Once an Eagle

by Anton Myrer

  “We will be bearing the brunt of the assault, General.”

  “Which was precisely why I chose your division. I have unbounded confidence in its audacity and valor.”

  It was curious. From where he sat Krisler could see Sam at less than full profile—yet for an instant something flickered across the Nebraskan’s face; the merest shadow. Then it was gone and Sam said in a dry, remote tone: “I will inform the men, sir.”

  There was more talk then about feints, and a cover plan for Negros; and after that a report from Corps G-5, Colonel Carruthers, on the Filipino population and the Mendarez guerrilla force. By then it was nearly noon and Massengale said:

  “Well, gentlemen, I think we’ve made a splendid start. I suggest we adjourn for lunch. A pause will give the doubting Thomases a chance to resolve their doubts, and the implementers occasion to implement.—Spencer,” he said to Murtaugh, who blinked at him again, “you’ll check with Admiral Kincaid at your earliest convenience?”

  “Yes I will, General.”

  “Good, then. Good morning, gentlemen.”

  Hollingford, Sam’s driver, was waiting for them in the jeep. Krisler ducked in and Sam followed him, saying curtly, “Division mess.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They moved away from the grand white building with its screened verandah: and their eyes met.

  “What do you think, Benjy?”

  “I don’t like it. It—doesn’t jell, Sam. First place, what’s he want with a two-ring circus—isn’t one landing enough? And then that business of the floating reserve—”

  “Yes,” Sam said with surprising vehemence. “That’s it exactly. Exactly … ”

  Krisler was startled at this; was there even more to it that he hadn’t seen? Sam’s reaction was disconcerting; it turned him jocose.

  “What the hell,” he offered. “Ours but to flip and fry.”

  “The son of a bitch.”

  Krisler turned, astonished, to see Sam glaring at him. Hollingford was staring straight ahead at the smooth, narrow ribbon of blacktop.

  “You know what he wants, don’t you?” Sam demanded, and his eyes bore a look of wrathful torment Krisler had never seen there before. “Don’t you?”

  “—Why no,” Krisler answered after a moment. “Hell, no—beyond wanting to play Hannibal and Caesar and Napoleon all rolled into one …” Perplexity assailed him. “Why, what else is he after, Chief?”

  “Figure it out for yourself.” And Sam relapsed into sullen silence, staring woodenly ahead. Krisler knew better than to pursue the point: when Sam slipped—it was rare enough—into one of those morose silences, your only play was to let him strictly alone. Anyway, they had plenty to do now, with Palamangao—PALLADIUM! Jesus—a scant seven weeks away. They’d have to get the terrain tables set up, the scale models of Babuyan Beach, speed up the training schedules. Maybe they could run two assault exercises on Benapei before they had to pack up. They could use two of them.

  Twice he rolled an eye over at Sam, but his expression hadn’t changed. Old Sam, he thought with a rush of angry affection; old scrap-iron boondocker, old imperturbable. All the things we’ve been through: the riverbank at Moapora, and the tank assult on Wokai, and the ridge, and the dawn jump-off at Komfane. All the tight places. Old Sam—if they give you a bad time I’ll boil them in oil and skin them alive. I will.

  The jungle flowed by, dense and drowsy on either side of the new highway. Hollingford slowed, and ahead of them rose the gate, surmounted by a large, neatly lettered sign:

  YOU ARE RECLINING ON THIS LUSH TROPICAL ISLE COURTESY OF THE 55TH INFANTRY DIVISION VICTORS OF MOAPORA—WOKAI—LOLOBITI—BENAPEI

  Beside him Sam grunted, and gave a sad, wintry smile. On a tree trunk below the sign someone had written on a short plank in a loose, flowery hand:

  But I’d one hell of a lot rather recline back in Sioux Falls.

  29 Oct 44. Went over to Petty Trianon yesterday to beard the lion in his fancy den. Am convinced beyond all doubt Pala assault plan is unnecessarily complicated and artful—and therefore unsound. Blue landings are sufficient: blast inland, cut highway, seize airstrip, seal off Tanag Penin if he wants to, block on right flank vs. Kalao, drive on north to Dalomo and ultimately Reina Blanca. Then push east to Kalao, secure the butts. Why all this split-second timing with 2ary landing, all this doubling of assault craft, LCIs, transports? burdening Tug with 2 unloading areas, 2 beachheads to furnish cover for? Hazards—and pressures—are not worth surprise which may or may not be achieved.

