Once an Eagle (107 page)

He sat down again. Sweating in my shirt, jungle crud under my arm burning. Very close call. Some desultory talk about the preliminary bombardment. He's very pleased that CINCPAC granted 8 days of cover. Ben is right—he's got the Navy in his pocket, he must have buttered Ernie King to a turn during that long, lush Washington tour with OPD. Well: them as has gits, as old Mr. Verney used to say.

Casually he picked up a handsome little model of a native banca sitting on his desk. “A gift from the headman at Walewa Village. Lovely thing, isn't it?” His fingers gliding along the oily dark wood of the hull. “I thought I might send it to the President. For his ship model collection.” His eyes rising to mine. “Do you think he would like it?” Thought of the lakatois at the river, the tracers dancing on the black water, and Ben after the phone call with Dick.
All set for Operation Styx.
“I'm sure the President would appreciate it very much, General.”

And then, without any preamble: “How long have you been out here, Samuel? Since September of '42, isn't it?” “That's right, General.” “More than two years. That's a long time …” Musing, looking off across that sweep of achingly vivid emerald and cerulean and indigo sea, all ours now, with the mighty Jap garrison penned up in Rabaul, rusting like a plowshare in winter rain. Then, directly: “Do you think you might need a rest?” Felt startled, off balance: his voice solicitous, but there was more underneath it. That cool, flawless thing. Maybe he was angry (in
his
way) after the horn locking of a few moments before. Or testing me, perhaps. Loyalty from the bottom up. Sure: but how about from the top down?

“Not at all, General, I feel fine—I've had a good long spell of rest and relaxation since Benapei. Nate Weintraub gave me a clean bill a month ago.” Musing again, staring into space, biting on that pacifier of a jade cigarette holder. “I worry about some of you Thermopylae people—out here in the dark days when the clock was ticking so fast and no time to do it all … ” Ryetower's face infantile in admiration. Pearls of wisdom from on high. Well, maybe that's too hard on him, maybe he means it—some of it, anyway. Does he? Raising his eyes to mine. “Would a week down in Brisbane be any help?” “No, sir, I don't think so. And there's so much to do right now.” Sure, a week of fun and games at Lennon's—and wake up to find I'd been relieved. No thank you. Still could not read his eyes. They are impossible! So light, with those tiny points in the pupils, so curiously without depth or shine. That's it—they don't shine any. “I'd fly you home for a spell if there was time for it.” Chewing on the jade holder. He thinks I've had it: war-weary, losing my grip. Felt suddenly afraid: thin cold fear in my guts, like the start of a chill. Nothing like the sensation of a moment before, when I called his bluff on the 49th. Is he really contemplating relieving me—just like that? He wants me out of the theater, clearly. Ben and me both. The hoodlums, the radicals. The bad soldiers. “I really do wish you could get home, even for a few days. It could be important in so many ways.”

No: he is not going to relieve me. Not yet, anyway. He needs me too much for Pala. The Division would go up like a rocket if he sacked me now, and he knows it. They'd fight for Ben, all right—but Ben's a worse headache than I am. Ryetower couldn't get them out of their sacks, and neither could Burckhardt; and he knows that, too. Maybe after Pala is over. Of course there'll still be Formosa, or China, and then the home islands. He'll wait to see how we carry off the sacred PALLADIUM from lofty Ilium.

But what the hell did he mean by that?
In so many ways.
Has he found out about Joyce? is that some sort of threat? Ryetower would have his own ways of finding out. The hell with him: the hell with all of them.

“Have you heard from your father-in-law, Samuel?” “Not for some weeks, General—not since he went ashore in France.” “I see.” That solicitous, feline gaze. He knows something. About Dad, or Tommy. Something or other. That old queasy feeling. That's the hell of service life—everybody knows all about it but you. That discreet murmur over highball glasses or porcelain mugs or canteen cups; the covert, distressed glance. “Suppose you heard about … ” The Club of Noble Martyrs. Tommy's phrase. Can see her lip curling, that white flash in her eyes right now, here, clear as day.

But it's more than that: it's as though he knows about Tommy—really knows something. Knows and won't tell me. Power-and-Pleasure Department. God, it's easy to hate people sometimes. Well: he'll never tell me—and maybe it's better that way.

