Once an Eagle (106 page)

“Yes sir,” he'd said promptly. You didn't horse around with Sam at such moments. But the trouble with Sam was he was just too straight. A mean son of a bitch was never a mean son of a bitch to Sam: he was always digging up extenuating circumstances. Not that he couldn't be tough enough when he had to be—at Moapora he'd relieved that stupid, arrogant bastard Caylor so fast he never knew what hit him; and he'd sent Hodl home after that fiasco on the beach at Wokai. But sometimes he didn't see what was there, before his eyes.

Actually his own apprehensions about Massengale had turned out to be groundless. The Corps Commander had congratulated him on his star, had shaken hands with him and smiled and said, “How's everything up front?” This was in reference to a breezy query he'd made, on his way up to the line at Komfane, of a dirty, exhausted corporal who was filling his canteens at a water cart. He'd spoken more to pass the time of day than anything else. The corporal had looked at him narrowly and made no reply. Three hours later he was jolting his painful way back on a stretcher, lavishly soaked in his own blood—and as luck would have it, overtook the same outfit that contained the weary corporal, whose eyes now brightened with interest. “Well, Colonel,” he'd called, “—how's everything up front?” “Fluid,” he'd murmured, and managed a grin, though it had almost killed him. “Plenty fluid …”

Yet Massengale's use of the tale—which had become a stock line around the Division long before his arrival—had irritated him: he felt Massengale had appropriated it unfairly, for his own devices. It shouldn't have been offered so casually by someone who hadn't in a sense earned the right to say it. At the time, though, he'd been relieved. Massengale had made no reference then or later to the night of the masked ball in Manila. “Why, of course,” he'd said to Thiemann, “I served with Benjamin on Luzon. In happier days.” He had wondered if Massengale might even have put it behind him—but now, watching a little covertly those close-set amber eyes, he knew this wasn't so …

Burckhardt had finished; they were discussing the operation now. He came alert instantly.

“What's the road like,” Swanson was saying, “from Dalomo to Fotgon?”

“Surfaced with about four inches of cascao, General,” Fowler answered.

“All the way?”

“No—only as far as Menangas. From that point it's a simple country road.”

Swanny looked at him. “You mean a buffalo trail. Unsurfaced.”

“Yes, that's correct, General.”

Krisler saw Swanson's eyes move southwest along the meandering red line that led to the airstrip, and rest on the heavily grease-penciled ovoid rectangle that symbolized a heavy enemy concentration below the airfield, astride the junction. “The old highway from Reina Blanca was paved, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it reaches to within four or five miles of Menangas.”

“I wonder if the Japs have done anything more on it. They usually don't.”

“There are no reports of any work on that highway, General.”

“I see.” Swanson's eyes moved over the map again. “Well, we'll just have to do the best we can with it.”

Sam spoke for the first time that morning. “Yes, you'll have to make the time, Swanny. My crowd will have the rough going.”

Slimy end of the stick, Krisler thought. The price of excellence. Ours but to crucify. He looked at Massengale, but the Corps Commander's face was unreadable; he was watching Sam, who was studying the mimeographed G-2 estimates on the Japanese troop dispositions.

Slowly Damon raised his head. “General …”

“What is it, Samuel?”

“You said that General Bannerman's division is to be held in Corps floating reserve.”

“That's correct.”

Sam paused a moment. “I assume, then, that it will be in support of the main landing on Blue.”

Massengale pursed his lips; his eyes were almost colorless. “I want to hold them here, off Facpi Point, so that they can move either way, depending on conditions at the time.”

“But since the main landings are at Blue, and the bulk of the enemy concentrations are south of the airstrip, Blue will be the beachhead in need of reinforcement.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment. It had become very quiet in the conference room. Then Massengale smiled. “Don't worry, Samuel. We'll anticipate developments. I didn't realize the illustrious Double Five required additional support.”

“We will be bearing the brunt of the assault, General.”

“Which was precisely why I chose your division. I have unbounded confidence in its audacity and valor.”

It was curious. From where he sat Krisler could see Sam at less than full profile—yet for an instant something flickered across the Nebraskan's face; the merest shadow. Then it was gone and Sam said in a dry, remote tone: “I will inform the men, sir.”

