[Continuing chapter thirteen]
Wheat led them through the ranks of pegged wagons and past the mules, which snorted derisively as they passed. Patton snorted back at them, until he felt Wheat’s hand on his shoulder again. “You won’t win an argument with a mule,” he said, “so don’t even start.”
“Sorry,” Patton muttered. It wasn’t fair that Wheat should expect him to be at his best after having been plied with drink.
“No apology necessary,” Wheat said. “I just want you to conserve your admirably copious energy for tonight’s lesson. Let’s go down to the river and continue your education.”
Even above the noise of the aggravated mules, Patton could hear the sound of the river—the third one they’d encountered, numerous creeks notwithstanding and, Walker had promised, the last they’d have to cross until they were directly in front of Washington-on-the-Brazos. I’m getting tired of crossing rivers, he thought. It wouldn’t be so horrible if it was only the mules I had to drive to cross. But the men are worse. Maybe I should have practiced arguing with that mule after all.
A stand of trees, a more solid darkness against the blue-black sky, marked the river. “Nice to see trees,” Patton murmured. “This place is too flat for my taste.”
“I’m with you there, son,” Wheat said. “Give me the Blue Ridge any day.” He stopped walking. “So tell me,” he said. “Did you notice what I did for you a minute ago?”
“Beg your pardon?” Patton said. Aside from giving me too much whiskey, he thought, I wasn’t aware that you’d done anything. Is this some kind of a test?
“There are two ways to instill the habit of obedience,” Wheat said, “and instilling the habit of obedience is what you, as an officer, want to do in your men.” He took a sip from his cup, and even in the dark Patton could sense that Wheat’s expression had hardened. “One method is to make your men fear and respect you,” Wheat said. He was, Patton realized, staring up at the stars. I wonder what he’s looking for up there—or what he’s seeing.
“That’s Fontaine’s approach, and that of Walker too to some extent. I don’t deny that it can bring you results, if you’re the sort of man who’s brave enough and strong enough and tough enough that the men respect you in spite of the fear they feel.
“The other is to make your men like you and respect you. That’s my way. That’s what I was doing back there, Patton. First I reprimanded your for playing the fool with the mules. Then I made light of it, a bit, so that you wouldn’t feel too badly about it. The result, unless I miss my guess, is that you learned a lesson that wasn’t too painful—and you were reminded that I’m your superior.” Patton nodded, then realized that Wheat probably couldn’t see the gesture. He shrugged. Wheat was a smart man; he’d know what Patton thought.
“As far as I’m concerned, though,” Wheat said, suddenly turning to face Patton, “it doesn’t really matter which of the two methods you use. Whichever is most suited to your personality is the one you should choose. The important thing is that both require that your men respect you.”
“Respect?” This was a new concept for Patton. He turned around to look back at the sleeping camp. Above the noise of the river, and audible just under the sound of the mules, was the rumble of some five hundred men sleeping. Most of the Texas soldiers were immigrants, and of Walker’s men there were perhaps a dozen Patton would have counted as worthy of respect. “I was taught at the Institute to make my men obey me at all costs. That’s what you have to do to keep an army together, to keep it in fighting trim. Why do I care whether or not men like Pickett respect me?”
“Here’s where your lesson for the night comes, young Patton,” Wheat said. “It all comes down to an understanding of why men fight.” He drained his cup, looked around impractically for some place to put it, then leaned back and hurled it toward the trees and the river. “Why do you think men fight, Patton?”
Next Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six“Sorry,” Patton muttered. It wasn’t fair that Wheat should expect him to be at his best after having been plied with drink.
“No apology necessary,” Wheat said. “I just want you to conserve your admirably copious energy for tonight’s lesson. Let’s go down to the river and continue your education.”
Even above the noise of the aggravated mules, Patton could hear the sound of the river—the third one they’d encountered, numerous creeks notwithstanding and, Walker had promised, the last they’d have to cross until they were directly in front of Washington-on-the-Brazos. I’m getting tired of crossing rivers, he thought. It wouldn’t be so horrible if it was only the mules I had to drive to cross. But the men are worse. Maybe I should have practiced arguing with that mule after all.
A stand of trees, a more solid darkness against the blue-black sky, marked the river. “Nice to see trees,” Patton murmured. “This place is too flat for my taste.”
“I’m with you there, son,” Wheat said. “Give me the Blue Ridge any day.” He stopped walking. “So tell me,” he said. “Did you notice what I did for you a minute ago?”
“Beg your pardon?” Patton said. Aside from giving me too much whiskey, he thought, I wasn’t aware that you’d done anything. Is this some kind of a test?
“There are two ways to instill the habit of obedience,” Wheat said, “and instilling the habit of obedience is what you, as an officer, want to do in your men.” He took a sip from his cup, and even in the dark Patton could sense that Wheat’s expression had hardened. “One method is to make your men fear and respect you,” Wheat said. He was, Patton realized, staring up at the stars. I wonder what he’s looking for up there—or what he’s seeing.
“That’s Fontaine’s approach, and that of Walker too to some extent. I don’t deny that it can bring you results, if you’re the sort of man who’s brave enough and strong enough and tough enough that the men respect you in spite of the fear they feel.
“The other is to make your men like you and respect you. That’s my way. That’s what I was doing back there, Patton. First I reprimanded your for playing the fool with the mules. Then I made light of it, a bit, so that you wouldn’t feel too badly about it. The result, unless I miss my guess, is that you learned a lesson that wasn’t too painful—and you were reminded that I’m your superior.” Patton nodded, then realized that Wheat probably couldn’t see the gesture. He shrugged. Wheat was a smart man; he’d know what Patton thought.
“As far as I’m concerned, though,” Wheat said, suddenly turning to face Patton, “it doesn’t really matter which of the two methods you use. Whichever is most suited to your personality is the one you should choose. The important thing is that both require that your men respect you.”
“Respect?” This was a new concept for Patton. He turned around to look back at the sleeping camp. Above the noise of the river, and audible just under the sound of the mules, was the rumble of some five hundred men sleeping. Most of the Texas soldiers were immigrants, and of Walker’s men there were perhaps a dozen Patton would have counted as worthy of respect. “I was taught at the Institute to make my men obey me at all costs. That’s what you have to do to keep an army together, to keep it in fighting trim. Why do I care whether or not men like Pickett respect me?”
“Here’s where your lesson for the night comes, young Patton,” Wheat said. “It all comes down to an understanding of why men fight.” He drained his cup, looked around impractically for some place to put it, then leaned back and hurled it toward the trees and the river. “Why do you think men fight, Patton?”
Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
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