Authors: Leon Uris
I know he shouldn’t have, but Colonel Malcolm said that you are in Hawaii. I’ve tried to think it out clearly but I’m afraid I can’t. The thought of you being so close simply overpowers any reason I might master.
Remember old Colonel Drake who retired several years ago? He has a place on Maui and he’s asked us time and again to visit him. It is just the next island from Hawaii. I could get over there somehow.
Darling, please don’t turn me down on this. I’ve tried being a Marine wife but I’m going to have to be selfish—as selfish as a wife who longs for her husband. You’ve had so little time in recent years. It seemed like a few months from the time you returned from Iceland till you went out again. I don’t care how short our time, Sam, but I must see you. I had braced myself to see the war through and I’ve not complained, but it all shattered when I found you were so close by.
I love you as I’ve always loved you and I miss you as I always miss you, with all my soul. The thought of seeing you changes everything and has me drunk with happiness.
Your loving wife,
Jean
Jean Huxley’s hand trembled as she closed the door of her room and ripped the seam of his return envelope.
My Jean,
You will notice from the postmark that this letter didn’t come through proper channels. I had it mailed in the States by a flyer friend of mine.
My life, if ever I’ve had to make a decision, if ever I’ve had to find words I didn’t want to say, this is that time.
When I read your letter I could hardly believe it. The thought of holding you in my arms again, the thought of loving you, if only for a day, answers the prayer I’ve said each night for two hungry years.
But, my darling, I must ask you to wait once more. It would be impossible for you to come to Hawaii. Jean, when I returned from Iceland and was given this command I had to whip a green bunch of kids into Marines and it wasn’t an easy job. But now my boys are Marines, the finest on God’s earth. Perhaps they don’t like me, perhaps they hate me. I don’t really know but I know we’ve been through a lot of hell together. These boys are not professional soldiers like I am. This business of saying good-by knifes them more deeply than it ever will us. They want their wives and their mothers as badly as we want each other. But the path is not as easy for them as it has been made for us. They must stay and do their job.
Lord knows I’m not punishing myself for their sake, but what kind of love would it be if I had to face them knowing I’d stolen something that is denied them? Could we cheat? I must see it through with them, Jean. I am their skipper. Darling, you must understand.
I have never written this before but the time has come now. Since we were kids at Ohio State and you chose to become my wife you must have learned that I am married to two persons, you and the Corps. Many’s the time you have had to step back and take it on the chin and you’ve never complained about it. Many’s the time I’ve wanted to tell you what a brave soldier you have been. You have taken a long hard road—yes, we are always saying good-by.
And many’s the time I’ve cursed myself for bringing you into all this. I have never been able to give you the home and the children I know you long for. It has always been “Take care of yourself, see you soon.” But without your courage I never could have made it.
No matter where the call of duty has taken me, no matter what the situation, I can always find comfort in knowing that way back in the States there is a woman waiting for me. A woman so wonderful I surely do not deserve her. But as long as she is there, nothing else matters for me.
And I’ve thought in anguish of the day I can come back and know I’ll never have to leave you again and I can spend the rest of my life making up for every lonely day and every lonely night.
Our die is cast and for the while we must get our bits of happiness when they are doled out to us. I am not sorry for the life I have chosen, only for the misery I’ve caused you.
And so, once more. Just a little longer, darling.
I adore you,
Sam
The letter fell to the floor and Jean Huxley gazed blankly out of the window. She felt she would never see her husband again.
Something big was brewing for the Sixth Marines. The tip came during maneuvers when the regiment was introduced to the newly developed “buffalo.” The buffalo was an amphibious tractor bigger, faster, and more heavily armed than its predecessor, the alligator. The Sixth was drilled in the buffalo while the Second and Eighth Marines drilled in the mountains. This meant the beachhead for us. The big dress rehearsal, as usual, ended in a mess.
Happy with the hope that this would be the last campaign, we prepared to move out again. We were in a fighting mood. Already a rotation plan was in effect for members of the Second and Eighth who had been overseas many more months than we had.
