Long before then Shifkin had stopped asking questions, had given up all thought of remaining an observer and found himself staggering along at one end of a stretcher, panting and straining, his shoulders feeling as if they were being pried bluntly out of their sockets. Back and forth along a trail where things of immeasurable menace crashed and howled and whined and now and then blew him off his feet. You went down with wounded and came back up with ammunition and grenades and water. Hour after hour, until men fell where they walked, half-naked, and slept the iron sleep of the desperately weary; and when at last it was over and he came up to the haggard, bearded men he’d served, hastily cleaning weapons and stringing wire, he shared a quick, fierce affection he’d never known anywhere in his life before.
“What you say, Shif,” they called, although he was old enough to be father to most of them, and grabbed his arm or clapped him on the back. “Hey, you made out okay!… Hey, the shit really hit the old fan there for a while, didn’t it? I mean … Christ, the Old Man was the glue … Old Sad Sam stopped the sons of bitches …”
“The Old Man got it,” he told them.
“Oh no …” They stared at him in consternation, in anger, in fear and grief; their eyes filled. “No—not the Old Man … Where? Where did he get it?”
“The trail block, at Ilig.”
“No, for-Christ-sake—where was he hit!”
“Oh. In the chest and shoulder and arm.”
“Then he’s alive?—he’s still alive?”
“I think so.”
And then—unbelievably—they rejoiced, masking their relief in a torrent of obscenity. “He’ll be back … Listen, Shif—you don’t know the Old Man, he’s a fucking ring-tailed tiger … Hell, if he had an arm blown off he’d stick it back on with concertina wire and smear it with oil and the fucker better work, I’m telling you!… He’ll be back.”
“I hope so.”
“No hope-so about it. You wait and see.”
Shifkin hadn’t approached Damon before they’d loaded for the operation. He’d been mildly astonished at the odd currents of fate—he’d been transferred from the European Theater after the liberation of Paris—that had dropped him in such close proximity to the father of the boy his daughter had so very nearly married. Grotesque, he had thought, back on Désespoir, watching Damon talk to a group of junior officers; grotesque, to be related—even by marriage—to a general, a Regular Army man at that. Fantastic. He had risked it nevertheless aboard ship, a brief opportunity just after evening chow when he’d found Damon standing by himself, leaning against the rail.
“General, I’m David Shifkin. One of the correspondents attached to the Double Five.”
“How are you.” They had shaken hands rather formally although Lawrence the Press Officer had introduced them several weeks before; the General had smiled, though the correspondent knew Damon’s eyes were measuring him carefully.
He paused, and then said: “I’m Marion’s father.”
The General’s eyes had widened a trifle. “Oh, yes. I wondered if you might be—Donny once mentioned you were a correspondent. I ought to know more about such things. There never seems to be enough time in this business to attend to half the things you should.”
There was a brief silence then, while they both watched the emerald water boiling astern and the sedate little ships of clouds turning rose and lavender on their hulls. Damon seemed to have nothing more to offer; but Shifkin felt he couldn’t leave it there.
“General, I wanted to say how very sorry I was to learn about—your son.” He felt suddenly to use the boy’s name would sound presumptuous, the more so since he had seen him more recently than Damon. “It must have been a terrible loss for you.”
“Thank you.” The General’s voice was gracious but his face was unapproachable and stern. “Yes. It was. I imagine it was very hard on Marion. I wrote her.”
Shifkin had looked down, and gripped the rough iron with his fingers. Jesus, what a cold fish. Most of them were like that, basically—cold, inexorable beings marching along just outside the human race, bound up in sports and weapons and that harsh litany of punishment and punctilio. Probably they had to be. Why should they blanch or blubber at death, any more than a surgeon’s hand should falter as it laid open the layers of fat and flesh and muscle, clamped off the blood vessels? Yet the men were for him—they liked and respected him more than any other divisional commander he’d seen, except perhaps Middleton or Terry Allen.
