Battle Cry - Leon Uris [121]
L.Q. cried apologies a hundred times a minute as they dragged the fear-stricken Injun to his tent and laid him on his sack.
One more hour…I don’t care if the whole Jap army jumps me, I’m not going to move a muscle…what was that! A siren scream pierced the air. “Air Raid,” L.Q. screamed, “Air Raid!”
Pencils of light flashed up against the sky as the men huddled in a hastily constructed shelter. They heard the far-off chug of a motor.
“Washing Machine Charley,” someone whispered.
“Yeah.”
A lone Jap plane was caught in the light. The distant batteries of Henderson Field opened up. Puffs of smoke billowed in the sky above and below the slow lumbering plane.
Hisssss…Wham.
“He’s dropping bombs!”
“What you expecting, pennies from heaven, maybe?”
“He comes every night,” Sergeant Seymour said, “just to keep you new troops from sleeping.”
“Ever hit anything?”
“Blew up a head once. But it was an officer’s head—not too bad.”
Body-weary and angry at their foolish siege of trigger happiness, Huxley’s Whores buttoned up and were asleep when the all clear sounded.
The small, thin and graying Army general paraded in front of the large wall map with a pointer in his hand. Brigadier General Pritchard, a fatherly appearing man, was now the commander of all forces on Guadalcanal. Before him stood and sat an array of majors, lieutenant colonels and colonels, cigarette smoking, cigar smoking, and pipe smoking. He laid the pointer on his field desk, rubbed his eyes, and faced the men before him.
“I am extremely anxious to get this drive under way.” He turned to the small group of Marine officers near the tent flap. “The Camdiv—combined Army and Marine division—will be unique in this operation. And, I might add, the Pentagon and the Navy are watching with extreme interest. This is the first real offensive of the war. There is much, as I have pointed out, that will be novel and experimental, and it will have a great bearing on future operations. We shall have a testing ground, so to speak. Naval gunfire in support of advancing land troops, flame throwers, close air support and air reconnaissance on short objectives, to name a few new wrinkles.” He picked up the pointing stick and tapped it in his hand, restlessly. “Are there any questions? No? Very well, gentlemen. All further information will be relayed through channels. We jump off at zero six four five on the tenth. Good luck to all of you.”
A buzz arose from the officers as they filed out and headed for the jeeps. Sam Huxley stood by the opening until all were gone except Pritchard and his aide. Huxley shifted his helmet and approached the field desk. Pritchard looked up from a map.
“Yes?”
“Major Huxley, Second Battalion, Sixth Marines, sir.”
“What is it, Huxley?”
“May I have the General’s indulgence for a few minutes?”
“Something not clear, Major?”
“Everything is quite clear, sir.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“General Pritchard, is a suggestion out of order?”
Pritchard put down the magnifying glass and relaxed in his canvas field chair, tilting it back on its rear legs and swinging it gently. “Sit down, Major. A suggestion is never out of order in my command.”
Huxley remained standing. He drew a deep breath and leaned over the desk. “General Pritchard, keep the Sixth Marines off the lines.”
The General nearly fell over backwards. He caught the desk and brought the chair to a still position. “What!”
“I said, sir, don’t use the Sixth Marines in this operation.”
“You’re way off base, Major. That is not a matter for a junior officer.”
Huxley fidgeted nervously for a moment. “May I speak freely, sir?”
The General tapped his small wrinkled fingers on the field map, eyed the large rawboned man before him and said, “By all means, Huxley, say your piece.”
“I believe,” Huxley said, “that our senior officers are in a state of constant intoxication and don’t grasp the situation. Or, perhaps