The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [90]
“Yes, sir. We were rather surprised by that. So, how soon would you like lunch?”
“It can wait.”
Vandegrift stayed silent, conceding the floor to Nimitz, but Buckner seemed to concede nothing, shook his head, an indiscreet show of disappointment.
“Well, then, perhaps later. Oh, I wanted to say … awful shame about Ernie Pyle. Some damn fool colonel, out joyriding, and I suppose Pyle went along to see the sights. Ran slam into a Jap machine gun nest, or sniper. Something. Well, I assume you got the report.”
Nimitz turned back toward Buckner, nodded.
“Saw it. I met him a few times. Decent man, I think. The boys will miss hell out of him.”
“His death will give ’em a spark, that’s what I say. Fire ’em up, kill hell out of the Japs.”
Nimitz tried to avoid looking at Buckner’s beaming smile.
“We shouldn’t need that kind of spark. Civilians shouldn’t be out here at all. Everybody cut Pyle more slack than usual because he was so popular with the men, and Pyle did his part. But I don’t need to hear details about some line officer hauling Pyle’s ass into a hot spot. Pyle knew he was taking risks, and he paid the price. Could happen to any of us. It’s the risk we all take. If you don’t mind, General, can we get this briefing under way?”
Buckner seemed to flinch and Nimitz thought, dammit, no reason to ream him out. Not yet anyway. You’re just pissed at everybody. Long trip, and it’s been a crappy couple of weeks all around. After a short pause, Nimitz said, “We may have more problems back home than you’ll hear about out here, at least for a while.” He paused. “I was in Washington, you know, early last month. My daughter got married. Saw the president while I was there. He didn’t look good, not at all. But I’d been hearing for more than a year that he was in rough shape. Didn’t give it much thought. Now … he’s gone. Just like that. Hard to swallow. Damn hard. There have been enough pissing matches in Washington between the War Department and … well, everybody. This won’t help. Forrestal will probably go. I imagine the new president will want his own navy secretary. He won’t touch King, pretty sure of that. King’s got too much dirt on everybody else, and he’ll kick down doors before he lets some wet-behind-the-ears president tell him anything. Marshall is bound to stay as well, Hap Arnold too. Truman can’t possibly be stupid enough to clean house of the experienced chiefs of staff.” He paused. “Truman.”
He rolled the name around in his brain. God help us. Buckner seemed desperate to respond, held his hand poised in the air, one forefinger extended, then said, “He fought in the first war, you know. I heard that about him.”
“Who? Truman?”
“Yep. Infantry, maybe. Or artillery. At least he knows about fighting.”
Nimitz kept his response to himself, thought, you’ve said enough already. But that’s just perfect. A damn infantryman in the White House. Hut two three. Maybe he can come out here and tell Buckner how to kick his people in the ass. Nimitz was out of patience, the windowless room already stifling, sweat soaking his shirt. Buckner seemed not to be sweating at all.
“Well, gentlemen, shall we get down to it? If we’re lucky, the cook will still have us some hot chow.”
Nimitz glanced at Vandegrift, saw rigid impatience. Buckner suddenly rose, a quick shout to the outer office.
“I need Colonel Harper and his secretary, and I want MPs inside and out! What the hell’s going on around here? Lunch can wait! We’ve got guests. Let’s show these men how the army throws out a welcome mat!”
Nimitz let out a breath, thought, we’re not guests. I run this damn show. Maybe the army has forgotten that.
It was the challenge for every operation like this, trying to blend the different branches in the service into a smooth command. He glanced at Vandegrift, who seemed content for things to run on Buckner’s timetable. The two men sat in sweltering silence, Vandegrift