O'hara's Choice - Leon Uris [67]
“I appreciate the fact that I’m not as alert as one should be on duty, sirs, Gunny. I’m out of uniform, as one should not be on duty. You see, I’ve got a fucking hole in my fucking heart . . . sirs!”
Gunny helped Zach’s spaghettilike body into a chair as Zach, trying to sit erect, gazed glassy-eyed at the three of them.
“Do you know who I am?” Ben asked.
“Yes, sir, Major Boone, sir,” the chalky number answered.
“Try these on,” Ben said, flipping his old gold bars on the table.
“Somebody lose a lieutenant?” Zach said.
“I said, try them on. I’m taking you to the War College with me in Newport, Lieutenant O’Hara.”
Zach reached for the bars, then pulled his hand back. “I should like to request being transferred to sea duty,” he said.
“Request denied,” Boone said.
“But . . .”
“Tough shit.”
Zach cleared the fuzz and nausea and pounding from within, regaining command of himself, studying the three rocks of ages before him.
“This is the greatest honor a Marine could have, working for Major Boone, and I know what you’re uncomfortable about.”
“It is none of our business so long as you do your duty properly.”
“I can’t promise that I won’t see her again, but I swear on my honor I’ll do my best to complete my task.”
“That’s good enough for me, Lieutenant.”
Zach held the gold bars in his hand, then broke down entirely, his head finding its way onto Tobias Storm’s chest as he wept.
“I wish my da were here!” Zach cried.
Master Gunnery Sergeant Wally Kunkle pinned a gold bar on each of Zach’s collars.
“Through no authority granted in me whatsoever, I do declare you a Wart-Hog!”
Wart-Hogs will fuck gorilla poon,
And name their kids for pickles,
Wart-Hogs’ cuisine is broken glass,
‘Cause going down it tickles.
Wart-Hogs will bathe in liquid shit,
And love the grand aroma,
And drink a pint of buzzard’s puke,
Then sing of home sweet homa.
• 21 •
AFTER THE BALL
The Next Day—the Willard Hotel—Washington
As noon chimed, not a creature was stirring in the Kerrs’ suite. The Constitution Ball had lasted nearly till dawn. Back at the hotel, the Kerrs and the Constables congratulated themselves on the triumph until first light, when Glen and his father and mother retired to their suite two floors below.
Amanda disappeared into her room and Daisy collapsed with exultation. Horace Kerr remained in the parlor, behind the green leather-top desk, staring bleary-eyed into the future. The thudding news had been whispered into his ear as they departed the Mansion House. The fucking Marine had been recommended for a commission and assigned to the Naval War College in Newport.
Horace held the terror of it at bay until he was alone. Daisy and Amanda did not yet know and they would be asleep till midday. Horace realized that he had to be more profound of purpose than at any other time in his life.
Less than twelve hours ago, Amanda’s entry into the Mansion House was Westminster Abbey stuff, the arrival of the queen-apparent with her handsome consort, reeking with pride, a delicate half step behind her. Glen’s smile was of adoration. Horace didn’t realize Constable had so many teeth.
Amanda was attired with Grecian simplicity, gossamer stuff that flowed in rhythm with her fine movement. She seemed the only one among the young women who was not bare-shouldered, her thin straps setting off her only jewelry, a single strand of black pearls that rested happily in the open field near her bosom.
The grand ballroom oozed with diamond tiaras, bombastic cleavage, and enough curls to have worn out every beautician in Washington. They were all pinched and punched up in a rerouting of God’s endowments.
Horace Kerr’s victory! It had been so ethereal, he remembered. The room was stricken silent and he thought of a little girl stopping a roaring locomotive with a wave of her hand. Calling it a “feast of the gods,” Horace mused, might be carrying it a bit too far, but he knew that this Constitution Ball would be long remembered for Amanda’s entry and waves of sound suddenly gone silent.