Harms way, p.37
Harm's Way, page 37
Upon joining his command, a correspondent promptly learned to dateline his copy WITH ADMIRAL BRODERICK IN THE PACIFIC COMBAT ZONE, which not only evoked a splendid image of Blackjack striding a blazing quarterdeck, but gave the admiral himself a sense of being always in the thick of things. For a time this had been an illusory feeling; but now it seemed so authentic that he was inclined to believe it himself.
Neal Owynn managed to cut in before the first reportorial query. “You men know the ground rules. Same ones that govern Big Headquarters briefings at Toulebonne. Remember security. Nothing that gives aid or comfort to the enemy. And no improper questions about current operations.”
Torrey’s glare, aimed at the Senator, melted into a grin as he faced the correspondents who were seated in a semicircle around his desk.
“I’ve always held,” he said, “that there aren’t any ‘improper questions’ from anybody, including the press. Just improper replies from brasshats. Your job’s asking. Mine’s answering. So let me worry about the results. Shoot!”
Broderick stirred uneasily on his swivel chair against the wall.
What the devil ailed The Rock? Allowing these fellows to grab the ball could only lead to trouble. He’d been through all that. Give the bastards an inch and they’d take a mile. They were slick conniving s.o.b.’s who must be hauled constantly into line lest they start writing dangerous claptrap about “lush rear-area living” and “the forgotten enlisted man.” It was only through the sternest repressive measures, disguised as paternalism, that Blackjack managed to achieve decent treatment from them. He was damned certain of that. And now here was Torrey, who’d been a mere three-striper when Broderick made admiral, hell-bent on wrecking everything...
The Rock was solemnly repeating what sounded like a pretty banal question from a Time magazine man: “What kind of war from here on out?” He indicated the wall-map of the Pacific. “There’s only one kind, sir, and that’s a tough, fighting-every-inch-of-the-way war, until we get more men and more tools. Then we can start rolling. But not before.”
“Bull Halsey predicts it’ll end by New Year’s Day,” the AP man said.
“Did the admiral specify which year?”
Leaning back in his straight chair, arms akimbo, he smiled benignly at the polite laughter which greeted his modest sally. The interview went on. From the tenor of the questions, it was apparent that the correspondents had been thoroughly informed about Operation Rathole, with one salient exception: Blackjack had overlooked the little matter of who’d be responsible for its failure, or praiseworthy for its success, an omission which left Torrey in a heads-you-lose, tails-I-win dilemma. If he failed—you could almost see Blackjack’s suety shoulders droop in eloquent impotence—well, longsuffering Admiral Broderick once again would have known the bitterness of making do with second-rate personnel.
The Collier’s man had a complicated query: “Admiral Broderick has been telling us for weeks, now, that this area is the ‘stepchild’ of the war, because it’s never been given enough ships, troops, or planes to mount the really big offensive that’s needed to shake the Japs loose from their southern islands. I’m wondering, sir, how this squares with your own thinking—as the only tactical commander currently engaged in active combat operations?”
While the reporter was posing his lengthy question, Torrey lit his bulldog briar, astonished that Blackjack had revealed such private woes to his headquarters Boswells. Any honest answer to this loaded inquiry, he knew, was bound to offend his haughty superior.
At length, having gotten his pipe drawing smoothly, he observed, “Both Admiral Broderick and I believe that you must cut your cloth to fit the pattern.”
This was a classically equivocal response, which would have to satisfy the Collier’s man. It didn’t.
“But what about Rathole?” the correspondent persisted. “This is a major push, isn’t it? How did you manage without substantial reinforcements?”
Torrey said stiffly, “We utilized what was available. No more. No less. We’re aware that Admiral Broderick has many commitments in an area as large as this one.”
The United Press man elevated his hand. Torrey blew a smoke ring and nodded at him.
“Somebody told us you had your neck stuck out a mile.”
From the rear of the Operations hut came Eddington’s harsh stage-whisper: “Better make that five miles!”
The Rock’s cold smile was lost in a scowl. “We may have extended ourselves beyond a normally ‘safe’ margin. But it worked. As far as Gavabutu is concerned, the Japanese are no longer a factor.”