We waited tensely as camp broke and battalion after battalion took the slow torturous trek down the mountainside to the Hilo docks. From Hilo we figured that the transports would proceed to Pearl Harbor, and down the islands for final staging.
Then came shattering news. Five LSTs had been blown up at Pearl Harbor. At the last moment we were ordered to stay put in Camp Tarawa. It was obvious that Huxley’s Whores had originally been assigned to one of the destroyed ships. Highpockets took a plane for Honolulu while we sat alone in the cold mountains to sweat it out.
The stiff orderly at Major General Merle Snipes’ office in Pearl Harbor snapped the door open.
“Sir, Lieutenant Colonel Huxley to see you.” He closed the door behind Sam who stood rigid before the General’s desk.
Snipes had recently succeeded to the Second Division command. The legend said that no one had ever seen Snipes smile. There is no one to refute that.
“You requested permission to see me, Huxley. I see you wasted no time getting here.” His words were always sharp and to the point to subordinates and superiors alike.
“My battalion is still sitting on top of the mountain in Hawaii, sir.”
“We won’t leave them there.”
“General Snipes. I realize I’m stepping out of line but I must ask you a pertinent question. We were originally assigned to one of the LSTs that blew up, weren’t we?”
“You’re quite right. You are way out of line.”
“Am I to assume, sir, that the LSTs are to spearhead the pending invasion and that we were selected as one of the combat teams to establish a beachhead?”
“I don’t see any reason to carry this conversation further.”
“But we’re going to.”
“What!”
“I further assume that you have been unable to replace all the LSTs and that my outfit has been reassigned to a troop transport.”
“For a junior officer, you do a lot of assuming, Huxley.”
“Then I’m right. You’ve changed our assignment. We aren’t landing first.”
Snipes’ words were arctic cold. “You let us do the figuring. You’ll do as you’re told. Get out of here before I have you court-martialed.” The General began to thumb through the papers on his desk. The tall man before him stood fast. Snipes looked up slowly, his eyes drawn to slits, his face frozen. Tobacco-stained teeth showed between his drawn thin lips.
“Dammit, General! This is the last round. We are getting close to Japan,” Huxley went on. “With five divisions of Marines out here we’ll never get another chance.”
Snipes reached for his phone.
“Go on, call the M.P.s. You and your whole lousy crowd have been shoving the Sixth Marines around too long—you’re jealous of us.”
Snipes studied the rawboned officer before him. “It is common knowledge that you rode General Pritchard on Guadalcanal. You’re getting a reputation as a troublemaker.”
“That’s a lie and you know it. We’ve worked hard. You know damned well we have the finest regiment in the Corps.”
“All right, Huxley, sit down and cool off. I want to show you something.” He walked to a wall safe, spun the dials, and withdrew an immense bound document and threw it on his desk.
“Ever see one of these?”
“No, sir.”
He read the cover:
Operation Kingpin, Top Secret.
“Two thousand pages, Huxley. Tides, winds, expected casualties, rounds of ammo, gallons of gas, topography, native customs, history of the enemy commander, Jap fleet disposition, how many rolls of toilet paper we’ll need—name it, we’ve got it here.” He leaned over his desk. “Three divisions are going in, Huxley. Sixty thousand men. We are taking an island to give us a jumping-off place to bomb Tokyo around the clock. Do you hear! So you want to change the entire operation…risk a thousand lives and a billion dollars. Who the hell do you think you are!”
Huxley was white faced. “General Snipes,” he said slowly, “you can take that big book and you know just where you can shove it. You know as well as I do that you can throw the book away when the first shot is fired. Did the book win Guadalcanal? Did the book keep those kids coming in through the lagoon at Tarawa? This one isn’t going to be any different. It’s the little bastards with the rifles and the bayonets and the blood and the guts that will win this war for you, General, and by God, I’ve got the best in the Corps and I want that beachhead!”
“Once upon a time, Huxley, we thought you were a bright young lad. After this campaign you can expect to spend the rest of your life in the Corps inspecting labels on pisspots. I will not tolerate insubordination!”
