The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [22]
LeMay leaned close to the paper target, said, “Work on the grip. Hold it a little looser. You’re tugging it to the right.”
Nimitz already knew how his marksmanship compared to the other ranking officers on Guam, or anywhere else, and didn’t really need any coaching from an air force man.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Nah, you won’t. Nobody listens to much of anything I have to say, so I try to keep my mouth shut, usually.”
But not today, Nimitz thought.
“You come by for a shot of bourbon, General? Or maybe some dinner?”
LeMay didn’t smile, nodded.
“Dinner. That’s good. I thought you might like to see the reports from Tokyo. Recon flights confirm what I predicted. I turned that place into one big damn cow pasture.”
Nimitz glanced at the Marine sergeant, who seemed to perk up at the words.
“Let’s take this inside, General. I’m getting too old for the heat. My cook’s supposed to be throwing together some fish recipe he picked up from the natives. Top-notch, if you don’t mind some spice.”
“That’ll do. Lead the way. Anything you got here has to beat the slop your supply boys throw my way. Not as bad as MacArthur though, I’ll give you that. His people spend more time trying to poison us than feed us.”
Nimitz knew better than to open that door, thought, let it go. He has a permanent bone up his ass for MacArthur, and I don’t really want to hear about it. I hear enough of that as it is.
“You could have sent the reports over here, you know. No need to deliver them yourself.”
LeMay sipped from the glass, seemed to appraise Nimitz’s liquid offering.
“No chance. I wanted you to hear it from me, not some ass-kissing toad who thinks being a messenger will get him a medal.” LeMay paused. “Word is, your boys are rationed a bottle of booze a week and a case of beer to boot. We don’t get a damn drop. No alcohol ration at all. Not your doing, I guess. Someone back in Washington thinks air boys don’t need any favors.” LeMay tipped up the glass, emptied it, appraised again, nodded slowly. “Good stuff. Hate to see somebody in my command do a commando raid on your supply depot, liberate a few hundred cases of this stuff.” He stared at Nimitz, still no smile. “Just kidding.”
“So. Reports? Photos?”
“Right here.” LeMay held the folder in his hand, hesitated, looked at Nimitz again. “Bomb ’em and burn ’em until they quit. That’s been my motto and my strategy since I earned this command. So, here, Admiral. Take a look at this.” LeMay took a long, self-satisfied breath, and Nimitz knew the presentation had been well rehearsed.
“On nine March we threw two hundred seventy-nine Superforts right into Tokyo. I took a new approach, ordered them in at night, flying low, under ten thousand feet. My boys weren’t too happy about that, thought the Jap anti-aircraft fire would chew them to bits. But I knew better. Coming in that low, a few planes at a time, would catch the yellow bastards with their pants down. They wouldn’t know what the hell to do. For whatever reason, they don’t seem to have the kind of ack-ack the Germans threw at us, don’t seem able to adapt to different attack altitudes. I had to convince my boys that the advantages outweighed the risk. Even persuaded them to make room for more payload by reducing weight. Thought it would be a good idea to remove most of the machine guns, and the gunners too. Jap fighters haven’t done much damage to us in night raids, so what the hell do we need all that extra weight for? The boys weren’t too keen on that, but I convinced them.”
Nimitz thought, you didn’t convince anybody of anything. You just ordered them to do whatever the hell you wanted.
LeMay continued.