It was possible that his speech wasn’t finished, that he still had more to say…but if he did, it was drowned out beneath the wild and raucous cheering of his men.
One hour later they boarded the ship to Europe.
Roosevelt summoned a corporal and handed him a hand-written letter. The man saluted and left, and Roosevelt returned to his chair in front of his tent. He was about to pick up a book when McCoy approached him.
“Your daily dispatch to General Pershing?” he asked dryly.
“Yes,” answered Roosevelt. “I can’t understand what is wrong with the man. Here we are, primed and ready to fight, and he’s kept us well behind the front for the better part of two months!”
“I know, Colonel.”
“It just doesn’t make any sense! Doesn’t he know what the Rough Riders did at San Juan Hill?”
“That was a long time ago, sir,” said McCoy.
“I tell you, Frank, these men are the elite — the cream of the crop! They weren’t drafted by lottery. Every one of them volunteered, and every one was approved personally by you or by me. Why are we being wasted here? There’s a war to be won!”
“Pershing’s got a lot to consider, Colonel,” said McCoy. “He’s got half a million American troops to disperse, he’s got to act in concert with the French and the British, he’s got to consider his lines of supply, he’s…”
“Don’t patronize me, Frank!” snapped Roosevelt. “We’ve assembled a brilliant fighting machine here, and he’s ignoring us. There has to be a reason. I want to know what it is!”
McCoy shrugged helplessly. “I have no answer, sir.”
“Well, I’d better get one soon from Pershing!” muttered Roosevelt. “We didn’t come all this way to help in some mopping-up operation after the battle’s been won.” He stared at the horizon. “There’s a glorious crusade being fought in the name of liberty, and I plan to be a part of it.”
He continued staring off into the distance long after McCoy had left him.
A private approached Roosevelt as the former President was eating lunch with his officers.
“Dispatch from General Pershing, sir,” said the private, handing him an envelope with a snappy salute.
“Thank you,” said Roosevelt. He opened the envelope, read the message, and frowned.
“Bad news, Colonel?” asked McCoy.
“He says to be patient,” replied Roosevelt. “Patient?” he repeated furiously. “By God, I’ve been patient long enough! Jake — saddle my horse!”
“What are you going to do, Colonel?” asked one of his lieutenants.
“I’m going to go meet face-to-face with Pershing,” said Roosevelt, getting to his feet. “This is intolerable!”
“We don’t even know where he is, sir.”
“I’ll find him,” replied Roosevelt confidently.
“You’re more likely to get lost or shot,” said McCoy, the only man who dared to speak to him so bluntly.
“Runs With Deer! Matupu!” shouted Roosevelt. “Saddle your horses!”
A burly Indian and a tall Maasai immediately got to their feet and went to the stable area.
Roosevelt turned back to McCoy. “I’m taking the two best trackers in the regiment. Does that satisfy you, Mr. McCoy?”
“It does not,” said McCoy. “I’m coming along, too.”
Roosevelt shook his head. “You’re in command of the regiment in my absence. You’re staying here.”
“But — ”
“That’s an order,” said Roosevelt firmly.
“Will you at least take along a squad of sharpshooters, Colonel?” persisted McCoy.
“Frank, we’re forty miles behind the front, and I’m just going to talk to Pershing, not shoot him.”
“We don’t even know where the front is,” said McCoy.
“It’s where we’re not,” said Roosevelt grimly. “And that’s what I’m going to change.”
He left the mess tent without another word.
The first four French villages they passed were deserted, and consisted of nothing but the burnt skeletons of houses and shops. The fifth had two buildings still standing — a manor house and a church — and they had been turned into allied hospitals. Soldiers with missing limbs, soldiers with faces swathed by filthy bandages, soldiers with gaping holes in their bodies lay on cots and floors, shivering in the cold damp air, while an undermanned and harassed medical team did its best to keep them alive.
Roosevelt stopped long enough to determine General Pershing’s whereabouts, then walked among the wounded to offer words of encouragement while trying to ignore the unmistakable stench of gangrene and the stinging scent of disinfectant. Finally he remounted his horse and joined his two trackers.
They passed a number of corpses on their way to the front. Most had been plundered of their weapons, and one, laying upon its back, displayed a gruesome, toothless smile.
“Shameful!” muttered Roosevelt as he looked down at the grinning body.
“Why?” asked Runs With Deer.
“It’s obvious that the man had gold teeth, and they have been removed.”
“It is honorable to take trophies of the enemy,” asserted the Indian.
“The Germans have never advanced this far south,” said Roosevelt.“This man’s teeth were taken by his companions.” He shook his head. “Shameful!”
Matupu the Maasai merely shrugged. “Perhaps this is not an honorable war.”
“We are fighting for an honorable principle,” stated Roosevelt. “That makes it an honorable war.”
“Then it is an honorable war being waged by dishonorable men,” said Matupu.
“Do the Maasai not take trophies?” asked Runs With Deer.
“We take cows and goats and women,” answered Matupu. “We do not plunder the dead.” He paused. “We do not take scalps.”
“There was a time when we did not, either,” said Runs With Deer. “We were taught to, by the French.”
“And we are in France now,” said Matupu with some satisfaction, as if everything now made sense to him.
They dismounted after two more hours and walked their horses for the rest of the day, then spent the night in a bombed-out farmhouse. The next morning they were mounted and riding again, and they came to General Pershing’s field headquarters just before noon. There were thousands of soldiers bustling about, couriers bringing in hourly reports from the trenches, weapons and tanks being dispatched, convoys of trucks filled with food and water slowly working their way into supply lines.
Roosevelt was stopped a few yards into the camp by a young lieutenant.
“May I ask your business here, sir?”
“I’m here to see General Pershing,” answered Roosevelt.
“Just like that?” said the soldier with a smile.
“Son,” said Roosevelt, taking off his hat and leaning over the lieutenant, “take a good look at my face.” He paused for a moment. “Now go tell General Pershing that Colonel Roosevelt is here to see him.”
The lieutenant’s eyes widened. “By God, you are Teddy Roosevelt!” he exclaimed. Suddenly he reached his hand out. “May I shake your hand first, Mr. President? I just want to be able to tell my parents I did it.”
Roosevelt grinned and took the young man’s hand in his own, then waited astride his horse while the lieutenant went off to Pershing’s quarters. He gazed around the camp: there were ramshackle buildings and ramshackle soldiers, each of which had seen too much action and too little glory. The men’s faces were haggard, their eyes haunted, their bodies stooped with exhaustion. The main paths through the camp had turned to mud, and the constant drizzle brought rust, rot, and disease with an equal lack of Cosmic concern.