The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [44]
Lamar nodded in agreement, leaned over to the record player, adjusted the volume again, lowering the music another notch.
“What you do that for?”
Lamar straightened, said, “I thought … you were talking and … my apologies, sir.”
“You know damn well I’m a little deaf. You and no one else, right?”
“Aye, sir.”
A man appeared at the door across the room, one of the aides.
He glanced at the record player, stiffened, said, “Excuse me, sir. We have received Admiral King’s communication. He has forwarded a copy of General MacArthur’s report from Manila.”
Nimitz let out a breath, looked at the empty glass, only a film of the dark liquid in the bottom. No, let it go. It shouldn’t take a bottle of bourbon just to read something from MacArthur. He saw the paper in the man’s hand, pointed to the dining room table.
“Drop it here, son.”
The man placed the stack of papers carefully, and Nimitz nodded toward him, the silent dismissal. He glanced at Lamar, saw no emotion, said, “Sometimes, Lieutenant, I feel like I’ve got dogs chewing on both my ankles.” He paused. “Don’t repeat that.”
“Never heard it, sir.”
The reports coming from Manila were far more gruesome than Nimitz had ever expected. MacArthur had succeeded in securing the primary airfields and most of the once-grand city, but the casualty counts had surpassed even the most pessimistic estimates. The worst catastrophe came from the body counts of the Filipino civilians, tens of thousands massacred by the Japanese, and nearly that many more falling victim to the heavy shelling MacArthur had thrown into the city itself, the city he claimed to love.
Nimitz turned the pages, shook his head. That had to hurt like hell. Doug’s a lot of things, but he does love those people and he does have his sentimental streak. He’d rather be in the Philippines than anyplace else on earth, and he had to blow hell out of most of the place to chase the Japs away. Not sure what he expected to find there. Can’t imagine that he thought all he had to do was show up and the Japs would hand him the place. But I know damn well he’s overdoing it, trying to scrape every Jap out of every cave. It’s costing us casualties we shouldn’t be losing. He has to know that. And he has to care about it. But he just can’t help … being Doug.
He put the papers down, looked toward the suddenly silent record player, the Mozart complete.
“Look through that stack of records, Arthur. I need some Tchaikovsky.”
The young lieutenant obeyed, and Nimitz waited for it, a soaring burst of brass and strings. He looked again at MacArthur’s report, thought, I’ll probably have to go there. Sure as hell he’ll set up some formal reception, where all the brass can offer him their congratulations. Not looking forward to that. He’ll put on a whale of a show, try to put a smiling face on what was nothing more than a disaster that should never have happened. But … he’s that much closer to Japan, and somewhere in Tokyo, somebody’s gotta be scared as hell of that. I imagine it’s just like Patton, big mouth and big guns ripping hell out of everything in the way. As long as you win, that kind of noise works, and no matter what Jap general is over the next hill, they’ll be paying attention. I don’t care how much propaganda they throw out to their people, every Jap general has to dread any thought of mixing it up with Doug.
He leaned back in the soft chair, the music rolling over him, a passage that always made him stop his work. He set the papers aside, closed his eyes for a brief moment, pushed MacArthur away. I’ve got bigger things to think about, he thought. Much bigger things. I should be out there, watching it, making sure. He glanced at Lamar, still sitting across the room, jotting notes on a pad of paper. He sat up, thought, no, Okinawa is not where you need to be at all. Let them handle it. Some of the best officers I’ve got. But, by God … it’s tomorrow. And it’s out of my hands.
He had wanted to be there, to see the bombardment, the largest armada