thinner. Pershing said, “I hope you are well, sir.”
“You cannot do it, can you? You cannot bring yourself to call me by my name. Is that what they did to you at your West Point? You are not allowed ever to be relaxed?”
Pershing smiled. “Perhaps not. I apologize. I am accustomed to meetings with Marshal Foch. He does not relax, either.”
“Nor should he. He bears the weight of history on his shoulders. He has civilians barking at him from behind, and a German army crouching low in front of him like some wounded beast. I would imagine he has not known a comfortable night’s sleep in a long time.”
Pershing measured his words, and after a pause said, “I cannot say I have, either.”
Joffre shook his head. “I expected so. Are you not pleased with all that has happened? Well, no, of course you’re not.”
“Is Marshal Foch pleased?”
Joffre seemed puzzled. “What an interesting question. He is certainly reaping the fruits of his efforts. He has assured himself a prominent place in French history. Every Frenchman now believes him to be a great hero. To the soldiers, Marshal Foch is the face of victory, the very backbone of our success. Why would he not be pleased?”
“You said yourself, he does not sleep well.”
“Ah, but that is merely the cost. Even he would say it is a fair price.”
“I cannot believe he was completely in favor of the armistice.”
Joffre cocked his head to the side, looked at him with a slight smile. “What difference does that make now? The armistice is a fact. Whether or not Foch agreed with the terms, he convinced the Germans that he did. He eliminated any discussion, any leverage they thought they might have. The Germans had to believe that we would continue to fight if they did not succumb to the terms of the armistice.”
Pershing said nothing, looked down, and Joffre said, “Ah, yes, I see. So, what would you have done differently, John? You would have ignored your president? Ignored the inevitable? The Germans were in complete disarray, completely exhausted, no reserves, limited supplies. Their ranks are suffering the devastation of influenza. So you