George Marshall. Marshall, the same colonel who had helped Eisenhower land his spot on Conner’s staff, read the passages and preferred Pershing’s original approach. Eisenhower was so surprised that he nursed the insult for years and insisted that friends often told him they found Pershing’s version hard to decipher. (Others disagreed. Pershing’s memoir won the Pulitzer Prize in 1932.) What mattered most about the literary squabble between Eisenhower and Pershing, though, was that even in resolving it in Pershing’s favor, Marshall recognized the talent behind Ike’s work. As with Conner years earlier, a brilliant Army leader had just spotted the flash of excellence in a promising officer.
Their other encounter was passing, but Ike remembered it well. Eisenhower had just returned from the Philippines, and the two were observing military exercises on the West Coast. Remarking on Ike’s recent posting, Marshall remembered the ease of life in the Philippines, where he too had served and where servants were supplied to senior officers in abundance. Now that he was back in the United States, Marshall asked Ike, was he relearning to tie his shoes? Eisenhower’s reply: “Yes, sir.”
So while it was not a complete stranger who greeted Eisenhower that morning in 1941, nor was it someone he knew well, other than by reputation. And yet what a reputation it was. George Marshall was terse, taciturn, exquisitely restrained. He was absentminded, often confusing the names of subordinates, but deeply dignified. Rarely did Marshall ever issue an order. Instead, he suggested and selected. His work ethic was legendary, and his disapproval was feared. Once, when an officer apologized for having to delay his departure to Europe because his wife was out of town and their home needed to be packed, Marshall replied: “I’m sorry, too, but you will be retired tomorrow.”
Marshall and Eisenhower had grown up differently, Ike in the modesty of his Kansas home, Marshall in the boom-and-bust household supplied by his father, a prosperous coal executive who suffered in the Depression of the 1890s. If anything, young Marshall had been an even more indifferent student than young Ike. Marshall eventually graduated respectably from Virginia Military Institute and secured his commission by passing the examination that West Point alumni were allowed to skip. From that point on, Marshall’s military career bore some resemblance to that of his new aide. Both served in the Philippines; both were graduates of the staff college at Leavenworth (Marshall, too, graduated “One”); both had served under Pershing, though Marshall in wartime and Eisenhower during the peace between the wars; both were well acquainted with Conner, whom they greatly admired. Both were handsome men, Eisenhower an inch or two taller; both possessed striking blue eyes, Marshall’s a shade deeper.
When Eisenhower entered Marshall’s inner office that morning, the chief of staff barely looked up. Sitting behind his desk, he briefed Eisenhower on the crisis facing the Philippines. MacArthur had inexplicably allowed American planes to sit on their runways in the hours after Pearl Harbor, and as a result Japanese bombing had destroyed much of America’s airpower in the region. An invasion seemed imminent, and the United States was frightfully overmatched. Marshall relayed those facts squarely, speaking for about twenty minutes, then suddenly stopped. “What,” he asked his new aide, “should be our general line of action?”
Surprised to be asked such a direct question of such immense consequence on such short notice, Eisenhower smartly declined a glib answer. “Give me a couple of hours,” he requested. “Of course,” Marshall replied.
Eisenhower went to his office and worked. “I have never pondered in my life like I did then,” he said later. He returned to Marshall that afternoon. The defense of the Philippines might prove impossible, Eisenhower acknowledged.
Their other encounter was passing, but Ike remembered it well. Eisenhower had just returned from the Philippines, and the two were observing military exercises on the West Coast. Remarking on Ike’s recent posting, Marshall remembered the ease of life in the Philippines, where he too had served and where servants were supplied to senior officers in abundance. Now that he was back in the United States, Marshall asked Ike, was he relearning to tie his shoes? Eisenhower’s reply: “Yes, sir.”
So while it was not a complete stranger who greeted Eisenhower that morning in 1941, nor was it someone he knew well, other than by reputation. And yet what a reputation it was. George Marshall was terse, taciturn, exquisitely restrained. He was absentminded, often confusing the names of subordinates, but deeply dignified. Rarely did Marshall ever issue an order. Instead, he suggested and selected. His work ethic was legendary, and his disapproval was feared. Once, when an officer apologized for having to delay his departure to Europe because his wife was out of town and their home needed to be packed, Marshall replied: “I’m sorry, too, but you will be retired tomorrow.”
Marshall and Eisenhower had grown up differently, Ike in the modesty of his Kansas home, Marshall in the boom-and-bust household supplied by his father, a prosperous coal executive who suffered in the Depression of the 1890s. If anything, young Marshall had been an even more indifferent student than young Ike. Marshall eventually graduated respectably from Virginia Military Institute and secured his commission by passing the examination that West Point alumni were allowed to skip. From that point on, Marshall’s military career bore some resemblance to that of his new aide. Both served in the Philippines; both were graduates of the staff college at Leavenworth (Marshall, too, graduated “One”); both had served under Pershing, though Marshall in wartime and Eisenhower during the peace between the wars; both were well acquainted with Conner, whom they greatly admired. Both were handsome men, Eisenhower an inch or two taller; both possessed striking blue eyes, Marshall’s a shade deeper.
When Eisenhower entered Marshall’s inner office that morning, the chief of staff barely looked up. Sitting behind his desk, he briefed Eisenhower on the crisis facing the Philippines. MacArthur had inexplicably allowed American planes to sit on their runways in the hours after Pearl Harbor, and as a result Japanese bombing had destroyed much of America’s airpower in the region. An invasion seemed imminent, and the United States was frightfully overmatched. Marshall relayed those facts squarely, speaking for about twenty minutes, then suddenly stopped. “What,” he asked his new aide, “should be our general line of action?”
Surprised to be asked such a direct question of such immense consequence on such short notice, Eisenhower smartly declined a glib answer. “Give me a couple of hours,” he requested. “Of course,” Marshall replied.
Eisenhower went to his office and worked. “I have never pondered in my life like I did then,” he said later. He returned to Marshall that afternoon. The defense of the Philippines might prove impossible, Eisenhower acknowledged.
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