CERTAIN THE NEXT HOUR WOULD determine the fate of his military career, Major Douglas MacArthur stepped out of his top-floor office at the Army’s Bureau of Information and walked with pensive determination down the corridor of the old State, War and Navy Building. Before reaching the Secretary of War’s corner suite, he paused at a window to glance down at the White House across the street. There, in the flickering shadows of the West Wing, he could just make out the bent silhouettes of President Wilson and his closest advisor, Colonel Edward House. The two men stood huddled over a map, no doubt planning the country’s intervention in the European war.
A blast of wind rattled the rows of panes in the drafty hallway. MacArthur rubbed his hands together for warmth while recalling the many cold nights he had suffered in the West Point barracks. This late winter had hung over Washington for so long that even the new cherry trees along the Potomac, a gift from the mayor of Tokyo, had failed to bloom. He tapped an ancient radiator to draw some heat, but the rusted pipes clanged hollow. Built in the style of the French Second Empire, this cast-iron building was so gloomy and frigid that the journalist Henry Adams had once dubbed it an architectural insane asylum.
But MacArthur knew better, having served here for two years as the Army’s chief public-relations officer. This was not an asylum. No, it was a mausoleum, where soldiers who didn’t make the grade were buried to serve out their careers behind desks. And he was desperate to avoid becoming one of them.
The Army bulls had been called to Washington that afternoon for a meeting. Rumor was Newton Baker had finally decided on a commander for the American Expeditionary Force. The Administration’s first choice, Major General Frederick Funston, had suffered a fatal heart attack three months ago, leaving a scrum of lesser-ranking generals elbowing and clawing for the assignment. President Wilson cared little for the minutiae of military matters, he knew. So, the cold Princetonian had likely accepted Baker’s recommendation.
MacArthur conceded that being stuck in the military’s bureaucracy did offer one advantage. As the War Department’s publicity front man, he had expertly navigated the treacherous terrain of Army politics by applying the lessons learned from watching his father deal with civilian meddlers in the Philippines. Now, he used his position to garner valuable tidbits of intelligence from, among other sources, the office typing pool. Just that morning, one of the girls had let slip that Secretary Baker took home two large binders with background briefings on several generals. The first victory a soldier must win, his father had advised him, was to latch onto the right mentor in the senior ranks. Every officer in the Army was lobbying hard now to be sent overseas with the first contingent of troops. Only a few would get the assignment; the choice of AEF commander would make or break dozens of West Point careers.
He had thus made it a point to devote the same detailed analysis to this matter that he would for any military campaign. Truth was, the diminutive War Secretary—bespectacled, soft-spoken, and averse to conflict—was the last person suited to run the nation’s military operations. As a lawyer and former mayor of Cleveland, Newton Baker was such an avowed pacifist that he had declined an offer to run the Boy Scouts because he felt the organization was too martial in its indoctrination of young men. An odd conviction, considering that Baker’s father had been a Confederate cavalryman who rode with Jeb Stuart. Had there been something in the old man’s humiliating defeat that caused the son to despise war? One thing was certain: Baker was the typical political appointee who had risen to his heights by avoiding risk and making decisions popular with the public.
Yes, Baker could be counted on to make the safe choice.
Nodding confidently to the officers he passed in the corridor, MacArthur went over in his mind again the odds that he had placed for the candidates. Peyton March, an aide to his father in the Philippines, had hurt his chances by being cold and brutal in his performance assessments of junior officers in Mexico and Manchuria. March’s chief rival, Jim Harbord, a tough Kansan at the War College, was not a West Pointer, and the brotherhood would never allow a regular soldier to rise to such heights. Hugh Scott, the Chief of Staff, was a personal friend of the president, but he was also a relic of the Indian wars, too old to lead a new Army overseas. And his colleague on the Army Staff here, Tasker Bliss, was just as old and out of shape as Scott.
Some in the press were trumpeting Jack Pershing, but MacArthur dismissed that possibility. Pershing had fumbled his chance by failing to catch Pancho Villa, a fiasco that had embarrassed Wilson in the eyes of the world. And when MacArthur got wind of Pershing privately criticizing Wilson’s Mexican policy to his staff, he had made certain that the indiscretion was passed around at the most posh Georgetown parties.
Yes, MacArthur told himself, smiling with anticipation. The Black Jackass was about to learn the cost of crossing swords with him over a woman. A month ago, at a soiree, he had been engrossed in private conversation with one of the most beautiful ladies in the city, Louise Cromwell Brooks, a flapper socialite stuck in a dead-in marriage to a wealthy Baltimore contractor. No sooner had he offered to order her another drink than Pershing, standing off on the other side of the ballroom, had moved in to steal the lady to the dance floor, even though he was still courting that Patton woman. Such a flagrant behavior would have been grounds for a brawl at the Point.