The Army: that hard, alien world he’d always feared and distrusted so deeply. The boy himself had been so different—he’d seen him for part of an evening in New York between assignments: quick and lively and reflective. The mother, probably. How strange life was! Here he was on this ship of war, heading for an island swarming with death and destruction, one more step in a long and sanguinary parade he wanted with all his heart and guts and soul to forsake as soon as possible—and for this man standing beside him it was his life, his trade—
Still, he had written to Marion …
It was only during the past days ashore, watching Damon moving about imperturbably, exhorting, advising, crouched in a hole talking in casual earnest to someone while black geysers yawned everywhere; and later, assisted by a medic, tottering down the trail to the field hospital, hollow-cheeked and broken with grief but still pridefully moving under his own power—it was not until then that Shifkin had seen what he was like: and the awareness caught at his heart. They were bound together by loss, by unrealized possibility. Damon’s boy was dead, and his own daughter was desolate with grief.
It’s funny, Dad, I can say now I guess I always knew it, somehow. Did he? Does that sound cruel, or crazy? Our will and fates do so contrary run, that our something still are overthrown. Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. Is that what it’s all about, the best answer a person can hope for? I suppose so. I suppose that’s why Shakespeare is so horribly great, he knew all this and everything else, too. I wish we could have a long talk now. Right this minute, while the sleet is banging against the window and a ship is hooting away out on the river. I’ve gone through so many crazy moods since I heard about Don: I wanted to kill every German on earth. Then I wanted to kill myself. Then I just felt numb and brainless. Now I feel as if everything has been scooped out of me, one colossal hollow ache. I wish we could sit and talk. You’ve seen so much of fear and death; and the powerful ones, the ones who say only one word, and make us all so wretched. Are they like us, Dad? Do they look at anything, I mean anything, the way we do? I doubt it somehow. How can they? Oh Dad, I am so unhappy. I never thought a human being could feel like this. So full of misery …
Earnshaw, the UPI man, was saying brightly: “Where to now, General?”
“We will go where we are assigned, gentlemen.” Massengale revealed the charming, urbane smile. “But I think I can safely say the word is: Northward, ho.”
There was some easy laughter. Then Bingham, the Trib reporter and unofficial dean of the correspondents in the theater, a big man with a full blond mustache and disconcertingly large, round, baby blue eyes and a fine, deep voice: “General, you’ve just concluded a little masterpiece of amphibious war—”
Massengale’s eyes sparkled as he interrupted: “Remember, you said it, I didn’t!—”
When the laughter had subsided again, Bingham went on, smiling gravely: “—and the most remarkable thing about it is that—correct me if I’m wrong—you never held a field command before. I know it sounds absurd to ask a question like this today, but tell us: Were you at all apprehensive when you came out here to take over your first combat command?”
Massengale frowned, hefting the pointer in his long fingers. “Not really. Oh, you worry—worry is the lot of the commander, of course: the unexpected, the unforeseen that might rise up and undo all your plans. This kamikaze threat—it’s primarily the Navy’s burden, thank the good Lord—is a case in point. But no: to answer your question, Mr. Bingham, I wasn’t unduly concerned. Successfu
l warfare is a matter of principles correctly applied, sound preparation—and above all, never doing what the enemy wants you to do. I think we did that, all right. After all, a very good general once said that war is compounded of nothing but accidents, and the alert commander loses no opportunity to profit by them. Messrs. Ochikubo, Kolusai and Murasse handed us a golden opportunity here.”
Again there was the gentle murmur, laudatory, acquiescent. Shifkin bit his lip. He himself was comparatively new in the theater and heretofore he’d let the others ask the questions. But if nobody was going to say a single, solitary word—
“General—” he was startled at the force in his voice “—how is General Damon, could you tell us?”
“He’s fine, Mr. Shifkin. Coming along superbly. My senior aide was over there and got a full report from Colonel Weintraub not two hours ago.” Massengale’s eyes left his and passed over the group. “I hope none of you are worried about the Night Clerk. He’s a grand old war horse, you know.” His lips parted in the crusty smile of the old soldier. “He’d be right here with us now but he couldn’t resist playing Sergeant York for a little while.”
