"The country's needs come first, sir," MacArthur answered, and sounded as if he meant it. Maybe he even believed it. But he was still very young. Dowling saw how he tensed, almost as if he'd seen a beautiful woman walk by. Yes, he lusted after a breakthrough, all right.
"We've been pounding the Rebs for weeks now," Custer said. "They haven't given us anything at all, and we haven't been able to take much. They know as well as we do that the White House line is the last thing keeping our guns from letting Nashville know the full taste of war."
"Yes, sir," MacArthur said, and pulled a map from the breast pocket of his uniform. Unlike Custer, who was old-fashioned enough to relish the epaulets and other fancy accoutrements accruing to his rank, MacArthur wore an ordinary officer's uniform set apart only by the single silver stars of his rank: ostentatious plainness, as opposed to ostentatious display. He unfolded the map. "I believe I know how to get past them, too."
Custer put on his reading glasses, a concession of sorts. "Let's see what you have in mind, General."
"Misdirection." Daniel MacArthur spoke the word solemnly, as if it were the capstone of a magic spell. Dowling figured he'd cooked his own goose then and there; Custer had about as much use for misdirection as an anteater did for snowshoes. The dashing division commander (and how many major generals gnashed their teeth at that, when they led only brigades?) said, "As you know, my men are stationed on our far left, in front of Cottontown."
"Yes, yes," Custer said impatiently, though Dowling wouldn't have bet more than half a dollar that he'd been sure where in the line MacArthur's formation did belong.
"We have found to our cost how strong the Confederate defenses due south and southwest of our position are," MacArthur said. Custer nodded, those peroxided curls flapping at the back of his neck. MacArthur continued, "Aerial reconnaissance suggests, though, that the Rebels' line is weaker toward the southeast. If we strike in that direction, toward Gallatin, we can set our men to taking lines less formidably manned, thereby giving them the opportunity to swing back toward Nashville, cutting in behind the entrenchments that have delayed them so long."
Custer sucked at something between two of his false teeth. Abner Dowling scratched his chin. "Sir," he said, "it's not a bad scheme." He suspected he sounded surprised. He didn't much care for MacArthur, having seen in Custer what the passage of years was likely to do to such a man.
Custer studied the map a while longer. MacArthur had used bright blue ink to show exactly what he wanted to do. "No," Custer said at last, "it's not." He sounded imperfectly enamored of it, but seemed to recognize it was a better plan than any he'd come up with. Since most of his plans amounted to nothing more than finding the enemy and attacking him (not necessarily in that order), that did not say as much as it might have otherwise.
Unlike the general commanding First Army, MacArthur did his homework ahead of time. The map was not the only sheet of paper lurking in his breast pocket. Handing Custer a typewritten list, he said, "Here are the additional artillery requirements for the assault, sir, and other ancillaries as well."
"See what you think of this, Major," Custer said, and passed the sheet to Dowling. Precise control of details had never been his strong suit.
MacArthur puffed and puffed, blowing smoke into Dowling's face as if it were phosgene gas. Dowling read rapidly through the list before turning to Custer. "Sir, he wants all the heavy artillery concentrated on his division's front, and he also wants almost all of our barrels for the assault."
"Moving the heavy artillery will take time," Custer said, "especially with the roads as muddy as they have been lately. I'm sure we can move some of it, but asking for all asks for too much."
"Even half the First Army reserve would probably be adequate," MacArthur said. He was smarter than Custer had ever been, Dowling thought: he knew enough to ask for more than he really wanted, to help assure his getting at least that much. He couldn't quite keep the eagerness from his voice as he asked, "And the barrels-?"
"Ah, the barrels." Custer assumed a mournful expression. "I have to remind you, General, that I am under strict orders from the War Department not to concentrate the barrels in the manner you suggest. Approved doctrine requires keeping them widely spread along the entire length of the front."
"But, sir-" Dowling closed his mouth a split second before it got him in trouble. Custer had argued ferociously for concentrating barrels in a mass. Why was he rejecting the idea when one of his subordinates had it?
After a moment, the major understood: Custer was rejecting the idea because one of his subordinates had had it. If a division-sized attack spearheaded by a swarm of barrels succeed, who would get the credit? Not Custer-Daniel MacArthur.
MacArthur said, "Once you let me proceed, sir, I can show those fools in Philadelphia the proper way to do things."
Abner Dowling sighed. He was but a major; neither of the exalted personages under the awning even noticed. MacArthur couldn't have said that worse if he'd tried for a week. Custer, as Dowling knew full well, despised those fools back in Philadelphia as much as any man alive. But when MacArthur said I can show, that meant Custer couldn't show. Custer wanted victories, yes. Custer wanted Teddy Roosevelt reelected, yes. But, most of all, Custer wanted glory for George Armstrong Custer.
Almost sorrowfully, he said, "I wish I could help you more, General, but my own orders in this regard are severely inflexible. I may be able to furnish you with, oh, half a dozen extra barrels without having some pipsqueak inspector-general calling me on the carpet, but no more than that, I fear."
"But, sir, nothing ventured, nothing gained," MacArthur protested.
"I am venturing what I can, General, I assure you," Custer said icily. "Yours is not the only division in the line. Will you prepare a revised attack plan conforming to the available resources, or will you stand on the defensive?"
"You'll have it before the day is out, sir." MacArthur's voice held no expression whatever. Like a mechanical man, he saluted, spun, and stalked off.
Very softly, Custer laughed at his retreating back. Dowling stared at the general commanding First Army. Custer, here, knew just what he was doing-and he enjoyed it, too. You bastard, Dowling thought. You sneaky old bastard. Was that admiration or loathing? For the life of him, he couldn't tell.
Roger Kimball peered avidly through the periscope. The fish was running straight and true. Suddenly, the U.S. destroyer realized it was under attack. Suddenly, it tried to turn away from the creamy wake the torpedo left. Suddenly, the torpedo struck just aft of amidships. Suddenly, a great pillar of smoke and flame rose into the air. The destroyer, broken in half, sank like a stone-like two stones.
Cheers filled the narrow steel tube that was the working area of the Bonefish, drowning out the echoes of the explosion that the water carried to the submersible. "Hit!" Kimball's own bloodthirsty howl was but one among many.
He brought his eyes back to the periscope. Only a couple of boats bobbed in the Atlantic; the damnyankees hadn't had time to launch any more. If he'd been a German submarine commander, he would have surfaced and turned the deck gun on them. The Huns played by hard rules. There were times when Kimball, feeling the full weight of the USA pressing down on him and his country, wanted to play that way, too.