Great naval victory up north. Three-pronged Jap attack beaten off. Near disaster, apparently: Halsey fell for decoy, went tearing off after Ozawa's Northern Force and left beachhead wide open with Sprague holding satchel. There seems to be one hell of a lot of riding off into the wild blue yonder in this war. But then, when Kurita had cleared San Bernardino Strait and rounded Samar, a scant 2 hours from Leyte and the amphibious shipping, right when he had it all in his hand—he broke off and headed west again. Why? Fooled by the jeep carriers? communications break down? lose his nerve? Opportunity once forsaken is opportunity lost forever: Dad's line after Soissons. Halsey finally turned back in a panic, but too late to do any good in either direction. Well: all's well that ends well. I guess. (Tell that to the poor bastards on the jeeps and the tin cans.) Jap losses 4 carriers, 3 BBs, 10 cruisers, 11 destroyers 200-odd planes. They've lost the war right there—their fleet as a fighting arm has ceased to exist. Why don't they quit?

But they won't. Just the way Germany won't. Why be surprised at that? We wouldn't either. Not fashionable anymore. To the bitter end. So be it.

Jimmy Hoyt's injury very upsetting. Everybody drives too fast around this rock. All of them, they think it's a sign of testicular prowess to burn up the track. They're not proving a God damn thing except that their bodies are softer than drop-forged steel. By Christ, I'm going to crack down, fine the hell out of them. What Lucian did in Sicily: 50 bucks per infraction. Bad omen, all the same. Now who'll take over my beloved 477th? I could move Ray Feltner over, they all know him and like him, but then what'll I do for a G-2? Bowcher's what they need, rock 'em and sock 'em, but he's had no combat experience over company level, he shouldn't try to jump to a regiment. Put too many noses out of joint. See how he does with 3rd Bn this time out. Guess it'll have to be Johnny Ross. Check with Ben, he's had the outfit more recently, he may have some ideas.

How I railed for years at the old fogey brass and the way they came down on “you young officers”—and our foibles and inadequacies. Now I'm one of the old fogey brass. The way it OUGHT to be is, I ought to have Regiment with Ben as my exec. As at Moapora. Then I'd be out from under all this paper-passing and walla-walla and cross-purposes. But then of course I wouldn't have 2 stars AND a command car AND a pyramidal tent of my ownest own—and think how sad I'd feel not to have all THAT crap.

Great mail call today. Finally heard from Dad: furious at Montgomery over foul-up at Falaise, terrific chance missed not breaching Siegfried Line while Germans were reeling and joint was undefended. Still pleading for a field command, without success. At least he made it back to France again.

Funny lovely old letter from Peggy, saying her mother is furious with
her
for quitting school to take that farm job. Why? If that's what she wants to do. There's too much of everyone telling everyone else how to run his life these days. Felt oddly pleased. Back to the soil in one generation. I'd like some of that, right now: moving along the rows, shucking corn, ripping back and down, the lemon cob bursting out of its hairy pale green husk like some savage little birth; or working up a fallen oak, the saw pouring back and forth in its thin, rhythmic sing-song and the sawdust spurting red on my left boot with every lunge; or walking over the stripped fields, just about time now, the stubble crackling underfoot like glass, frosty in furry blue webs in the morning sun. Dear Diary. I'm homesick. And tired.

No word from Tommy.

I have such a black feeling about this op. Can't shake it. He's trying just too damn much. Audacity, downright gambling, sure—but in the right place, for the right reasons. We're out of the rainy season anyway, the island is big. So why all the fancy footwork?

But I suppose it'll look particularly good in an after-action report to GHQ SWPA, and Washington …

He hates my guts. There it is. He hates my very guts, and I despise him and fear him. Not HIM actually—more what he will do, what he is capable of: like those visitations of the gods as mortals in Homer. There is something terrible inside him, in his soul. He talks about the big picture and command problems and knowledge of terrain but all that has nothing to do with it—it's this other thing that slips along just under the surface.

I keep coming back to that moment in the wrecked courtyard near St. Durance. He doesn't feel—he doesn't LOVE MAN. Yes. Old homo mensura, with his prehensile claws and splayed feet, with his nobility and greed and hope and vanity and wonder, his immense possibilities. People. The guy bent over at the sink trying to work the sludge out of his knuckles with solvent, and his wife at the stove with her hair in curlers, shushing the kids over the booming racket of the radio. Her face catches the light in a certain way, or that tender, dreamy look comes over it as she watches the baby, and the guy at the sink straightens and moves up behind her and steals a kiss, and she laughs, fussing a little because he's still wet and soapy—and then turns and hugs him in the middle of the kitchen floor, with the kids squabbling over the toys and the radio yammering away … All the men and girls with their dreams and derelictions, their quarrels and reconciliations, wrenched away from those intimate things now, those naked things, snatched up and flung harshly into jungles, mountains, burning desert sands for the preservation of this way of life we believe in so passionately—and which has so many glorious things about it that the simple contemplation of it, late on a hot, still night like this one, between the jungle and the sea, 10,000 miles from home, can move you almost to tears … . Only it's not all glorious, it's not nearly all it could be; and after all the anguish and losses the guy at the sink is going to want some changes made. And by God, they had damn well better be made, too.