“What’s next on the schedule, admiral?”
“That, sir, is a trade secret.” Torrey looked significantly toward Blackjack, and added, “Unless higher authority chooses to brief you fellows on future strategy, too.”
The Senator stepped into the diplomatic breach, coughing loudly to gain the correspondents’ attention. “I’m sure that Admiral Broderick would like to take this first opportunity to commend Admiral Torrey for executing his orders with such diligence...and against such overwhelming odds.”
Blackjack’s face turned crimson. It was evident he didn’t relish his Invisible Man role in the press conference.
“Let me handle the honors, Neal,” he snapped. “I’m quite capable.”
“Yes, sir,” Owynn replied humbly.
Like a potentate surveying his supplicant masses, Broderick managed a benign simper. “When we conceived Rathole,” he said, “we knew we were taking a long chance. But, gentlemen, isn’t that the very nature of our profession? Accepting risks?” His simper became a grin, and he waved his right arm toward The Rock, grandly. “It’s to Admiral Torrey’s everlasting credit that he didn’t hesitate when he was instructed to clean out the—hah!—rodents.”
But Torrey hadn’t caught Blackjack’s imperious gesture. Instead, his attention was focused on the Quonset entrance, and the gnome-like figure in mottled jungle camouflage leaning against the doorjamb.
“Hello, commander,” he said. “Welcome home.”
Clayton Canfil, who had been watching the tableau with a look of undisguised scorn on his leathery face, replied, “Howdy, sir,” in a flat, dry voice.
Torrey swung back to the newsmen.
“You’d better meet the fellow who genuinely deserves praise for Rathole. Commander Clayton Canfil—the man who led the raiders across the Luma Mountains.”
The Intelligence chief touched his grizzled mustache in lieu of a formal salute. “It was damned nice of you to send your taxicab after me, admiral.”
“These fellows are the Toulebonne headquarters press, Clay, and I’m sure they’d like a fill on what you’ve been doing. Especially,” The Rock appended sardonically, “since they couldn’t accompany you in person.”
“It was like round-up time in Texas, sir. My gang and Dan Gregory’s grasshoppers and the amphibs all hit the beach at damned near the same minute. Only the Nips were a pretty sick bunch of dogies.”
“Splendid teamwork,” Blackjack interjected. “Typical of our whole command.”
Canfil’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed as he stared first at Broderick, then at the correspondents. “At the risk of being busted back to third mate on an inter-island schooner, I’m going to let you fellas in on something that’s Top Secret...”
The reporters looked up.
“Rathole,” he went on, “was conceived and executed by one man—Admiral Torrey—after a lot of other people had sat around moaning that it was impossible. It’s his baby. Abso-goddamn-lutely his and nobody else’s.”
Visibly annoyed, Torrey growled, “You must excuse Commander Canfil’s enthusiasm, gentlemen. He’s been under quite a strain lately and it may have warped his judgment.” He stood up. “Thanks for visiting Gavabutu. I’m sure your frontline representatives will provide you with the details as soon as we establish regular communications with the other side of the island.”
There was a moment of strained silence in the Quonset after the correspondents departed, and then Blackjack guessed aloud that he’d better get washed up for chow.
“Through that partition,” Torrey said, pointing, “you’ll find a jugful of water and a basin. Primitive. But adequate, admiral.”
The Rock waited until he heard splashing sounds from the next compartment before he motioned Eddington to his desk. “I’ve got a little chore for you, fella.”
“Sir?”
“I want to know how Broderick caught wind of today’s operation.”
“I already know, skipper.”
“How?”
“From a fat little senatorial bird named Owynn.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. Son of a bitch sneaked an unauthorized guard-mail letter to Toulebonne the night we conceived Rathole.”
Torrey clenched his lean fist and stared at it thoughtfully. “See that Owynn is aboard Broderick’s plane when it leaves Gavabutu, Paul.”
“That,” said the chief of staff, “will be a pleasure!”
Crotch-itch never killed anybody. But when this annoying jungle rash reaches the more private area of a man’s anatomy, it tends to shorten his temper and make him jumpy as a singed cat. Captain Eddington had a galloping case of crotch-itch against which nothing, not even blue ointment, could prevail.
