Leon Uris (43 page)

He could hear the lead trumpeter of the Baltimore Symphony splay the chilled air with angelic notes followed by massed choruses.

God, he wondered, how can you be so cruel? Why should any man, much less a good man like himself, be made to bear such suffering? Was he an incarnation of . . . not to think of such things, Horace.

Daisy no longer shared his bed. Her room, however, was close at hand.

“Horace?”

He grumbled weirdly.

“It is time for you to make an appearance,” she said.

Daisy turned up a lamp and saw him on the chaise trying to scratch a light from a match. There! The cigar was up and burning.

She came closer. He looked ghastly.

“I won’t be able to come down tonight. Make excuses that I . . . am indisposed . . .”

“What is it, Horace?”

“Indisposed. Come back when the circus is over.”

“I’m getting the doctor.”

“No, no, no. Joy to the world. Just say I got ahold of some bad oysters. That will keep them laughing.”

“I’ll send someone in to watch you and I’m calling Dr. Owens.”

“No, not Owens. I feel a bit tingly in my left arm and I seem to be foaming when I speak. I’ve had one of these a few days ago. A small stroke, I’d say. Comes and goes. When the house is cleared call that Jewish doctor at Johns Hopkins, Goldberg or Goldstein . . . Goldman. It’s about time I got something back for my donations . . .”

“You shouldn’t be smoking,” she said, reaching.

“Will you do as I say! For God’s sake, woman, let me enjoy my cigar!”

•
40
•

Z
achary O’Hara sat on the side of his cot, pitched over, and fell on the blankets and pillows arrayed on the floor to catch him. He had trained himself to come awake an instant before he crashed and was able to break the fall, somewhat.

He lifted his head and tried to read the clock, but the eyes were too sore. An icy shower did him no good at all, was more like a herd of pounding buffalo.

Zach picked up the pillow and blankets, tossed them on the cot, curled up fetal-like, and spun into an annoying half consciousness.

Now then, where were we . . . ?

CONCLUSION/RECOMMENDATION #103

RIFLE CALIBRATION

The assault Marine must land, penetrate, form a perimeter, and dig in against a counterattack. He must prepare to fight
twenty-four hours or more before expecting supplies and reinforcements. With orders to secure territory until relieved, there is no provision for retreat or defeat.

Marine assault gear should top out at a hundred pounds. More weight would slow his speed, drain his stamina, and hurt his efficiency.

THEREFORE: Kit, rifle, and belts of assault team should carry a trenching tool, poncho, toilet paper, bandages, bayonet, water, and ammunition for twenty-four hours of continuous combat. (Niceties—rations, soap, blanket, toothpaste, etc.—will come in later.)

The Marine must be a superior marksman and equipped with the most accurate rifle of the lowest caliber that retains stopping power.

Such a rifle should be between .25 cal. and .30 cal.

The point is: Because of his mission, he cannot expend ammo carelessly. He should not be ordered to come ashore with a fifteen-pound rifle that uses .45-cal. ammo.

With a nine-pound rifle and smaller-cal. ammo, the Marine can come ashore with 35 percent more ammo and a gain in accuracy of at least 50 percent.

Beyond 400/500 yards a modern Krag-Jorgensen rifle will double the accuracy . . .

The Marine will . . . the Marine will . . . over . . . time . . .

That was when Zach tumbled off the edge of his bed, showered, and plunged into a whirling dream of hell on earth until a persistent knock sent him crookedly to the door.

“There is a telephone call for you in the duty office.”

Telephone call! Energy from God knows where flooded into him.

Zach patted himself down. He was in skivvy drawers. He found his bathrobe and the key to his room, stepped into the hall, and locked the door.

“Stand guard on my door until I return. Sensitive information.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Into the duty office he blundered. The chief on duty rang the switchboard.

“Naval War College.”

“BOQ, my party is ready.”

“It will take me a minute to reconnect.”

The chief gave up his seat and the phone and retreated from the room.

“Lieutenant O’Hara.”

“This is Willow. I’m in Baltimore. I just got back from a Christmas visit.”

“She all right?”

“She’s fine. How you doing, Zachary?”

“Oh, I’m rolling along real well. Finishing up on time, so I ought to be coming down after the first.”

“You sound miserable,” Willow said.

Zach balked.

“No, I’m . . . I’m . . . Christ, Willow, give me something to hang on to!”

“Amanda has always been aloof from the idea of loving a man. The way she loves you is beautiful, and very frightening. When you come to Nebo it could be the only time you ever have together. You know that.”

“I know.”

“Neither of you is ever going to get over it.”

“I know . . .”

“Don’t end up dying there together.”

“It’s crossed my mind.”

“Hers as well. I don’t want any Romeo and Juliet bullshit,” Willow cried.

“Thanks, Willow. Happy New Year now. Bye.”

“Bye, Zach.”

“Waiting, are you waiting?” the switchboard asked.