There was more talk then about feints, and a cover plan for Negros; and after that a report from Corps G-5, Colonel Carruthers, on the Filipino population and the Mendarez guerrilla force. By then it was nearly noon and Massengale said:

“Well, gentlemen, I think we've made a splendid start. I suggest we adjourn for lunch. A pause will give the doubting Thomases a chance to resolve their doubts, and the implementers occasion to implement.—Spencer,” he said to Murtaugh, who blinked at him again, “you'll check with Admiral Kincaid at your earliest convenience?”

“Yes I will, General.”

“Good, then. Good morning, gentlemen.”

Hollingford, Sam's driver, was waiting for them in the jeep. Krisler ducked in and Sam followed him, saying curtly, “Division mess.”

“Yes, sir.”

They moved away from the grand white building with its screened verandah: and their eyes met.

“What do you think, Benjy?”

“I don't like it. It—doesn't jell, Sam. First place, what's he want with a two-ring circus—isn't one landing enough? And then that business of the floating reserve—”

“Yes,” Sam said with surprising vehemence. “That's it exactly.
Exactly …
”

Krisler was startled at this; was there even more to it that he hadn't seen? Sam's reaction was disconcerting; it turned him jocose.

“What the hell,” he offered. “Ours but to flip and fry.”

“The son of a bitch.”

Krisler turned, astonished, to see Sam glaring at him. Hollingford was staring straight ahead at the smooth, narrow ribbon of blacktop.

“You know what he wants, don't you?” Sam demanded, and his eyes bore a look of wrathful torment Krisler had never seen there before. “Don't you?”

“—Why no,” Krisler answered after a moment. “Hell, no—beyond wanting to play Hannibal and Caesar and Napoleon all rolled into one …” Perplexity assailed him. “Why, what else is he after, Chief?”

“Figure it out for yourself.” And Sam relapsed into sullen silence, staring woodenly ahead. Krisler knew better than to pursue the point: when Sam slipped—it was rare enough—into one of those morose silences, your only play was to let him strictly alone. Anyway, they had plenty to do now, with Palamangao—PALLADIUM! Jesus—a scant seven weeks away. They'd have to get the terrain tables set up, the scale models of Babuyan Beach, speed up the training schedules. Maybe they could run two assault exercises on Benapei before they had to pack up. They could use two of them.

Twice he rolled an eye over at Sam, but his expression hadn't changed. Old Sam, he thought with a rush of angry affection; old scrap-iron boondocker, old imperturbable. All the things we've been through: the riverbank at Moapora, and the tank assult on Wokai, and the ridge, and the dawn jump-off at Komfane. All the tight places. Old Sam—if they give you a bad time I'll boil them in oil and skin them alive. I will.

The jungle flowed by, dense and drowsy on either side of the new highway. Hollingford slowed, and ahead of them rose the gate, surmounted by a large, neatly lettered sign:

 

YOU ARE RECLINING ON THIS LUSH TROPICAL ISLE COURTESY OF THE 55TH INFANTRY DIVISION VICTORS OF MOAPORA—WOKAI—LOLOBITI—BENAPEI

 

Beside him Sam grunted, and gave a sad, wintry smile. On a tree trunk below the sign someone had written on a short plank in a loose, flowery hand:

 

But I'd one hell of a lot rather recline back in Sioux Falls.

 

29 Oct 44.
Went over to Petty Trianon yesterday to beard the lion in his fancy den. Am convinced beyond all doubt Pala assault plan is unnecessarily complicated and artful—and therefore unsound. Blue landings are sufficient: blast inland, cut highway, seize airstrip, seal off Tanag Penin if he wants to, block on right flank vs. Kalao, drive on north to Dalomo and ultimately Reina Blanca. Then push east to Kalao, secure the butts. Why all this split-second timing with 2ary landing, all this doubling of assault craft, LCIs, transports? burdening Tug with 2 unloading areas, 2 beachheads to furnish cover for? Hazards—and pressures—are not worth surprise which may or may not be achieved.