But Massengale doesn't see any of this. He can't love that guy at the sink, trying to work the grease out of his knuckles. And because he can't love him he himself is only half a man.

And one more thought at this late, dark, heavy hour: if I despise him and am afraid of him, how much of a man am I?

10

Sergeant Brand turned
from the tent entrance and said: “Sir—Generals Massengale and Ryetower.” His expression was perfectly impassive but his jet black eyes were glinting, and Feltner thought: Here comes trouble. The gods are loose again.

“Thank you, Joe,” Damon answered; his face had stiffened. Feltner got to his feet and picked up the sheaf of reports, but the General said casually, “No—why don't you stick around, Ray? We may have to refer to some of the stuff you've got there.”

“Very good, sir,” he answered. But it wasn't very good at all: it would be a lot nicer to be back in his tent, or down at the beach. Or back on Lolo, or Désespoir, or Timbuktu. There was the clatter of a jeep engine outside, then it stopped abruptly. A brief premonitory silence ensued, and then Massengale stepped into the operations tent, followed by his Chief of Staff. He was wearing neatly pressed khaki and a garrison cap with the grommet removed from the brim, and paratrooper's boots that still held a high polish; he wore no sidearm, though Ryetower was carrying a .38 in a shoulder holster.

Feltner, Pritchard and Brand all came to attention and Damon rose and came forward saying, “Good morning, General. Lyal.”

“At ease, gentlemen,” Massengale said. “At ease, everyone. As you were. This is no time to stand on ceremony …” He peered back irritably through the tent entrance and Feltner thought, No, it certainly is not—but you'd have blown your stack if we
hadn't
all popped to in your august presence.

“Your security seems lax to me, Samuel.” Massengale was still looking out of the entrance, frowning. “Haven't you a security guard around your headquarters here?”

“Yes, I do, sir. But I reduced it substantially yesterday.” Massengale turned. “Why is that?”

“Because they were needed up on the line.”

The Corps Commander made no rejoinder to this. He walked up to the situation map, which was tacked to a drawing board mounted on a kind of easel. In his right hand he held a curious object, neither a swagger stick nor a wand, which he kept running back and forth through his fingers. Feltner finally, suddenly identified it as a large Japanese fan, a very ornate one with an ivory handle and extremely narrow rods. Massengale had picked it up in Dalomo, or more likely someone had given it to him, and Feltner found his eyes kept going back to it. Unhappily he shifted his feet.

Massengale was moving the tip of the fan over the troop dispositions, his eyes narrowed; the thin, almost pretty lips were pressed tight, a muscle in the cheek Feltner could see flexed repeatedly. He was not sweating—now that Feltner thought of it, he had never seen Massengale perspire, no matter how hot it got—but his features looked sharper, more feral and intent, as though sanded down by the abrasions and tensions of the past two weeks. At the right flank, where the Third Battalion of the 477th was positioned, the fan stopped, and tapped the acetate briskly twice. Damon, standing beside his superior officer, said nothing. Feltner encountered Pritchard's eyes, then Brand's; the orderly, like the rest of them, was still standing, though he had relaxed, and that look was back in his face—an intimation of angry, defiant amusement. Or was it contempt? Feltner had become fond of Brand after the Wokai beachhead and that incredible exploit against the tanks, for which Damon had got him the DSC: Brand had entered that small, select fraternity who had fought with Sad Sam closely, intimately, guarded his life from peril. And he'd liked the Indian's morose sarcasm, the fiery independence of manner, barely controlled. Now, constrained by Massengale's presence, Feltner found himself watching the orderly resentfully. What the hell—it was all right for the EM, they had more room for defiance, they could sit around and bitch and spin their interminable rumors and legends: they weren't placed so closely to the sun's scorching rays—

“You appear to have lost momentum, Samuel,” the Corps Commander observed crisply.

