He had his valet, Pishkoff, called to duty, which made him glad. For three days, advisers for the Imperial General Staff came to the Savoy in shifts, sometimes taking tea in the rooms, sometimes strolling along the Embankment with Ironside. He was six foot six inches tall and weighed 270 pounds. He always walked with his head at a slight incline, listening and simultaneously apologizing for being so much taller than he needed to be. His tone when speaking was apologetic, as if he understood that the world was mad to have made a man of his slight qualities a general—but since it had, he seemed to imply, why not see what you and he could do about all this business?

The tide was turning in the European theater. “In Russia, too?” he asked, just once, the question disappearing like a penny down a well. He was to assist and advise General Poole, nothing more. “Nothing more” was said so often that Ironside understood that it was anticipated he would need to do something more. “Am I to replace him?” he finally asked, and he was told no. He was told that, in spite of the late date in the war, he had the finest available troops to carry out their mission. He later summarized his briefing as follows:

Myself: How many troops are there?

Staff Officer: 2500 Royal Scots, 5900 American, assorted others.

All under the command of General Poole, of course.

Myself: Yes, as for the British troops, how many are A1?

Staff: None.

Myself: None?

Staff: No, the A1s are on the main campaign against Germany, in the most vital positions. Realize we’ve given you the best remaining troops.

“A2?”

“None. Still, you will have the best.”

A3 were men fit for combat duty, but only under close supervision, not to be trusted with heavy arms. “A3?”

“None, I’m afraid.”

So down the line he went until he got to B2, “fit for base duty abroad.”

“Ah, yes.” Fingers scrolling down a clipboard. “You … have … none of the B2-grade troops, either.”

“What grade have I got left?” He was worried he would get C2s—those fit only for sedentary duty overseas.

“C3.”

He hadn’t known there was a C3. Men whose ears came off when they coughed. Alcoholics whose stomachs were made of glass. Men missing fingers (though not their trigger fingers, it was pointed out). These were his worker bees.

He inquired about his forty-eight hundred Americans, and was told they were excellent combat troops unspoiled by previous duties. “I was told to celebrate,” he wrote.