Massengale very affable, at ease. (He DOES seem supremely confident.) Ryetower there, made no move to leave, CM made no effort to shoo him along. Intentional? Was damned if I was going to ask to see him alone. Said I thought White landings weren't worth price of admission, urged him to reconsider. He gave me that hooded smile of his. “I believe we can cope with it adequately, Samuel. The tactical considerations alone dictate audacity.” Old-Salt-at-Helm-Dept. Some rather desultory fencing and politesses, and finally I threw the meat on the floor.

“The reserve division, sir—it is definitely understood that it is to constitute my reserve on Blue.” Ryetower scowling at me as though I'd been writing dirty words on the walls. Massengale got up and went over to the window to commune with himself. After a while: “Why do you ask?” “Because my G-2 has unequivocal reports that Murasse's division has moved into the area south of the strip, between Ilig and Fotgon, and that extensive work on fortifications is going on there.” “Who's your G-2?” “Lt. Col. Feltner, sir. He's a very good man, very reliable. Aerial reconnaissance has checked out guerrilla reports.” “Oh yes, the little fellow …”

He came back and sat down. “You look daunted, Samuel. That isn't like you.” His eyes measuring me—that look I remember from Luzon days. “Don't you have confidence in your command?” Refused to get sore at that. “Yes sir, great confidence. But I don't feel that any unit should be asked to accomplish a task beyond its capabilities.” He looked down at his desk, fiddling with a key ring with a Phi Beta Kappa key on it. Odd: had never noticed it before. Maybe it's an honorary one he picked up during the Washington tour. Well, we all have our rituals, our lucky coins and mementoes. “I feel it's essential to the over-all success of the operation to keep things flexible, Samuel. If the enemy should take it into his head to make a determined stand at Dalomo, or the—the left flank of White, I want to be able to shift either way, as the situation develops. A mobile reserve is a pearl of great price, Samuel. If you are held up unduly on the Babuyan side, I want to be able to punch through from Dalomo. It's imperative that we secure that airstrip at the earliest possible moment.”

Right then it hit me, all at once.
Left flank of White.
That little hesitation. And not mentioning the name. He intends to try to do both: Swanny can slug his way through to link up with me, and he will throw Porky's outfit in to swing north from Dalomo and take Reina Blanca. Of course. Hail the conquering hero. And I'm left there holding the bag, trying to press home an attack against two divisions and assorted independent units. Just peachy.

Felt very angry. Ryetower watching me with no expression at all. He knows, too. I said: “In that case, General, I feel I must insist upon tactical control of the Forty-ninth Division as part of my reserve.” He went back in his chair. “Now look, Samuel—” “If not,” I went on calmly, “in view of the intelligence reports on dispositions of enemy strength, I cannot accept the responsibility.”

There it was. Dead silence. Ryetower staring at me in open-mouthed amazement. Even Massengale's eyes wide. Very long moment. I thought of the Double Five, all the kids and the old men, the afternoon at the cemetery at Moapora, the night at the river with everyone pushing and pulling me around like a helpless drunk, and the beach at Wokai and Sabotnak grinning at us and hollering, “Dig the frigging tank destroyer!—”

For a while I thought he was going to take me up on it, tell me to pack my bags and get on the boat. His face got very long and arch—what Joe Brand calls his Grand Sachem Look. All the blood seemed to have left it, even his lips. I could see that vein running bright blue up into his scalp under the widow's peak. Then all at once he laughed and got to his feet again. “Samuel, Samuel, what are you saying? One would think this was the meeting between Brutus and Cassius. [A similar thought had occurred to me, though not on quite so lit'r'y a level.] Let's not be at daggers drawn over this. PALLADIUM will furnish laurels enough for us all.” I said, “I have very little interest in laurels, General.” “An old war horse like you? Come on … I'll give you my word—if you're sufficiently pressed and call for the Forty-ninth you shall have it—is that what you want? Does that satisfy you?”

Felt foolish standing there, so grim and unbending in the face of such magnanimity. “Of course, General. I only felt—” “Now I don't want you to give it another thought. Of course you shall have it if circumstances warrant it. Surely you can't believe I would jeopardize the fate of the entire operation over such a matter …?” “Of course not, sir. I didn't mean to imply anything like that.” Ryetower glancing from CM to me like a baffled spectator at a tennis match. Why in hell should
he
look apprehensive? He'll be on the good ship
Fargo
sipping ice cream sodas and listening to the radio reports.