No, it would not be Pershing. He was forever tarnished by Mexico.
Good riddance.
That left, as the obvious choice, Leonard Wood, the general who had assigned him with the secret mission to garner intelligence at Veracruz. He was not only a hero to every American, but also a clever politician. A Republican like himself, Wood was the Rough Rider stalwart of San Juan Hill, a comrade of Teddy Roosevelt, and the creator of the Selective Service System.
It would be Wood.
And he, the general’s protégé, would be assigned to the HQ staff in France.
He reached Newton’s lobby and was ushered in by an aide to the Secretary’s office. He scanned the room and saw Generals March and Scott, along with several junior officers. Then, he felt the blood drain from his face—Leonard Wood was not present. And Jack Pershing was sitting next to Baker.
He lost his smile. What in God’s name is he doing here?
“Ah, Major MacArthur,” Baker said. “Come join us, please. We were just discussing the condition of the National Guard units.”
MacArthur saluted his superiors, cutting off the last one stiffly at Pershing, who was burning him with a lording smirk.
Baker pushed his spectacles higher on his nose as he shuffled through some papers. “I was telling General Pershing about your idea. Fill him in, Major.”
MacArthur stumbled for the words. “Of course… ”
Baker, slow to perceive the source of MacArthur’s discomfort, finally realized his neglect. “I may have failed to tell you, Major. General Pershing will be commanding our troops in France. The president signed off on my recommendation this morning. I thought we’d discuss a few issues before we announced it to the newspapers this afternoon.”
Pershing kept MacArthur pinned with a bemused eye. “I’m surprised you hadn’t heard, Major. You have a reputation of knowing everything that goes on in this building.”
MacArthur steadied himself. Had Pershing been ruthlessly lobbying for the post in secret all this time, sowing seeds of doubt about the other candidates? The man was proving once again what a cold-blooded sonofabitch he could be. He had heard stories of how, in the Philippines, Pershing had forced captured Muslim insurrectionists to dig their own graves and pour pig entrails into the holes before being executed, letting them believe that they would be going to their deaths denied Paradise because of the Koran’s taboo. He had dismissed the account as apocryphal, spread by soldiers with wild imaginations. But now, feeling the heat from Pershing’s steely eyes, he wasn’t so sure. He shrugged, affecting indifference to the stunning decision to elevate Pershing, and replied, “I try to stay informed, sir. One of the duties of my position.”
“I’d very much like to hear your idea about the Guard,” Pershing said dryly, his drifting attention belying that assertion.
MacArthur forced a thin smile. He knew the observation was meant to rub in his nose his relative lack of importance now in the grand scheme of the AEF operations. “Sir, I merely mentioned in passing to Secretary Baker that we might consider federalizing a division with units from all the states, rather than separating the divisions by region.”
General March tapped his cane to indicate agreement. “A fine idea. We don’t want our Northern and Southern boys fighting Gettysburg all over again in the training camps. We need to integrate the recruits and prevent them from reforming old regiments.”
MacArthur stole a glance at Baker to see if the reference to the battle that doomed the Confederacy had offended him. Yet Baker seemed oblivious to any slight; he merely turned to Pershing to receive his new commander’s assessment of the recommendation.
“Workable,” Pershing grunted.
“The Major has even suggested a name for the division,” Baker said.
The corner of Pershing’s mouth twitched. “He’s quite the dynamo.”
Baker spared MacArthur the embarrassment of stating it himself. “The Rainbow Division. Because it will stretch across the country like a rainbow.”
Pershing’s mustache fluttered under a muted snort. “Colonel MacArthur can name all of the divisions, for all I care. My paramount concern is getting them equipped and trained. We have only twenty-five thousand Regular Army soldiers on the rolls. If you want four hundred thousand men in France, we’ve got a hell of task on our hands. Those National Guard boys I had in Mexico are rough around the edges. Shooting at bandits is one thing. Facing down veteran German divisions will be a shock to them.”
“Are you telling me you can’t do the job?” Baker asked him.
Pershing stole a preemptive glance at MacArthur. Then, he glared at Baker and said, “I told you I would get it done. And I will.”
Baker nodded at Pershing's confident tone. “The French and British will try to use our boys for cannon fodder. We’re not going to be cut up piecemeal just to plug their holes in the trenches. Bottom line, the president wants a fully independent American army.”
Pershing’s eyes narrowed. “And where will this independent American army obtain rifles and artillery? We don’t have enough stock in the armories to outfit five regiments.”
