Battle Cry - Leon Uris [123]
“I don’t know,” Prtichard answered, “I don’t know. They’re a queer breed. You and I will really never know what makes them tick. But if I was on the lines fighting for my life and I had my choice of whom I wanted on my right and my left, I’d call for a couple of Marines. I suppose they’re like women…you can’t live with ’em and God knows you can’t live without ’em.”
Major Wellman, the battalion’s quiet and efficient executive officer, who usually remained in the background, peered out of the tent anxiously as Huxley’s jeep screamed to a stop.
“How did it go, Sam?” Wellman asked.
“We open the drive on the tenth,” he answered, attempting to conceal the effect of his clash with the Army. “The Second and Eighth Marines will hold the right flank along the coast while the Army gets into position in the interior. The Army will wheel in against the mountains to cut off retreat.”
Wellman quickly opened a map, lit his pipe, and followed Huxley’s verbal movements.
“They figure three days before the Army gets into position,” Huxley continued.
“Three days?” Wellman shrugged. “What are they using, a regiment?”
“A division.”
“A division?”
“Yes, a division.” Wellman scratched his head. “They will get to the mountain base. On the thirteenth we will relieve the Second and Eighth Regiments and start driving until we hit the Kokumbona River about ten miles away.”
“How about the Japs?”
“Dug in, caves and bunkers…battle-happy expendables. Going to be slow.”
“Lovely. Any heavy stuff?”
“Some 108 mms. Pistol Pete, they call them. Area is loaded with snipers and machine gun nests.”
“Lead on.”
“Our left flank will alternate with elements of the Americal Division. Pritchard cooked up a lulu. He calls it a ‘combined Marine and Army Division.’”
“Oh, Jesus. I guess we’ll have to keep bayonets in their asses to keep them up with us.”
“No,” Huxley corrected, “we walk, not run to Esperance.”
“Wait till the boys hear they are soldiers.”
“From Kokumbona we hit for Tassafaronga Point and that’s about the ball game. They figure some Army to mop up the rest.”
“What does Intelligence say?”
“Anywhere from two to ten thousand, they don’t know. Most of them are concentrated along our sector, on the coast.”
“How bad are they going to try to hold?”
“They might try a landing on us from farther up in the Solomons. We don’t know.”
“Navy?”
“Might try some of that too. Depends on whether they’ve marked the island off as lost or not.”
“Air?”
“We can expect a lot of action. But our stuff on Henderson Field is good now. We’ve got F4Us and Army P-38s.”
“How long, Sam?”
“Don’t know. Maybe a week, maybe a month, maybe more. Call a meeting for all officers fourteen hundred hours. Get Gunner Keats here now. I want to go over the communications setup—issue extra rations and order combat packs in ready.”
“How about shaving gear?” Wellman asked, knowing Huxley’s insistence on the well-groomed troop.
“We won’t have enough water. We’ll have to hold a whiskerino contest after it’s over.”
Huxley lit a cigarette thoughtfully. “The Sixth is a spearhead, Wellman. I hope to God it doesn’t get blunted too damned much in that jungle.”
We had thrown away our gas masks and used the cases for carrying an extra change of socks and rations. We moved from Kokum at Lunga Point along the road which ran parallel to the never ending coconut plantation. Although the day was hot and the hike would be long, there was a cocky running chatter along the line of march. Huxley, as usual, was at the head of Headquarters Company, overstriding his little orderly, Ziltch. As we passed Army encampments, and the doggies came to the roadside to gawk, we stiffened and cast belittling glares at them. Thanks to the loosely guarded ordnance sheds, the Army had supplied us with all the latest fighting equipment. An Army jeep roared to the head of the column. We halted and the Army colonel went into a conference with Major Huxley.
Gunner Keats moved from the conference area to us. “Somebody stole that colonel’s pearl-handled