“We're slowed down, yes.”

“And after such scintillating successes on the first two days …”

“The Jap has changed his tactics, sir,” Damon answered. “He's decided to relinquish the shore positions in order to hold more strongly farther back—and work over the beachhead with artillery.”

As if in corroboration of this analysis the thin, dry whistling arched overhead, ending in two sharp crashes in the beachhead area, followed almost instantly by the roar and rushing passage of retaliatory batteries.

“I'm aware that the beachhead was not defended,” Massengale retorted irritably. “You mean to say you don't think it was as the result of air and sea bombardment?”

“No, I don't. If they had wanted to stay, they would have stayed.”

“I don't agree with you.”

Damon made no reply. The roar and crash of the artillery duel grew in the brief silence. Feltner gripped the sheaf of reports and stared at the clutter on the bulletin board on the other side of the tent wall, in front of the field desks. There had been virtually no resistance on the beaches: the assault elements had splashed ashore and hurried, incredulous and elated, past abandoned pillboxes and communicating trenches and pushed on into the jungle, the first low hills. Was it somehow going to be a pushover? were the Nips through? It was uncanny. The succeeding waves came on in, the perimeter swelled rapidly, the supply parties landed and began to form their unloading lines … and then, with no warning at all, there came the murderous whipcrack of high-velocity 47s and 70s, drenching the beach in dirty smoke, smothering the shouts of alarm, the cries of the wounded and dying.

Two hours later the advance inland had run up against the old, terrible pattern of interlaced bunkers and sniper fire: a slow, bitter advance scored with the inevitable losses. The Old Man had called on all the tricks he'd learned in two years and four campaigns—carefully coordinated artillery barrages, short tank assaults with infantry in close support, flamethrower and BAR teams in tandem, feints and flanking movements—but the grease-penciled lines on the map crept with agonizing slowness toward the airfield. The 18th Division, which had had the same easy landing at Dalomo, had virtually ground to a halt six miles north of Menangas. By then it had become amply clear that the Corps G-2 estimates of enemy strength were wildly inaccurate: instead of 38,000 there were more than 55,000 Japanese on Palamangao, and they were tough, disciplined troops, ably led and determined to resist to the last man. Feltner, listening to the generals talking, watching their faces, felt worn down, exasperated by the oppressive cunning of the enemy, his stubborn hardihood and fanaticism, his swarming, illimitable profusion. It would never be over. Each island, each campaign—except for Moapora, nothing would ever be as awful as Moapora—was worse: more prolonged, more costly. And there were so terribly, bloody, aching many more to go …

“Samuel,” Massengale was saying, “I'm not at all happy about our telephone conversation this morning.”

“I realize that, General. I'm sorry.”

“Frankly I'm chagrined at your attitude over an insignificant little pivoting movement like PYLON.”

Damon compressed his lips. “Sir, I feel it is too hazardous at this time. To put the Regiment through a maneuver like that would expose its entire flank for the better part of a day.” His voice was level, but tinged with entreaty. “I've just talked with a patrol leader who is convinced the Japanese are staging for a major attack on the axis Umatoc-Argíhan, possibly by tomorrow.”

Massengale shrugged. “A spoiling attack, perhaps. They certainly won't commit themselves to an assault in force, with Swanson's people moving against their rear.”

“But that's only one
part
of their rear. They have the mountains at their rear here, and the trail from Apremanay and Kalao, and plenty of room for maneuver on both sides of the mountains. A guerrilla report has two regiments moving up from Agusán.”

“Filipinos,” Massengale answered, and smiled. “Come now—how much credulity can you place in an emotional people like this, without training or education, who don't know an oxcart from a Rolls Royce?”

“They know a man with a rifle when they see him, General. They've been hiding out in the boondocks watching the Japanese for three long years.”

There was the high, taut whistling, softer this time, and a detonation less than fifty yards away; then another. Everyone in the room stirred except Massengale, who was frowning at the map, the fan at his lips. If I get killed, Feltner thought in a quivering fury, if I get starched standing here like a dodo bird because that arrogant bastard has got to prove he's impervious to shellfire, I'll haunt him right into his grave …

“Let me pass Winnie through Mac's people, swing west toward the water and then break in on Menangas from the far side,” Damon was saying eagerly. “I know we can open it up that way. We'll be looking down their throats from this J Ridge—they'll
have
to pull out, then.”

