Command Decision (25 page)

“Ask Colonel Haley to step in.”

Like Evans, Garnett did not want to be alone. He, too, knew that sooner or later he would have to think of the things that had happened. He would even have to think of how and why they had happened. He jumped from the desk now and circled the room angrily, averting his eyes from the Swastika-shaped fighter cross as he went. It was folly, madness, to try to think such things through. Poor Casey himself was an example of a man who had thought too much.

There were times and places for it but this was not either. On a staff a man could afford to think; he was expected to. Around him there were always the balance of other men, the weighing of opinion, the checking over every detail before thought went upward for the pen stroke that made it command.

Here he was command. The army had provided him with a staff to think for him in every foreseeable category of human affairs. The obvious problems of life had been precalculated, their conduct codified into regulations that existed to forestall thought and to obviate the human differences in it. Even the unforeseeable dilemmas of the war itself had been divided and parceled out into directives. His own were tidily packaged in the thick folder Casey had turned over to him this afternoon. He was not here to think. He was here to execute those directives. He walked over and touched the folder itself for reassurance.

“You sent for me, sir?” asked Haley from the door.

“Good evening, Haley. Any messages?”

“General Endicott and General Salmond have sent their compliments and will await your decision before planning tomorrow’s mission, sir.” It was there, in his face, before he even had time to consider it thoughtfully. He clutched the directive folder and wondered if Haley’s imperturbable stare could see the uncertainty inside him.

“Is there anything from General Kane?”

“No, sir.”

“I suppose, on a tricky reading, he might wait for twenty hundred weather developments?”

“He might, sir.”

The man’s impassivity was maddening. “Well, we haven’t got
our
twenty hundred weather yet.”

“Davis is marking the map, sir. If you’d like to speak to him immediately…”

“No, no. Have you final figures from today yet?”

“Posted, sir,” said Haley and led the way to the board. In this, too, there was respite. Garnett tried to follow closely but Haley went rapidly, too rapidly, through the details; he found himself missing the significance of it in his dread of the end.

“Thirty-nine lost and four in the Channel and… What’s this?”

“Category E, sir. Fourteen damaged beyond economical repair.”

“So we really lost fifty-seven today?”

“We salvage the crews from those Category E’s, sir.”

He had a sudden vision of the landing he had seen that afternoon. There had been no crashes today but he was remembering the way the ambulances backed up to the waistgates and the way the uninjured men had climbed out afterward, lowering their feet slowly as if they did not expect them to reach the ground.

“Do we fly those Category E crews tomorrow?”

“All but the wounded, sir. We need them.”

Haley turned from the board with finality and waited, his face expectant. Time was passing.

“I don’t see how they take it,” said Garnett. “What about morale, Haley?”

“There’s been no report of trouble, sir.”

Garnett remembered without joy that he would be eating three meals a day with this man through an indefinite future. But the prospect of having Haley leave the room now seemed worse. He smiled.

“Haley, we’re going to be together a long time, I hope. It would make life simpler if you’d call me Cliff.”

“Very well, sir… Cliff.”

“What do these crews really think about?”

“Their twenty-fifth mission, sir.”

“Of course, but what else?”

Haley cogitated. “The normal things, sir, and promotion and decoration, too.”

“By the normal things you mean…?” He risked a wider smile and this time it was rewarded by a decorous counterpart from his Chief of Staff.

“Yes, sir. Fortunately the villages are full of it.”

“I should think it would lead to trouble.”

But the smile was gone now. Haley considered his answer for Accuracy and Completeness.

“Just the normal kinds, sir. These women have been at war a long time. They know the men have to be back for missions.”

“Is this… immorality very widespread?”

“Very, sir,” said Haley. “If it wasn’t for the accent you couldn’t tell ’em from Americans.”

Garnett knew that they were coming to the end of this and he could feel the pressure of the questions that lay beyond; again he fought them off.

“So that kind of morale takes care of itself?”

