O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [116]
Came the knock.
Zach tumbled off his bed, covered his papers, and unlocked the door. As Ben entered, Zach took his jacket off the good chair and offered it. Considering the hour, Zach understood that a storm flag had been hoisted.
“On the conclusions and recommendations number ninety-two you turned in yesterday,” Ben said angrily.
“Number nine-two, yes, sir.”
“You cannot tell the navy they must issue the Marines Krag-Jorgensen rifles. You know, fucking A, that the navy and the army develop their own weaponry through separate ordnance programs, at great cost to the taxpayer.”
“A Krag-Jorgensen fired accurately from five to six hundred yards is the only viable weapon to stop a machine-gun squad,” Zach argued.
Ben, one of the legendary riflemen in the Corps’ history, knew damned well that Zachary O’Hara was right.
“Sir, Gunny Kunkle ‘borrowed’ Krag-Jorgensens from the army when we were at AMP. Every man in our class qualified as a sharpshooter or expert.”
Although the lieutenant was under discipline, he was not being cowed.
“We are all fighting for the same country, sir.”
“Enough!”
After a scaly silence, Zach asked for permission to speak.
“It’s two-thirty in the morning, Major. You didn’t storm in here to talk about rifles.”
A pained smile emerged from Ben. “You got something to drink here?”
“No, sir. Part of my punishment is to refrain from alcohol. I can fix some tea.”
“Fix it.”
Ben scribbled a note and buzzed the mess hall. In a moment a red-eyed pot-walloper appeared.
“Go to the officers’ honor bar, fetch me a bottle of rum, and leave this IOU note.”
Zach made a pot of tea. Ben contemplated until the rum arrived, then enhanced his mug and offered some to Zach.
“Punishment’s over,” Ben said, pouring. “You know why I beached you, Zach.”
“Yes, sir. To save my ass from my temper.”
“Suppose you disconnected on a battlefield like you did at the casino. Ever think of that?”
“Every day,” Zach said.
“Well, the beef was over a woman. Usually is. What attempt have you made to contact her in the past three months?”
“None, sir.”
“Telephone, letter, messenger? Have you jumped ship to see her?”
“No, sir.”
“You’ll get no praise for a job you should have done in the first place without creating this nightmare.”
“I don’t want praise, sir.”
“Zach, ‘Random Sixteen’ is one of the most uncluttered, logical briefs I’ve ever laid eyes on. It has been repudiated.”
“I haven’t finished it!”
“The central theme of future small campaigns and incursions is being rejected by the navy. They are not assigning the Amnesty Islands to us. By cutting off our training ground to work out our theories, they are intending to stand us down. We’re getting the shaft.”
“Are they crazy?”
“Crazy or not, they’re the guys with the fuzzy balls. Admiral Langenfeld rules by committee. Commodore Chester Harkleroad is the monster at the gate. The Corps is not even on the committee.”
Ben needed rum. Ben drank.
The two men had worked so closely, they could pick up on each other’s intentions. Ben was brewing something wild and Zach read it perfectly.
“Ben, one of the first things you ever got across to me was that military planners in a democracy in times of peace will steer clear of a distant threat or be accused of warmongering. America is napping in bliss. It doesn’t want to be awakened. What we were talking about that night is not going to be apparent for at least another generation.”
“But it is going to happen,” Ben retorted.
“America has time on its side,” Zach answered, “but eventually the threat will become clear.”
“Can’t wait that long. If they deny us the Amnesties as a training ground, it may be the bell tolling for our demise. The Corps has to present a logical purpose, or good-bye, Mama.”
“It will show we’re too desperate,” Zach said.
“I remember clearly when we had the conversation. We were sitting on my porch