“The allies will supply us weapons when we get over there,” Baker said.
General Scott, alarmed by that decision, spoke up for the first time. “That means we’ll be training with weapons we won’t be using.”
“Our troops won’t be stateside long,” Baker promised. “If we don’t get to France soon, there won’t be a war left to fight.”
“Mr. Secretary,” MacArthur interjected. “There is another concern that I’m afraid we haven’t considered. Thousands of French poilus are reported to be mutinying each week on the Front. Entire divisions have been listed as missing in action. We need to prepare for what the witnessing of such acts will do to the morale of our own men.”
“What do you propose?” Baker asked.
“We should impose strict censorship on the newspaper correspondents,” MacArthur said. “Nothing gets out from the front without our permission.”
“Good luck with that,” Pershing said with a dismissive puff. “You can start by putting a muzzle on that burrowing mole Gibbons at the Chicago Tribune.”
Baker waved off the suggestion. “We can’t single out individuals for special retribution or repression. The press would raise a ruckus.”
“I’m damn serious,” Pershing warned Baker. “Keep a tight rein on Floyd Gibbons, or he’ll create problems for us.”
General March cleared his throat. “Speaking of problems.”
"Yes?" Baker asked.
“What about the coloreds?”
MacArthur and the others glanced at Pershing, anticipating his reaction because of his controversial history in commanding Negro cavalry troops.
“They’ll ship with the rest of the Army,” Pershing said, sounding defensive.
“We can’t put them in close quarters with the white boys,” March insisted.
Pershing glared at March. “The Negro soldiers will fight.”
“That’s what I’m worried about,” March said. “They’ll fight our white boys first, and our white boys will fight them. We just can’t have it.”
The War Secretary fidgeted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the issue. “The president is of the opinion that the troops should remain segregated.”
MacArthur saw a cloud of disgust pass over Pershing’s face, but Pershing chose not to press his protest.
Baker stood to indicate the present business was finished. Walking the military men to the door, he told Pershing, “I’ve instructed the General Staff to make arrangements for you to leave for France within the week on the RMSBaltic. Form up your staff quickly, and take no more than two hundred officers with you. The sailing is to be kept top secret. Portholes and windows will be covered. Two destroyers will escort you. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you get torpedoed and have to go through this hell again.” Baker turned to MacArthur and ordered, “Colonel, see to the arrangements for getting out the press release on the appointment. That will be all, gentlemen.”
MacArthur opened the door to allow the senior officers to leave first.
Baker motioned him out, too. “Colonel, would you give me a moment with General Pershing?”
“Yes, sir.” MacArthur shot a suspicious glance at Pershing while closing the door behind him.
Alone now with his new commander, Baker motioned Pershing nearer to the far window, away from prying ears in the lobby outside. “I sensed some tension between you and Major MacArthur. Do you have a problem with him?”
“Frankly, the man has kissed every ass in the Army, and more than a few over there in the White House. He’s a fawning rank climber.”
“And what kind of soldier is he in the field?”
“Fearless. On the verge of reckless.”
Baker came to his desk and pulled a letter from a pile of correspondence. “I have the misfortune of knowing his mother socially. Not a month goes by that she doesn’t write a missive importuning me to promote her son to a generalship.” His face soured as he read from Pinky MacArthur’s latest correspondence: “‘This officer is an instrument ready to hand for large things if you see fit to use him. My heart’s wish is that you might see your way clear to bestow upon him a Star.’”
Pershing’s forehead flashed crimson at hearing of the woman’s brazen arm-twisting.
Baker set the letter aside. “What do you think I should do? She's quite influential on the Hill. And persistent.”
Pershing took a moment to choose his words. “Did you know Jim Harbord never got into West Point?”
“What does Harbord have to do with MacArthur?”
Pershing walked to the window and studied the Washington monument in the distance. “General Harbord is one of the best damn soldiers I’ve ever had the privilege to serve with. He was a poor farm boy in Kansas when he applied for an appointment to the Academy. He was denied admission so that another applicant with connections could go instead. A boy with connections, just like Douglas MacArthur had connections. That boy who took Harbord’s slot is still a colonel. He remains Harbord’s junior in rank by twelve files.
“Your point, General?”
Pershing regarded the door, as if imagining MacArthur still on the far side of it, waiting to beg Baker for a spot with the first wave of AEF officers to sail to France. “I’ve got only one condition for taking this job. I want the freedom to appoint the officers I trust and send them where they’re needed. Harbord’s going to be my chief of staff. You do whatever you want with MacArthur. Hell, put him with his damn Rainbow Division, for all I care. Just don’t assign him to my headquarters. I won’t have him spying on me for you or anybody else.”