He was scratching his inflamed groin when he came upon Neal Owynn.
The Senator saw him heading across the staff compound, baleful eyes and purposeful, and he sensed immediately that all was not well with the truculent chief of staff. Never one to allow valor to stand in the way of discretion, Owynn started for the dignified shelter of the palm-thatched Officers’ Club, whereupon Eddington stopped scratching and quickened his own pace. From close range, premeditated murder was visible on his marred countenance.
When he spoke, his gravelly tone matched his homicidal expression. “Slow down a second, mister, I want to talk to you.”
“I’m terribly busy, captain.”
“Belay that—wait!” Eddington roared.
Ignominiously, the Senator cut and ran for it, past the O.C., down the rutted bank, through enlisted men’s country, around the burlap-walled and evil-smelling latrines, and into the jungle beyond the ADTAC perimeter. Several times he stumbled against rotting coconuts, and twice he fell, soiling his impeccably tailored uniform on the slimy ground. Strange forest creepers snatched at his face. He lost his gold-braided cap. But like a fleshy two-legged tank, Owynn plunged on, with his implacable foe closing upon him, panting and cursing. Finally he found himself trapped in a cul-de-sac formed by a sheer rock wall, a forty-foot precipice, and a tangle of fallen logs. For an instant both men stood toe to toe at the trail’s end, breathing hard, and oblivious to their weird surroundings.
Eddington said, “At least, by Christ, I can get my hands on one enemy...and I’m not so goddamn sure you aren’t as bad as the frigging Nips.”
“You wouldn’t dare—” Owynn began.
But the chief of staff’s vast right fist stopped him. It smashed into the Senator’s mouth, breaking two front teeth, and snapping his head back like a balloon. Owynn collapsed on the dank ground, where he lay, bloodily sobbing.
“Stand up,” Eddington snarled, “and pretend you’re a man.”
His wounded mouth agape, Owynn stared up at the chief of staff, terrified, but refused to speak.
Eddington regarded him contemptuously. “You’ve heard of total war?” he asked. “That’s the kind I fight because that’s the only kind that wins. But it also means total loyalty, mister, to the guys you’re working with. We came down here with a job to do and by God we’re going to do it. Neither you nor Blackjack Broderick nor anybody else is going to screw it up. Understand?”
For a trembling split second Eddington’s field-boot poised over the Senator for a kick. Owynn nodded desperate assent. The chief of staff relaxed.
“One more thing,” he said. “You’re leaving with Broderick. You can make up any goddamn excuse you want. But get to hell out!”!
Owynn nodded again.
Then Eddington swung on his heel and strode back toward the distant base.
Cautiously, after making sure his assailant was gone, the Senator arose. Holding his handkerchief against his battered mouth, he started down the brush-covered trail, staggering blindly, and still weeping. But now that the terror had passed, they were angry tears, and his only thought was revenge. Navy regs were all on his side, by God! Striking a fellow officer was a heinous offense: yet he, Owynn, had judicially refrained from hitting back. So Eddington was wide open for a general court-martial. As Owynn’s present patron and future protégé, Blackjack would see to that. Son of a bitch wouldn’t have a goddamn leg to stand on.
By the time he reached ADTAC’s boundary, however, certain doubts had begun to assail him. Suppose Eddington counter-charged that he, Owynn, had disobeyed lawful orders in sending that letter to Admiral Broderick? It was preposterous, yet possible. As a once-passed-over commander who’d barely made captain by the grace of his own patron saint, Rock Torrey, Eddington had certainly given up any hope of making admiral. So what the hell would he care about a GCM? For Senator Neal Owynn, though, it was a far different matter. When peaceful politicking resumed after the war, even an acquittal might deter the ignorant electorate, who tended to go along with the sea-lawyer thesis that a GCM defendant “must be guilty or he wouldn’t be here in the first place.” Yes. It could be a nasty business. Worse than a senatorial inquisition of some foredoomed witness. Without counsel.
Perhaps cooler heads should prevail.
And maybe he’d best tell Blackjack that an overripe coconut had dropped from a tree and struck him in the mouth...