“But that's heavy jungle, most of it—you can't move through that …”

“Yes, we can. The boys are good in jungle. And they'd far rather try that than this straight-ahead slogging.”

“—But that's precisely why I'm asking you to execute PYLON,” Massengale retorted irritably. “It's the perfect way to envelop the airstrip—swing east of Fotgon and we'll bag the lot. I don't know why I can't bring you to see this …”

“It's simply inviting trouble, General. Murasse is a resourceful and aggressive commander—he has already assembled forces here, above and below Umatoc, and here at Fogada. I don't believe he'll let us get away with it.”

Massengale glanced at him sharply. “Murasse? What about Murasse?”

“He's a very experienced and competent officer. He distinguished himself as a regimental commander during the Yangtze Valley campaign in '38.”

“How do you happen to know that? from your tour there?”

“No, General. My G-2, Colonel Feltner here, has assembled an excellent file on him.”

He included Feltner with one hand, and the Corps Commander turned. “Oh yes. Feltner. Well—isn't that percipient of you.” The amber eyes came to rest on him for a moment.

Only then did Feltner, striving for an expression that was neither servile nor hostile, notice that the Corps Commander was in a barely suppressed rage. His lips were almost white; a vein high on his forehead stood out in a fine blue ridge. Did the Old Man realize it? Probably—which accounted for his measured tones.

Massengale had turned back to the map again. Everyone was silent, waiting. God, how long was this stupid scene to prolong itself? Feltner was surprised to find he was rigid with tension, his legs trembling, the sweat slick on his face and neck. It was the moments: the interminable, burdensome moments such as this one, that dragged on and on, and burned their way into your very soul like molten lead. Over on the left, toward Fotgon, an automatic rifle uttered its dry, rolling bark, followed by the crack of a mortar shell—and, as though this had ignited some flammable substance, a brief, crackling eruption of firing. The silence in the headquarters tent grew.

“Why don't you wear khaki?” Massengale demanded with intense irritation.

Damon stared at him. His green fatigue jacket was soaked through across the back and at the waist, where he wore a web belt with a forty-five and two canteens and a medical pouch. “This will serve.”

“You'd be immensely cooler, I can tell you that.”

The Nebraskan shrugged, and nodded toward the line; he seemed perfectly at ease. “
They're
wearing them, out there … ”

“You have different responsibilities. Vastly different.”

Damon gave no answer to this. He looked a lifetime older than when Feltner had first seen him, in that rotted, sagging dugout at Moapora; but his eyes were still bright and steady. Listening to the tortuous, unequal struggle, Feltner felt a curious sadness. They were all changed, all of them. God, yes. And then some.

Massengale said: “Samuel, I have no hesitation in telling you that I want that pivoting movement to take place as ordered. It is the correct answer.”

“I don't believe it is the correct answer, sir,” Damon replied mildly. “But it's your decision.”

“Thank you. It is indeed. You are dissatisfied with it, then?”

“Yes, I am. As I said this morning, I feel it entails too great a risk at this time, in terms of what might be gained.”

“But I
must have that airstrip by tomorrow …
” Massengale took a deep breath. “Surely you realize the significance of Masavieng Airstrip for the Visayan campaign.”

“The field has been neutralized for four days. And raids from Negros and Mindoro have been negligible.”

“But for our use,
our use,
man! Can't you see the importance of land-based fighters for raids
against
Luzon, Mindoro, Negros?”

“Yes sir. But not at the risk of imperiling the beachhead and the operation.”

Massengale stuck the fan under his arm and locked his fingers together. “All right. Let's imagine the worst. Suppose he does hit you in the flank, in force, times it perfectly. Can't you cope with that?”

“Certainly, General—by calling in two regiments of the Forty-ninth Division.”

“For this? Oh come, now … You're not that badly positioned, are you? Where's your reserve?”

Damon tossed his head once. “Out there off Facpi. The battalions I've got in reserve are exhausted from nine days of continuous action.” He paused, said: “I cannot guarantee that I can contain a major attack on my flank in the midst of a pivoting operation such as you propose.”

He should leave now, Feltner decided. Right now: they weren't going to need him for any Intelligence data. He could get out of here. But he knew he would have to break in on them to excuse himself, and the circumstances did not encourage interruption in any form. His glance fell on Ryetower, who was listening to the exchange with a curiously intent, almost eager expression; and all at once—like a thunderclap—he realized what the presence of Ryetower, a brigadier general, meant at this conference. His heart began to beat in ponderous alarm.