The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [89]
It had been a particular thorn in Nimitz’s side, the scuttlebutt that Admiral Turner couldn’t stay away from the bottle. But his performance in the fights for Saipan and Guam had been outstanding, and Nimitz knew that performance mattered more than a man’s personal habits. But worse for Nimitz, Turner was physically opposite from the lean, hard commanders that Nimitz tried to keep in his command. Turner had a soft paunch, a belly that spread out well over his belt line. It made Nimitz wince to think about that, a violation of Nimitz’s philosophy that officers should be as lean as their men. That’s worse than the booze, he thought, and he should know that. I can’t dictate orders about being a slob, when a man comes by it naturally. The drinking … well, if I see it’s really affecting his performance out here, I’ll have to do something. No doubt about it.
Richmond Kelly Turner had been chosen by Nimitz himself to command the overall assault on Okinawa, a decision that even now Nimitz believed had been a good one. There had been failures though, hard grumbling from the Marines that Turner had refused to shell the landing zones at Iwo Jima, causing casualties to the Marines that could have been avoided. That kind of accusation was speculative at best, no one really knowing how much of the Japanese resistance would have been obliterated by naval fire. And Nimitz knew that the others who could have been chosen for the job, men like Bull Halsey, who gathered more headlines than Turner, had their failures as well. No matter whom he had picked for the job, there would be bellyaching. The only problem for Turner would be if Nimitz developed a bellyache of his own.
Nimitz had already briefed the few members of his staff who had come along, some of those remaining on board the Eldorado with Turner. Nimitz had confidence that each of those men understood his role, would purposely engage in casual chitchat with the Eldorado’s junior officers that might reveal more to Nimitz than what was said in the official meetings.
“Sir, if you please …”
Nimitz obliged Buckner, stepped through the doorway of a low concrete block building. Buckner led the way again, past a makeshift office, an aide rising to quick attention, two more standing at their desks, typewriters stuffed with paper. To one side he heard the commotion of a radio room, and Nimitz glanced that way, saw a row of men with earphones, could hear the clatter of a teletype machine. This has got to be for show, he thought. He sure as hell doesn’t keep his quarters here, and I bet there are more comfortable places for us to meet. But I’ll give him slack. Pretty damn sure he just wants us the hell out of the way.
He followed Buckner into a white-walled room, saw a narrow rectangular table, a half-dozen chairs, one large map on the wall. Buckner gave way and Nimitz sat at the head of the table, Vandegrift on the far end, Buckner now between them. Nimitz caught the unmistakable odor of hot food, and Buckner seemed to wait for that, said, “Once again my cook has outdone himself! We found a few locals who were kind enough to offer us baskets of fresh vegetables, sweet potatoes, and a rather nice string bean. My cook has a way with the vegetables that you should find appealing. The fresh fish is a wonder. The Okinawans certainly don’t want for good food. I can have them serve lunch in here, or we can adjourn outside and enjoy the air.”
The cheer in Buckner’s voice was offset by the counterfeit smile of a man who knew his superior wasn’t there for anything appealing. Nimitz stared at the map, thought, adjourn? Why don’t we begin first.
“Is this map up-to-date?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
His eyes stayed on the southern half of the island, pins marking the army units that Nimitz knew were bogged down against the Japanese