“Yes, sir. Keeps down perversion, too,” said Haley briskly. He waited a respectful interval before letting Garnett feel the compulsion of his slight movement toward the status board again.

“If you’re ready to go through tomorrow’s status…?”

“Haley, will the change of command in the Division affect morale?”

“It will cheer them up for a while, sir.”

“They won’t necessarily be hostile to a new face?”

“All generals look alike to them… Cliff.”

“Then how will it cheer them up?”

“They figure a new general’s always good for a couple of soft missions, sir.”

Garnett searched that round face for the telltale smirk of an insinuation but it was not there. Haley had been stating a fact. Then with a surge of relief, he saw Evans with a paper.

“Is that from General Kane?” he snapped.

“No, sir. The last group reports all crews now provided with freshly packed parachutes in compliance with this morning’s order, sir.”

Disappointment, and the shock of this reminder, seemed to paralyze his tongue. By long habit he nodded curtly and watched Evans disappear. Then, for the first time since he had been in the island, a blessed inner prompting reminded him that the other Generals Garnett must have been in tough places, too.

“We’ll go through tomorrow’s status, Haley.”

There was refuge, even in that arithmetic, and Garnett found himself following with concentration almost to the end before the revelation struck him. He had to clear his throat to be sure eagerness did not lighten his crisp, official tone.

“One thirty and one thirty-two crews. That’s not really four full groups, is it?”

“This is the third day of intensive Ops, sir. I bet the Germans would be glad to show 90 per cent serviceability for tomorrow.”

“I wasn’t criticizing, Haley. But we just haven’t the strength General Dennis had, have we?”

“One thirty’s enough for any target in the book if they hit it, sir,” replied Haley evenly.

“How many crews would be on their last mission?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Is there any way we could give them a break?”

Haley shook his head slowly; it was an old question but all commanders asked it. “They’re your Element, Squadron, Group, and Wing leaders now, sir. Of course if it’s a short mission tomorrow that is a break for them, to finish on an easy one.”

He waited again but General Garnett said nothing. After a minute he looked at his watch pointedly. But Garnett had gone back to the desk from which he now brought the directive folder.

“Haley, when General Dennis handed over to me this afternoon I missed some of the details. Now, it says here: ‘In the absence of explicit target designation or other order from Higher Headquarters, Division Commanders will exercise their own discretion…’”

He tossed the folder back onto the desk.

“When should this designation come down?”

“From General Kane’s eighteen hundred weather conference, sir.”

“In
practice
does he ever wait for later readings?”

“Very rarely, sir.”

“If we hear nothing this applies automatically?”

“Automatically, sir.”

Haley looked at his watch and permitted himself to shuffle one foot ever so slightly. Patience with new commanders was part of his job but the other parts were piling up in the back room.

“Haley, if General Kane should order us to give these crews a break, in view of the last three days, the target itself would still be my discretion?”

“Yes, sir. That’s in the directive.”

“What kind of target would be right for that?”

“That’s a matter for Intelligence, sir. If you’d like to speak to Major Lansing…?”

“I want a general idea from you first.”

It was improper but a lifetime in the service had shown Haley no way around the ordered improprieties of commanding generals. He led Garnett to the map.

“The Germans probably wouldn’t fight for anything in France tomorrow, sir. They’d like a rest, too.”

“And there are sound naval objectives in France, aren’t there?” Garnett encouraged him. “What about flak?”

“Brest is rough, sir. As for the others I haven’t the exact data in my head…”

“Just give me a general idea.” It was a command.

“Well, sir. Havre is about three point nine, Cherbourg about three point four, Calais about two point two, Dunkirk one point six, Dieppe one point four…?”

“These are percentages of loss?” breathed Garnett.

“Expectancy, sir, based on previous experience.”

“And we have attacked such objectives before?”

Haley shrugged. “For training new crews, sir. If you’d like to speak to Major Lansing…”

He turned from the map deliberately now to disclaim further responsibility for the proper spheres of the staff sections. It was not his business.