  Massengale very affable, at ease. (He DOES seem supremely confident.) Ryetower there, made no move to leave, CM made no effort to shoo him along. Intentional? Was damned if I was going to ask to see him alone. Said I thought White landings weren’t worth price of admission, urged him to reconsider. He gave me that hooded smile of his. “I believe we can cope with it adequately, Samuel. The tactical considerations alone dictate audacity.” Old-Salt-at-Helm-Dept. Some rather desultory fencing and politesses, and finally I threw the meat on the floor.

  “The reserve division, sir—it is definitely understood that it is to constitute my reserve on Blue.” Ryetower scowling at me as though I’d been writing dirty words on the walls. Massengale got up and went over to the window to commune with himself. After a while: “Why do you ask?” “Because my G-2 has unequivocal reports that Murasse’s division has moved into the area south of the strip, between Ilig and Fotgon, and that extensive work on fortifications is going on there.” “Who’s your G-2?” “Lt. Col. Feltner, sir. He’s a very good man, very reliable. Aerial reconnaissance has checked out guerrilla reports.” “Oh yes, the little fellow …”

  He came back and sat down. “You look daunted, Samuel. That isn’t like you.” His eyes measuring me—that look I remember from Luzon days. “Don’t you have confidence in your command?” Refused to get sore at that. “Yes sir, great confidence. But I don’t feel that any unit should be asked to accomplish a task beyond its capabilities.” He looked down at his desk, fiddling with a key ring with a Phi Beta Kappa key on it. Odd: had never noticed it before. Maybe it’s an honorary one he picked up during the Washington tour. Well, we all have our rituals, our lucky coins and mementoes. “I feel it’s essential to the over-all success of the operation to keep things flexible, Samuel. If the enemy should take it into his head to make a determined stand at Dalomo, or the—the left flank of White, I want to be able to shift either way, as the situation develops. A mobile reserve is a pearl of great price, Samuel. If you are held up unduly on the Babuyan side, I want to be able to punch through from Dalomo. It’s imperative that we secure that airstrip at the earliest possible moment.”

  Right then it hit me, all at once. Left flank of White. That little hesitation. And not mentioning the name. He intends to try to do both: Swanny can slug his way through to link up with me, and he will throw Porky’s outfit in to swing north from Dalomo and take Reina Blanca. Of course. Hail the conquering hero. And I’m left there holding the bag, trying to press home an attack against two divisions and assorted independent units. Just peachy.

  Felt very angry. Ryetower watching me with no expression at all. He knows, too. I said: “In that case, General, I feel I must insist upon tactical control of the Forty-ninth Division as part of my reserve.” He went back in his chair. “Now look, Samuel—” “If not,” I went on calmly, “in view of the intelligence reports on dispositions of enemy strength, I cannot accept the responsibility.”

  There it was. Dead silence. Ryetower staring at me in open-mouthed amazement. Even Massengale’s eyes wide. Very long moment. I thought of the Double Five, all the kids and the old men, the afternoon at the cemetery at Moapora, the night at the river with everyone pushing and pulling me around like a helpless drunk, and the beach at Wokai and Sabotnak grinning at us and hollering, “Dig the frigging tank destroyer!—”

  For a while I thought he was going to take me up on it, tell me to pack my bags and get on the boat. His face got very long and arch—what
Joe Brand calls his Grand Sachem Look. All the blood seemed to have left it, even his lips. I could see that vein running bright blue up into his scalp under the widow’s peak. Then all at once he laughed and got to his feet again. “Samuel, Samuel, what are you saying? One would think this was the meeting between Brutus and Cassius. [A similar thought had occurred to me, though not on quite so lit’r’y a level.] Let’s not be at daggers drawn over this. PALLADIUM will furnish laurels enough for us all.” I said, “I have very little interest in laurels, General.” “An old war horse like you? Come on … I’ll give you my word—if you’re sufficiently pressed and call for the Forty-ninth you shall have it—is that what you want? Does that satisfy you?”

