The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [95]
Vandegrift interrupted.
“A foot at a time.”
Nimitz knew the Marine had a point. But he understood Buckner’s strategy and his stubborn adherence to every piece of training he had received. It was simply the army way, move steadily forward by overwhelming the enemy with firepower. The Marines had maintained a completely opposite philosophy, that movement should be lightning quick by men on foot, and the artillery and tanks could come in afterward to clean up. Nimitz understood more clearly than ever why MacArthur mostly left the Marines out of his own picture. It was far easier doing things his own way, without having to hear dissension from his subordinates. They’re both right, he thought. And, probably, both wrong. No wonder Turner hides in a bottle. He’s staying the hell out of the way.
“General Vandegrift, I appreciate your frustration, but General Buckner is in command here. Your men have performed extremely well, as I expected. But the Marines cannot be the point of every sword. I know the numbers, know how much devastation we can bring to any enemy position. General Buckner, your forces are engaged with an enemy you are expected to defeat, without any more delay than necessary. Delay means casualties, as we all know. It was anticipated that Okinawa would be secured in a month. You have one week left in that timetable, and from the looks of things, you’re not even close to making it.” He glanced at Vandegrift, who seemed to recognize Nimitz heating up. The Marine leaned forward, clearly hanging on Nimitz’s anger. “We’re losing a ship or more every day to the damn kamikazes. Men are dying at sea, and men are dying on these hills. Too many men. You’ve got a week, General. If you can’t make a significant breakthrough, I need to find someone who will.”
Buckner started to protest, and Nimitz knew he had trespassed into Buckner’s authority more than any army man would normally tolerate. But Nimitz could read the energy of both men, and there was just enough muggy heat in the room to light his own fuse. Even Buckner seemed to understand that there was little he could say. Nimitz tried to calm down, fought the unpleasant wetness in his clothes.
“Simply put, gentlemen, the army’s difficulties in the south must be solved. I do agree with you, that our success here is only a matter of time. The problem of course …” He paused, studied the table in front of him, chose his words. “The problem, General Buckner, is that time is not measured out here. It is measured in Washington. And Washington is tapping its foot.”
14. ADAMS
NEAR CAPE HEDO, NORTHERN OKINAWA
APRIL 28, 1945
The rain finally stopped, but the mud around him continued to ooze downward into the base of the foxhole, deepening the pool of goo beneath him. He stared at Welty, saw the same misery, but more, Welty scratching at his pant leg, futility against the constant assault from the fleas. The roads had been nearly impassable, and so today there had been no kitchen trucks. Their only alternative was K rations, and even the lieutenant had grumbled at that. It was a mystery to Adams that Welty never seemed to mind the K rations, and he watched his friend digging merrily through the boxes, picking out whatever seemed to suit his tastes at the moment. But the fleas were relentless, not even Welty’s quiet cheerfulness protecting him. Adams rubbed his own legs in reflex, said, “The oil works. I’m telling you. The sarge was right.”
Welty shook his head.
“I’m not wasting my gun oil. My piece is more important than any damn bugs. If this weapon doesn’t fire when I need it to, it ain’t gonna make much difference how many fleas are on me.”
“Fine. I haven’t fired at a damn thing in a week, and right now, I’d rather keep from being eaten by bugs. It’ll be dark in an hour, and then the mosquitoes’ll be here. I might try the oil on my face. This is about the worst damn place I’ve ever been.”
Welty looked at him without