The appreciative chuckles around the room angered Shifkin all at once. “It was my understanding General Damon entered the line at Umatoc in an effort to save the beachhead, after the Four-seventy-seventh had been hit on the flank and overrun—the action in which General Krisler was killed …”
The Corps Commander frowned. “It was hardly as grave as that, I think. Perhaps you’re not too familiar with the Night Clerk’s exploits at Moapora and Wokai, Mr. Shifkin. He’s often a good deal farther front than might be most efficacious, and it’s been a source of distress to me; but with the kind of impetuous, aggressive field commander such as General Damon you have to give him his head. I’m sure his presence did much to rally flagging spirits in the crucial places.”
Massengale’s eyes were running out over the room expectantly, looking for another questioner. Shifkin said quickly: “General, we’ve been talking about the Eighteenth and Forty-ninth Divisions. Could you give us a little information on the Fifty-fifth?”
“Why certainly—I’d be happy to do so. I thought it was already pretty much a matter of record. The Double Five bore the brunt of Murasse’s headlong attacks, fought magnificently, and is credited with chewing up the better part of two Japanese divisions, the Thirty-ninth and Ninety-second. Its performance was in keeping with the highest traditions of the service.”
“Is the Fifty-fifth participating in the drive on Kalao?”
“No, it’s not. The Division was pretty severely handled, as you all know, and the general consensus was it needed a rest from its gallant labors.”
Shifkin clenched his hand. All right, then: all right. If that was how it was going to be. “Isn’t it true, General, that if General Bannerman’s division had been used in support of the Fifty-fifth, at Fanegayan and Umatoc, the Salamanders would not have suffered such heavy casualties?”
There was a stir in the room; Shifkin was conscious of several faces turning toward him. At his side Randall muttered something he couldn’t hear. General Massengale was staring down at him gravely from the dais. “Elements of the Forty-ninth were dispatched to the Babuyan Beachhead in support of the Fifty-fifth, Mr. Shifkin.”
“Yes, but not until oh-five-thirty hours on Friday, and from Dalomo, so that they arrived too late to be of any help.”
Massengale’s face took on a certain hard intensity. “I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed on that point.”
“I was at the Ilig trail block when the Japanese broke off contact and began their retreat, General.”
The Corps Commander’s eyebrows rose. “What do you want me to say? A calculated risk was involved. The mobility of the reserve force was essential to the success of the operation, its rapid development. So that when the opportunity presented itself for the drive on Reina Blanca—”
“But isn’t it true, sir, that the Forty-ninth Division was General Damon’s reserve on Blue Beach?”
There was a short silence. Shifkin swallowed once; Massengale’s eyes were boring into his—the large amber pupils, the tiny black points at their centers.
“Dave, I think”—it was Bingham’s sonorous baritone, Shifkin could tell without turning—“I don’t think any point will be served by going into a lot of conjecture and—”
“Bing, I’d like to get this clarified.” He had not taken his eyes off Massengale. “Isn’t that true, General?”
“Where did you obtain that information, Mr. Shifkin?”
The correspondent was filled with astonishment. “Why, the plan of battle, General—the briefing we received back at Walewa Heights …”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken about that. The floating reserve, designated as SPANNER, was on call by Blue Beach force subject to the Corps Commander’s approval.”