  Felt foolish standing there, so grim and unbending in the face of such magnanimity. “Of course, General. I only felt—” “Now I don’t want you to give it another thought. Of course you shall have it if circumstances warrant it. Surely you can’t believe I would jeopardize the fate of the entire operation over such a matter …?” “Of course not, sir. I didn’t mean to imply anything like that.” Ryetower glancing from CM to me like a baffled spectator at a tennis match. Why in hell should he look apprehensive? He’ll be on the good ship Fargo sipping ice cream sodas and listening to the radio reports.

  He sat down again. Sweating in my shirt, jungle crud under my arm burning. Very close call. Some desultory talk about the preliminary bombardment. He’s very pleased that CINCPAC granted 8 days of cover. Ben is right—he’s got the Navy in his pocket, he must have buttered Ernie King to a turn during that long, lush Washington tour with OPD. Well: them as has gits, as old Mr. Verney used to say.

  Casually he picked up a handsome little model of a native banca sitting on his desk. “A gift from the headman at Walewa Village. Lovely thing, isn’t it?” His fingers gliding along the oily dark wood of the hull. “I thought I might send it to the President. For his ship model collection.” His eyes rising to mine. “Do you think he would like it?” Thought of the lakatois at the river, the tracers dancing on the black water, and Ben after the phone call with Dick. All set for Operation Styx. “I’m sure the President would appreciate it very much, General.”

  And then, without any preamble: “How long have you been out here, Samuel? Since September of ’42, isn’t it?” “That’s right, General.” “More than two years. That’s a long time …” Musing, looking off across that sweep of achingly vivid emerald and cerulean and indigo sea, all ours now, with the mighty Jap garrison penned up in Rabaul, rusting like a plowshare in winter rain. Then, directly: “Do you think you might need a rest?” Felt startled, off balance: his voice solicitous, but there was more underneath it. That cool, flawless thing. Maybe he was angry (in his way) after the horn locking of a few moments before. Or testing me, perhaps. Loyalty from the bottom up. Sure: but how about from the top down?

  “Not at all, General, I feel fine—I’ve had a good long spell of rest and relaxation since Benapei. Nate Weintraub gave me a clean bill a month ago.” Musing again, staring into space, biting on that pacifier of a jade cigarette holder. “I worry about some of you Thermopylae people—out here in the dark days when the clock was ticking so fast and no time to do it all … ” Ryetower’s face infantile in admiration. Pearls of wisdom from on high. Well, maybe that’s too hard on him, maybe he means it—some of it, anyway. Does he? Raising his eyes to mine. “Would a week down in Brisbane be any help?” “No, sir, I don’t think so. And there’s so much to do right now.” Sure, a week of fun and games at Lennon’s—and wake up to find I’d been relieved. No thank you. Still could not read his eyes. They are impossible! So light, with those tiny points in the pupils, so curiously without depth or shine. That’s it—they don’t shine any. “I’d fly you home for a spell if there was time for it.” Chewing on the jade holder. He thinks I’ve had it: war-weary, losing my grip. Felt suddenly afraid: thin cold fear in my guts, like the start of a chill. Nothing like the sensation of a moment before, when I called his bluff on the 49th. Is he really contemplating relieving me—just like that? He wants me out of the theater, clearly. Ben and me both. The hoodlums, the radicals. The bad soldiers. “I really do wish you could get home, even for a few days. It could be important in so many ways.”

  No: he is not going to relieve me. Not yet, anyway. He needs me too much for Pala. The Division would go up like a rocket if he sacked me now, and he knows it. They’d fight for Ben, all right—but Ben’s a worse headache than I am. Ryetower couldn’t get them out of their sacks, and neither could Burckhardt; and he knows that, too. Maybe after Pala is over. Of course there’ll still be Formosa, or China, and then the home islands. He’ll wait to see how we carry off the sacred PALLADIUM from lofty Ilium.

  But what the hell did he mean by that? In so many ways. Has he found out about Joyce? is that some sort of threat? Ryetower would have his own ways of finding out. The hell with him: the hell with all of them.

  “Have you heard from your father-in-law, Samuel?” “Not for some weeks, General—not since he went ashore in France.” “I see.” That solicitous, feline gaze. He knows something. About Dad, or Tommy. Something or other. That old queasy feeling. That’s the hell of service life—everybody knows all about it but you. That discreet murmur over highball glasses or porcelain mugs or canteen cups; the covert, distressed glance. “Suppose you heard about … ” The Club of Noble Martyrs. Tommy’s phrase. Can see her lip curling, that white flash in her eyes right now, here, clear as day.