Egan Powell sipped his highball delicately. There were two lumps of ice in it, and this pleased his soul the way a good dinner at Prince Mike Romanoff’s used to soothe his psychic aches. With his left hand, he was idly flipping the pages of a month-old fashion magazine sent him by a fading Hollywood queen who felt she’d better renew some old contacts, just as post-war insurance. Powell was in a mellow mood.
“Here’s a hell of an item,” he said, “about a rayon manufacturer who printed V for Victory in Morse code on two million yards of dress material. Only he got it all screwed up. It turned out dah-dit-dit-dit instead of dit-dit-dit-dah. B for Bictory.”
Eddington, taking his usual naked siesta before he returned to the Op shack, snorted irrelevantly, “Or V for Vitch.”
“You hate women, don’t you, mon capitaine?”
“Only as people.”
Clayton Canfil made a walrus noise that lifted his artilleryman’s mustache. “Now that you’ve ruled out women as well as liquor, Paul, there isn’t a hell of a lot left, is there?”
“Who’s ruled out women?” Eddington demanded. “Powell asked a simple question. I gave him a simple answer. You’ve heard the saying, ‘Love ‘em and leave ‘em,’ haven’t you? Well I just operate on the theory that you don’t have to love ‘em in the first place. Makes the leaving a hell of a lot easier, too.”
Canfil took a swig of neat gin from the bottle he kept under his bunk, holding the liquor in his mouth while he fished in his breast pocket for a quinine capsule. He refused to take the Navy’s new-fangled atabrine tablets. Gin and quinine had always been the sovereign tropical remedy. He intended to stay with it.
Eddington twisted his shaven gargoyle head toward Egan Powell. “Read us some more from that floozy magazine,” he commanded.
“My pleasure, sir...How about this? ‘Cosmetics that shout, “The country needs your loveliness!” ‘Or face powder that ‘hides war worries.’ And by all that’s Minsky—’Civilian nude’ rayon hose for sexier legs!”
“Those homefront jokers are taking friggin’ good care of the female trade,” Eddington said dourly.
Powell nodded. “It’s all summed up right here, Paul. ‘Only the fair deserve the brave.’”
Eddington uttered a body-functional expletive. McConnel looked up from the clipboard on which he was penning a letter, and asked plaintively, “Sir, how can an innocent young boy write to his bride in this pool-hall atmosphere?”
The chief of staff looked away. Mac grinned uncertainly. He hadn’t intended to stifle their after-dinner nonsense, and as usual he’d managed to stick his big fat foot right into his big fat mouth, because you didn’t talk about brides when Eddington was around, any more than you lit matches in an ammo dump.
He resumed writing to Bev:
...So now Gavabutu’s a darned sight safer than the Golden Gate Bridge at rush hour. Starting tomorrow we’ll have open-air movies, and the Supply Officer outdid himself by booking Turner, Grable, and Hayworth into ADTAC for our first showings. Sunday I’m going pompano fishing with Commander Canfil, that old island skipper I told you about in my last letter, out by the purple reef I also mentioned. Son of a gun uses a line that’s finer than the thread you sewed your last holakou with. Canfil’s the only man I’ve ever known who can smoke a pipe in a shower. He sticks it in his mouth upside down. He wants to sell us a “nice piece of bottomland” he knows about on an island up the way, for our second honeymoon.
...But first we’ve got to recapture that next island, Bevheart, which is what we’re starting to work on now. What the Boss has in mind will make Gavabutu seem like a skeet shoot by comparison, but it’ll bring this g.d. war one aitch of a lot closer to an end, believe me. He’s still a wonderful guy to work for, incidentally, with facets to his personality you’d never dream existed, just from looking at that rimrock phiz of his. During the Big Push yesterday, after he’d checked over the dispatches and barked out a few orders, he sat down in one corner of the Op shack and read an old Life magazine. You’ve never seen anybody appear so doggoned alone—or more as if he wanted to stay that way. Even Admiral Broderick who’d come up to “observe” the action didn’t dare bust in on him then. Yet The Rock doesn’t stand on a lot of r.h.i.p. First thing he did was get rid of a special one-holer which the former COMADTAC had made the Seabees dig for his private use, that even had two stars cut in the wooden door. Now he squats with us common-folk.
