The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [91]
An aide suddenly appeared, two glasses of what seemed to be tea, each with a rapidly disappearing ice cube. The man hustled away without a word, and Vandegrift took a short drink, set the glass down.
“I’m not much for fruit juice. You bring any bourbon?”
“You waited until now to remind me?”
There was no humor in the words, Nimitz growing more annoyed, the sweat stinging his eyes. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped his face, said, “I suppose it’s painfully apparent that a visiting blue jacket here is more trouble than he’s worth. Not sure I’ve had anyone under my command communicate that to me before.”
“If I may say, Admiral, that’s probably the biggest difference between you and MacArthur. You expect all of us to work together, and you assume it will happen because it’s the right thing for us to do. Mac would just order everyone to like each other, and he’ll expect it to happen. If you don’t go along, or perform to his expectations, he gets rid of you. It may be that, with all due respect, the navy has no business telling an army commander how to put troops on the ground. This shouldn’t surprise you, sir, but I’ve been hearing too much scuttlebutt. Bitching has a way of crossing a lot of distance. Something smells here, and I for one want to know what it is.”
Nimitz nodded, forced himself to drink the tea.
“I had assumed Admiral Turner to be the man who could keep that from happening. I still believe he’s fit to handle this combined operation, but if I’m wrong, I need to hear that from Buckner. And if Buckner’s not the man for this job, I’ll hear it from everyone below him with enough backbone to speak up. I’m pretty sure that includes your General Geiger. That tough old bird has more medals than anyone in this theater, and if he wants to bitch, feel free to encourage him.”
Vandegrift laughed.
“I already know what he wants. He thinks he should be in charge out here, and the army should be tending the goat herds. It’s not quite appropriate for me to suggest I agree with him. But there’s nobody else I’d rather see handling my Marines than Roy.” He motioned to the map. “He’ll have plenty to say about what his boys have done, and what the army boys are supposed to be doing.”
Roy Geiger was another of the old bulldogs who was nearly Nimitz’s age. Like Vandegrift, Geiger had established an outstanding reputation early in the war. Geiger had been an accomplished aviator, but the powers above him knew he could inspire his men no matter where he served. Now he was in overall command of the three Marine divisions assigned to the Okinawan campaign, and Nimitz knew that in the three weeks since the landing, Geiger had done as well on Okinawa as he had anyplace before. Geiger had already led Marines into action on Guadalcanal and Bougainville, the Palau Islands and Guam, and in the process had been awarded the Navy Cross and the Distinguished Service Medal. He had also been awarded three gold stars, which Nimitz knew had been embarrassing substitutes for the two higher honors, that Geiger should be wearing at least two Navy Crosses, just for starters. But it was the politics of war, few in Washington, including Vandegrift, wanting to bear the brunt of anyone’s jealousy over this rough-hewn Marine getting his name in the paper too often. Nimitz liked Geiger, despite the rough edges, thought, it has to kick him in the ass to be taking orders from an army man. Yep, if there’s a problem, he’ll tell me about it.
“Sir!”
Nimitz turned, saw one of Buckner’s aides in the doorway, making way for an MP. The MP was stern-faced, wore a pair of forty-fives, stared at Nimitz, then Vandegrift, as though appraising whether the two men were a threat. The MP stepped into the room, stood to one side, his back pressed firmly against the wall. Nimitz saw a second MP, another