“But then in that case—”
“One moment. Please.” Massengale’s voice was suddenly hard and peremptory; running his eyes over the rest of the correspondents, he turned to the map again. “The situation involving the Fifty-fifth Division on the eighth and ninth, was regrettable, extremely regrettable; but there was no help for it. General Damon was in the process of effecting a pivoting movement—a sound maneuver though one of course involving some risks—below Fanegayan in an effort to envelop the airstrip above Fotgon, here. There seemed every reason to believe he would complete it without impediment. Whether through faulty intelligence or inadequate patroling, or blind chance—and chance is a mighty factor in battle, and one the commander must learn perforce to live with—the Four-seventy-seventh was unprepared for the attack that struck it on that exposed flank at fourteen-fifty on the eighth. As you know, two battalions were overrun and very severely mauled, contact was lost, and Murasse, surprised and elated—and badly misled—by this initial success, decided on his own authority to exploit the breakthrough and committed his two divisions en masse. It was a gambler’s throw, it was absurd, it was perfectly characteristic of the temper of Japanese operations in this war. I was confident that the Fifty-fifth could and would contain this rash assault; and my confidence was more than sustained. The attack failed lamentably. Murasse’s losses were staggering, the airstrip was left with insufficient forces to protect it, and Kolusai was unable to beat off the interdicting pressure of General Bannerman’s forces on the Aguinaldo Highway north of Reina Blanca, and consequently to effect any kind of orderly withdrawal to Nabolos. The enemy was beaten on the twenty-fifth of last month, when the two beachheads had reached their first phase lines; but it was the PYLON maneuver and this astonishing tactical lapse of Murasse’s—and our prompt exploitation of it—that enabled us to wind up PALLADIUM so swiftly and adroitly.”
Shifkin felt his face growing warm. He ought to give up the floor now, fall silent and give up. If that was how it was going to be, who was he, a mere scribe, to beard the mighty in their marble halls? But something—the stubborn passion that had impelled him into journalism and later made him throw over a comfortable desk job in ’37 for the Briguete front in Spain—or was it those haggard faces on the line at Ilig?—wouldn’t let him. It was stupid, it was ruinous, it would serve no practical purpose at all. But he had to ask the question. It concerned the truth; and the truth was what he cared about more than anything else.
“Just a moment, General—let me understand you clearly. Did General Damon notify you that he had completed the PYLON maneuver?”
Massengale’s eyes were steady and piercing. For the briefest of instants something seemed to flicker in their centers; then it vanished. “That is correct,” he said.
“And you did not order the Forty-ninth Division to Dalomo until you had received that message?”
“That is correct. You will treat that information as classified, however.” The General’s eyes left him and ranged along his staff. “Censorship officers will please take note of that fact. No purpose will be served by querulous post mortems over the details of this
operation, and no obloquy should attach to either General Damon or the Fifty-fifth Division. On the contrary, their role was nothing less than valorous. PYLON was a calculated risk, executed with my full approval. And the results have, I think we can all agree, more than justified its employment.”
“If by justified you mean to include the decimation of one of the finest divisions I’ve seen in nearly three years of—”
“Mr. Shifkin,” Massengale broke in, and now the correspondent could see he was angry; a vein just to the right of the widow’s peak stood out like a slender, ruddy thread. “I realize you are relatively new to the Theater. But I feel I should remind you that your movements and expressions are subject to Army jurisdiction.”
“I’m fully aware of that, General. I was assigned to Africa and Europe for over two years.”
“Then surely you are familiar with the character and extent of your privileges and obligations. This was a hard-fought battle: in hard-fought battles one suffers losses. That is all I will say.” He looked at the assembled audience, and his lean, white face brightened again. “I have no wish to mar what is an occasion of great felicity; and I don’t believe this will. A great victory has been won by American arms. Let us all be humbly grateful, and gird ourselves for the somber trials to come.” He handed the pointer to Sergeant Hartje. “I think that’s all, then. Good afternoon, gentlemen, and good luck to you.”
There was a brisk pattering of applause. The Corps Commander nodded, smiling, and headed toward the side entrance that led into the living quarters of the palace. Shifkin watched the MP spring to attention by the quickly opened door, the tall form pass through into the interior gloom, followed by his staff and the divisional commanders.
Someone had a hand on his sleeve. Meade, his round face perplexed. “What’s the matter, Dave? What the hell’s eating you?”
He stared at Meade for a moment. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just shooting off my mouth.”
They moved out into the high, broad verandah, and the breeze fretted gently at the perspiration on his neck and forehead. Far out, the Sulu Sea was like a vast blue plate. Bingham gave him a short, blandly disapproving glance, and passed on.