O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [6]
“Yes, sir. Got all the stains out. Your brass is polished to snuff.”
“Jones!”
“Sir!”
“Do you know how I want this ride?”
“Yes, sir. In silence, sir.”
Ben looked with awe at the expanding alabaster grandeur of the Capitol building as they made their way through the congestion. The new monument to Washington, now open to the public, soared over it all. High, slender, reeking of majesty—its four corners were like a powerful lighthouse beam streaking out to the entire planet, announcing that this would become the center of the earth.
Ben fretted about being left out of tomorrow’s meeting until they crossed the river, then let the countryside lull him.
Lord, had it been four years since the remaining Wart-Hogs had seen one another? Him, Captain Tobias Storm, the mustache that supported a man, and “Boilerplate” Kunkle. Would they accept the new assignment? Both of them had so much service time they could just up and resign. After too many years you can get the esprit de corps knocked out of you. Were they too weary? Did they still believe? Or had they become feeble?
Ben shifted his position as a pain settled in his hip. One thing or another hurt a fair part of the time. He had been wounded in battle on numerous occasions, but his limp and stump were not a result of enemy fire. During maneuvers several years back, Ben thought he was still a rider in the Horse Marines and got low-bridged by a tree branch and his mount rolled over on him.
Though seriously maimed, Ben Boone was too valuable to discharge. He resumed his career and became one of the few remaining Marine officers with influence.
He had evolved into a brilliant maverick military theorist, so much so that his voice and papers had long reach and he was a regular consultant to the army as well as the navy and often called upon to advise the president.
After he lost the confrontation with the tree, Boone ultimately ended up as the lone Marine officer assigned to the Naval War College at its inception in 1884.
The army tried to lure Ben with colonel’s epaulets and the navy dangled a commodore’s stripe if he would transfer to their services. He chose to remain a one-armed Marine who would probably never be promoted higher than major.
Ben’s mind fell into cadence with the horse’s beat and he dozed and let the memories in.
1845—Lynchburg, Virginia
Benjamin Malachi Boone’s memories started when he was a boy in his home in Appalachia. Every year, feuding clans declared a local peace for a glorious Fourth of July in Lynchburg. This particular year, a uniformed Marine sergeant had come recruiting.
Although the Corps was a tiny outfit, it was able to attract exceptional recruits because it had the capacity to draw its strength from past valor and present patriotism.
The first source was the sons of immigrants in three or four large East Coast cities that had ports and naval facilities.
Of equal importance were the farmlands.
Dedication to the Corps was above the norm. The navy also recruited heavily from immigrants, but these were men apt to be going to the sea as a last resort, where one depended only on officers for loyalty. The navy had always drawn their crews from grungy places. A seaman in the lower ranks had a mean, often brutal life.
Marine contingents aboard ship were its police force. Punishment of a crewman could mean a lashing or being brigged on rations of bread and water or an inhuman keelhauling beneath a ship. Navy desertions were commonplace and mutinous whisperings were as much a part of most voyages as the disgusting food and cramped quarters.
The elevated status of the Marines led to a distinct dislike between them and the sailors. Although they shared much misery and the same flag, each stayed with their own.
In Lynchburg on the Fourth of 1845, the Marine recruiter had eagle’s eyes, and claws as well. Generally speaking, hillbillies made first-class troops. All of them were skilled hunters and mountain men, tough as jerky and used to hard work on slim rations.
Eighteen-year-old