Battle Cry - Leon Uris [122]
“Kindly get to the point.”
Huxley clenched his fist. “General,” he cried, “the Sixth Marines are too good to waste on this type of operation.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you know the history of this outfit, sir?” he rambled on quickly. “General, you command all the forces in the area. You know the situation. They are planning strikes farther up the Solomons.”
“What has that to do—”
“You have ample Army forces. Two divisions and the elements of another for this drive on Guadalcanal. I beg you, General, give us an island to hit farther up the line. This Regiment is for assault. We’ve worked hard and we’re well trained. We deserve a better break.”
Pritchard smiled softly. “I know the history of the Sixth Marines quite well, Major,” he said. “I was captain in the last war. A Marine corporal kept a bayonet up my butt all the way through Belleau Woods.”
His appeasing humor did not seem particularly funny to Huxley. “Then give us an island, sir. You can do it. Just recommend that we be held for landing duty in the next operation.”
The General’s soft mood changed. “Huxley, tell me something. Do you honestly think your men are too good to tramp through the jungle for thirty miles, digging them out of caves, blowing up bunkers, and slushing through the mud? Or isn’t there enough glory in it for you?”
“It’s not our cup of tea, sir. You have more than enough Army….”
“In other words, Huxley, the dirty grind is for the dogfaces. You’d rather have a little more blood.”
Huxley turned crimson. The words stuck coming out.
“I’ll answer for you, Huxley,” Pritchard said. “You think you are too good to fight beside us, don’t you? You think that your regiment is worth my division?”
“Exactly! There are a thousand islands out there. If the Army wants to fart around for six weeks, it’s their business. We’ll never get this war finished, especially if you take one of the few decent outfits you have and waste them. We’re fighters, we want a beachhead.”
“Suppose we let Washington figure out how long this war is going to last.”
“May I leave, sir?”
“No! Sit down, dammit!” The little general drew himself to his full five foot seven-inch height and marched up and down before the chair where Huxley sat. “I’ve been damned lenient with you, Huxley. You wouldn’t be so liberal with one of your own officers. War is a dirty business, Major, and one of the dirtiest things you Marines are going to have to take is orders from the Army. If you are anxious to get your head blown off, we’ll get you transferred to assault some choice real estate.
“I do not now, and never will agree with your psychology of fighting this war. By using this Marine regiment, I will save more men, both yours and mine. We are going to drive to Esperance and we’re going to do it slowly and surely. We’ll not use men where we can use artillery, if we have to wait a month for the artillery to get there. No blood-hungry Marine is going to tell me how to run my campaign. I’ve warned you, Major, and I warn you again, that I don’t want the Marines running a horse race down that coast. You are going to keep your flank intact and you are going to move with us. Now get back to your outfit!”
Sam Huxley arose, trembling with white anger as Pritchard returned to his desk. He glanced up. “You look as if you might blow a gasket, Major. Go on, say it.”
“I am thinking, General Pritchard, that you can take the whole goddam Army and shove it you know where.” He stormed from the tent.
The General’s aide, who had remained silent in the wake of Huxley’s anger, rushed to the General. “Surely, sir,” he said, “you aren’t going to let that man keep his command?”
For several moments Pritchard seemed steeped in thought. Finally he spoke. “If I fire or courtmartial that Marine, there’ll be hell to pay. Any co-operation we have or expect to get from the Navy will blow sky high. Thank God, we’ve only got a regiment of them. There’s going to be a real donnybrook before this war is over. Our thinking is too far apart.”
“My sympathy certainly rests with