The color returned to Sam’s cheeks and his big fists unclenched. “General,” he said softly. “When I came here I knew I was going to leave one of two ways. Either by the brig or at the head of my battalion. I want to resign from the Corps. I want an immediate transfer until the resignation is effective. If you pigeonhole it you’ll have to court-martial me. I’m not going back to my boys knowing we are going to carry the broom and dustpan again.”
He drew a deep breath. Snipes sat down, adjusted his glasses and opened the book
Operation Kingpin.
He found the page he wanted. “We were unable to replace the fifth LST that blew up. According to the plan the LSTs are to leave five days ahead of the rest of the convoy. The LSTs are to launch their own buffaloes and the transports follow up once the beachhead is firm. I can’t get you an LST. However, we have one small supply ship going out with them first. There’ll be enough buffaloes on it to take your battalion in. Huxley, in one month you’ll wish to hell you hadn’t come here, because your outfit is going to be in the hotbox. I’m sending you in on the exposed left flank. You will receive your orders as soon as Phibspac O.K.s them.”
Sam Huxley’s lips parted but he could not speak.
“You came here knowing I’m the meanest sonofabitch in the Corps, Huxley. Now you’ve gotten what you want and you’re asking yourself ‘why did I do it, and why did Snipes give in?’ The first you can answer. I’ll answer the last one. It is crazy bastards like you that make the Marine Corps. Well, you should be quite proud of your victory.”
“As proud as a man could be when he’s dug the graves for three hundred boys.”
“You’ll be lucky if it’s only three hundred…now get out of here.”
Huxley walked to the door with shoulders stooped. He placed his hand on the knob. Yes, he wondered why. Only that he had known he had to come….
“Sam.”
He turned and the legend of Merle Snipes was broken. He had only a slight smile on his lips but his face looked warm and human. “Sam, I sometimes think myself it’s a hell of a way to make a living.”
Huxley closed the door behind him and walked out.
PROTESTANT
services were being conducted on aft deck. I was oiling my carbine, checking the clips again, and peacefully dragging on a weed when Ziltch summoned me to Huxley’s quarters. I climbed the ladder topside and caught a view of the fleet—ships, hundreds of them, moving with serene slowness for as far as the eye could see.
The singing aft seemed to blend with the slow rise and fall of the ship:
“Onward Christian soldiers,
Marching as to war…”
I went inside to officers’ country, down the gangway, and met Gunner Keats standing before Huxley’s door. “What’s the scoop?” I asked.
“Beats me, Mac,” Keats answered, rapping on the door.
Ziltch ushered us in. Highpockets stood against the bulkhead, squinting out of a porthole eyeing the great flotilla proceeding majestically to its bloody chore. He turned to us slowly, motioned us at ease, and lit a fresh cigarette with the butt of another. Huxley, the disciplinarian, looked ill at ease for a moment as he beckoned Keats and me to sit and laid his field map on the desk. He rubbed his jaw a second.
“Mac,” he said almost bashfully, “and you, Gunner, I’ve asked you two here…well, because we’re old shipmates.”
“Yes, sir,” I blurted out, “since Iceland.”
“You’ve been briefed on tomorrow’s operation?”
“Yes, sir.”
We could see the dark circles of sleeplessness under his eyes. He pointed a pencil on the map. “There it is, Red Beach One, the hotbox of the whole operation.” He walked to the porthole and flipped the cigarette out. “You’ll notice that our battalion is to land on the extreme left flank. We will be the nearest troops to the major Japanese concentrations in the City of Garapan. It is a leadpipe cinch that we will be counterattacked and will have to bear the brunt of it.”
Keats and I nodded. He strode back to the map. “And right here is Mount Topotchau, a perfect observation post looking right down our throats.” He smacked a fist into an open hand. “There are tricky reefs and tides out there. There is a calculated risk that the rest of combat team one might land too far south. That means we will have to stand alone and isolated until they can consolidate with us. The Japs will turn all hell loose to keep us separated.” He slumped in a captain’s chair and lit another cigarette. “The hotbox,” he repeated. “Mac, those radios have got to stay in operation tomorrow.”