  But it’s more than that: it’s as though he knows about Tommy—really knows something. Knows and won’t tell me. Power-and-Pleasure Department. God, it’s easy to hate people sometimes. Well: he’ll never tell me—and maybe it’s better that way.

  Great naval victory up north. Three-pronged Jap attack beaten off. Near disaster, apparently: Halsey fell for decoy, went tearing off after Ozawa’s Northern Force and left beachhead wide open with Sprague holding satchel. There seems to be one hell of a lot of riding off into the wild blue yonder in this war. But then, when Kurita had cleared San Bernardino Strait and rounded Samar, a scant 2 hours from Leyte and the amphibious shipping, right when he had it all in his hand—he broke off and headed west again. Why? Fooled by the jeep carriers? communications break down? lose his nerve? Opportunity once forsaken is opportunity lost forever: Dad’s line after Soissons. Halsey finally turned back in a panic, but too late to do any good in either direction. Well: all’s well that ends well. I guess. (Tell that to the poor bastards on the jeeps and the tin cans.) Jap losses 4 carriers, 3 BBs, 10 cruisers, 11 destroyers 200-odd planes. They’ve lost the war right there—their fleet as a fighting arm has ceased to exist. Why don’t they quit?

  But they won’t. Just the way Germany won’t. Why be surprised at that? We wouldn’t either. Not fashionable anymore. To the bitter end. So be it.

  Jimmy Hoyt’s injury very upsetting. Everybody drives too fast around this rock. All of them, they think it’s a sign of testicular prowess to burn up the track. They’re not proving a God damn thing except that their bodies are softer than drop-forged steel. By Christ, I’m going to crack down, fine the hell out of them. What Lucian did in Sicily: 50 bucks per infraction. Bad omen, all the same. Now who’ll take over my beloved 477th? I could move Ray Feltner over, they all know him and like him, but then what’ll I do for a G-2? Bowcher’s what they need, rock ’em and sock ’em, but he’s had no combat experience over company level, he shouldn’t try to jump to a regiment. Put too many noses out of joint. See how he does with 3rd Bn this time out. Guess it’ll have to be Johnny Ross. Check with Ben, he’s had the outfit more recently, he may have some ideas.

  How I railed for years at the old fogey brass and the way they came down on “you young officers”—and our foibles and inadequacies. Now I’m one of the old fogey brass. The way it OUGHT to be is, I ought to have Regiment with Ben as my exec. As at Moapora. Then I’d be out from under all this paper-passing and walla-walla and cross-purposes. But then of course I wouldn’t have 2 stars AND a comma
nd car AND a pyramidal tent of my ownest own—and think how sad I’d feel not to have all THAT crap.

  Great mail call today. Finally heard from Dad: furious at Montgomery over foul-up at Falaise, terrific chance missed not breaching Siegfried Line while Germans were reeling and joint was undefended. Still pleading for a field command, without success. At least he made it back to France again.

  Funny lovely old letter from Peggy, saying her mother is furious with her for quitting school to take that farm job. Why? If that’s what she wants to do. There’s too much of everyone telling everyone else how to run his life these days. Felt oddly pleased. Back to the soil in one generation. I’d like some of that, right now: moving along the rows, shucking corn, ripping back and down, the lemon cob bursting out of its hairy pale green husk like some savage little birth; or working up a fallen oak, the saw pouring back and forth in its thin, rhythmic sing-song and the sawdust spurting red on my left boot with every lunge; or walking over the stripped fields, just about time now, the stubble crackling underfoot like glass, frosty in furry blue webs in the morning sun. Dear Diary. I’m homesick. And tired.

  No word from Tommy.

  I have such a black feeling about this op. Can’t shake it. He’s trying just too damn much. Audacity, downright gambling, sure—but in the right place, for the right reasons. We’re out of the rainy season anyway, the island is big. So why all the fancy footwork?

  But I suppose it’ll look particularly good in an after-action report to GHQ SWPA, and Washington …

  He hates my guts. There it is. He hates my very guts, and I despise him and fear him. Not HIM actually—more what he will do, what he is capable of: like those visitations of the gods as mortals in Homer. There is something terrible inside him, in his soul. He talks about the big picture and command problems and knowledge of terrain but all that has nothing to do with it—it’s this other thing that slips along just under the surface.