Battle Cry - Leon Uris [243]
He drew a deep breath. Snipes sat down, adjusted his glasses and opened the book Operation Kingpin. He found the page he wanted. “We were unable to replace the fifth LST that blew up. According to the plan the LSTs are to leave five days ahead of the rest of the convoy. The LSTs are to launch their own buffaloes and the transports follow up once the beachhead is firm. I can’t get you an LST. However, we have one small supply ship going out with them first. There’ll be enough buffaloes on it to take your battalion in. Huxley, in one month you’ll wish to hell you hadn’t come here, because your outfit is going to be in the hotbox. I’m sending you in on the exposed left flank. You will receive your orders as soon as Phibspac O.K.s them.”
Sam Huxley’s lips parted but he could not speak.
“You came here knowing I’m the meanest sonofabitch in the Corps, Huxley. Now you’ve gotten what you want and you’re asking yourself ‘why did I do it, and why did Snipes give in?’ The first you can answer. I’ll answer the last one. It is crazy bastards like you that make the Marine Corps. Well, you should be quite proud of your victory.”
“As proud as a man could be when he’s dug the graves for three hundred boys.”
“You’ll be lucky if it’s only three hundred…now get out of here.”
Huxley walked to the door with shoulders stooped. He placed his hand on the knob. Yes, he wondered why. Only that he had known he had to come….
“Sam.”
He turned and the legend of Merle Snipes was broken. He had only a slight smile on his lips but his face looked warm and human. “Sam, I sometimes think myself it’s a hell of a way to make a living.”
Huxley closed the door behind him and walked out.
CHAPTER 2
PROTESTANT services were being conducted on aft deck. I was oiling my carbine, checking the clips again, and peacefully dragging on a weed when Ziltch summoned me to Huxley’s quarters. I climbed the ladder topside and caught a view of the fleet—ships, hundreds of them, moving with serene slowness for as far as the eye could see.
The singing aft seemed to blend with the slow rise and fall of the ship:
“Onward Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war…”
I went inside to officers’ country, down the gangway, and met Gunner Keats standing before Huxley’s door. “What’s the scoop?” I asked.
“Beats me, Mac,” Keats answered, rapping on the door.
Ziltch ushered us in. Highpockets stood against the bulkhead, squinting out of a porthole eyeing the great flotilla proceeding majestically to its bloody chore. He turned to us slowly, motioned us at ease, and lit a fresh cigarette with the butt of another. Huxley, the disciplinarian, looked ill at ease for a moment as he beckoned Keats and me to sit and laid his field map on the desk. He rubbed his jaw a second.
“Mac,” he said almost bashfully, “and you, Gunner, I’ve asked you two here…well, because we’re old shipmates.”
“Yes, sir,” I blurted out, “since Iceland.”
“You’ve been briefed on tomorrow’s operation?”
“Yes, sir.”
We could see the dark circles of sleeplessness under his eyes. He pointed a pencil on the map. “There it is, Red Beach One, the hotbox of the whole operation.” He walked to the porthole and flipped the cigarette out. “You’ll notice that our battalion is to land on the extreme left flank. We will be the nearest troops to the major Japanese concentrations in the City of Garapan. It is a leadpipe cinch that we will be counterattacked and will have to bear the brunt of it.”
Keats and I nodded. He strode back to the map. “And right here is Mount Topotchau, a perfect observation post looking right down our throats.” He smacked a fist into an open hand. “There are tricky reefs and tides out there. There is a calculated risk that the rest of combat team one might land too far south. That means we will have to stand alone and isolated until they can consolidate with us. The Japs will turn all hell loose to keep us separated.” He slumped in a captain’s chair and lit another cigarette. “The hotbox,”