“I’ll see him later,” said Garnett. “What about those pictures of today’s strikes?”

It was one of the things Haley had wished to accelerate downstairs instead of wasting his time here, but he kept the indignation out of his voice.

“They’re rushing them, sir; should be up soon. I doubt if they’ll show anything but smoke after that lead group anyway. And you’re aware, sir, that both reconnaissance planes are unreported again today.”

He was aware; whichever way he turned the whole question was waiting for him.

“Yes, but they’re great pictures. It was a wonderful strike, wasn’t it?”

“Best of the war, to date, sir.”

“None of the later pictures showed parachutes?”

“None, sir.”

“And nothing further from crew interrogations?”

“One more sighting that agreed exactly with the others, sir. As the fire worked toward his gas tanks Colonel Martin’s plane swung away from the formation and then exploded. Four parachutes were seen to open but there were no individual identifications.”

It was impossible to get away from it. Garnett ordered Haley to bring the weather when it was ready and watched the door close with the most acute feeling of loneliness he had ever known. He tried an unhappy circuit of the room but from every angle the Swastika on the wall seemed to draw his eyes. The other Generals Garnett were very far away now. He threw himself into the chair and sat, frowning savagely at the directive folder.

He was staring intently without seeing a letter of the type when Dennis walked in on him. Garnett sprang up with relief only to feel it congealing inside him as he saw that Dennis had on his trench coat and was carrying his cap under his arm. He spoke in quick protest against their purport.

“Come in, Casey. Come in and sit down.”

“Isn’t my plane reported yet?”

He explained that the special plane which Kane had ordered for Dennis was not due until twenty hundred, noting from his watch as he spoke that there would be at least five minutes until he was finally alone.

“You’d better sit down, Casey. You can’t go without those pictures anyway. They’re rushing them.”

“Yeah. I’d forgotten how to be a courier.”

It was the first direct comment on his dismissal Dennis had offered and the bitterness of it burned. All afternoon they had worked together on the mechanics of handing over the command with the impersonal efficiency of their training. But it was done; the soldiers were face to face with the men inside them.

“General Kane’s right about your taking the strike photos back, Casey. They’ll help Washington understand what you’ve been through.”

Dennis said nothing. The silence, haunted for Garnett now with the questions that lay beyond it, was worse than any subject.

“It’s different back there, Casey. Those jobs are tough but it’s not like being face to face with it.”

“I never was,” said Dennis. “Ted did that for me.”

“You took the responsibility, though. Those pictures will help you explain.”

“All discredited commanders explain. Maybe I’ll write a book about it in some quiet back room.”

“There can be two points of view about this, Casey.”

“So I’ve learned.”

Garnett had a feeling that those eyes were dissecting him, cutting away layer after layer of the pretenses over the turmoil inside him. But before his dry tongue could protest Dennis semed to relax; his voice was suddenly apologetic under its gruffness.

“I’m sorry, Cliff. I’m taking Ted’s personal stuff to Helen.”

“Good. You found everything?”

“Everything but his toothbrush.”

Garnett shot an uneasy glance at him but Dennis’s eyes were on the map. Turning, Garnett found his own vision confronted again with the red crayon cross through Schweinhafen. He averted his eyes.

“You’ll go to see Helen at once?”

“Of course.” Abruptly Dennis was back in the room with him and his voice had become almost friendly.

“Nothing since the group report, I suppose?”

“One more sighting that agreed exactly with the others. Four parachutes seen. That’s something.”

“Four chances out of ten.”

The statement was flat with the finality that has dismissed hope. They both knew the odds against Martin’s position in the plane were smaller than even this tantalizing fragment of chance. Garnett could feel Dennis congealing again. He blurted quickly:—

“Will you say the proper things for me, Casey?”

“What are they?”

“Well, he was doing what he thought was right… and so were you.”

“And he gets killed and I get canned and Goering gets his jets.”

“Casey, we’re not
sure
he’s killed. How do the Germans really treat their prisoners?”