The duty chief reentered.

“Let me give you a hand back to your quarters, sir.”

“Appreciate that, Chief, but first can we get a call through to the barracks in Washington?”

“Should have no trouble getting a line this time of night.”

“Get me Major Boone.”

“Marine barracks.”

“Major Ben Boone, please.”

“The major left yesterday, sir.”

. . . hello . . . hello . . . are you waiting . . . ? are you all right, Lieutenant . . . ? no, we turn right here . . . there’s your room . . .

Zach fished the key out of his robe . . . the chief and the petty officer helped him in.

“I’m fine, I’m all right. Thank you.”

. . . Jesus H., Ben’s been haunting the halls of the War Department in endless meetings, their communiqués and calls had to be read between the lines . . . Ben said he had never mentioned or heard the word
Japan.
Did they get it?

Zach balanced on the edge of his cot and pulled the writing table up to him.

“Where were we . . . conclusion one hundred and three . . . rifle calibration . . .”

He no longer had the strength to grip the pen or keep his eyelids open. Harpies inside him shrieked for sleep.

“Where were we? Think maybe a little five-minute pick-me-up nap.”

He came out of it fighting to awaken and heard the count of ship’s bells. Eleven in the morning! The night had fled. Zach bolted upright. The room was an ugly gray. Outside the window, the weather muffled up, nasty.

Ben! He’s left Washington and never contacted me!

All right, man, he commanded himself, get your shit together in rapid order.

Fortified by six hours’ sleep, he cleaned himself up and made his room shipshape and had a tray brought in from the officers’ mess. By noon he returned to “Random Study Sixteen.” Two hundred pages coming to an end. Too late? Never mind, keep working on it.

He poured in bitter coffee, shook his aching hand, and pushed on to the final recommendation.

CONCLUSION/RECOMMENDATION #105

ALTHOUGH
great similarities make the Anglo-American alliance possible, we have enormous differences regarding Britain’s imperial role and America’s future role in the coming century.

The British empire came into being through naval power with a minimal number of home troops and modern arms to conquer an overmatched adversary. Once in power, the British mastered the principle of “divide and rule” by putting native troops into British uniform.

Their imperial expansion was based on ancient principles of invasion, rule, and exploitation.

The British soldier in the colonies is apt to act superior, imperious, and fortified with the righteousness of his God.

The American “empire” was gained through internal expansion, the use of slave labor, and dismissal of the Indian.

America’s future role as a world power is not for the conquest of territory but for commerce with sufficient naval power to keep her shipping lanes open and her advance bases protected.

We will certainly choose the wrong side at times and be called into combat or have to impose stern measures, but the ROLE of the Americans and the American psyche will enable us to befriend native populations. Guided by propositions of equality and basic decency, our garrisons could become welcomed.

The United States Marine Corps has established itself as the American gold standard. The Corps is a state of collective willpower. When we depart a post, we will leave the footprint of democracy.

“Random Study Sixteen” was writ. Two years, even more, had been compressed into seven months, but to what avail? Unprinted, shelved, never to see the light of day?

To beat the fists against the walls in frustration? Amanda. Your man is so down. I’ll be long gone when that terrible war against the Japanese must be waged. What can be more bitter now than to prophesy unheard?

Fuck them all. Give me a command aboard a battlewagon squiring drunken sailors to the brig . . .

. . . so . . . the Marines will parade until there are three or four of us left and then the barracks will be turned over to the secretary of agriculture and the ground ripped up and planted with an experimental crop of turnips.

Major Ben, get back up here and let’s cry in our beer, together. Come on, Ben, let’s get the fucking deal over with.

Zachary trudged over to the office, three flights up, and dialed open the safe. He took “Random Sixteen” out, added the final sheets, and tied them all together in wide red ribbon, then locked the safe.

It was only two-thirty in the afternoon. Where was Ben? No need to hurry, Ben, nothing to celebrate.

Come on, O’Hara, stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’re bleeding all over the place. Cheer up, you’re going to see Amanda soon.

Let’s see. A little horseback ride in the nippy air would bring me around. He left a note for Major Ben as well as a message at the desk and returned to his quarters for some heavier clothing.

Zach got along well with Bountiful, a fine old ceremonial beast. As they trotted out of the stable, a first little snow was piddling down. Zach was saluted through the guard post and rode onto the path that circled the island.

Bountiful was very happy for the stretch. Horse and rider made down a short bluff to the big eucalyptus tree where he and the major usually rested on their morning drill.

Zach dismounted and pressed his forehead against the horse’s neck and explained to the animal why he was so screwed up and watched their breaths crisscross. He dug into his jacket—

“Ahoy!” a voice sounded.

Christ, now I’m hearing things, Zach thought.

“Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!”

“Yo! Over here, Major!”

Ben’s horse skidded down the bluff, half blinded by the snow.
He came alongside and leaped from his saddle onto Zach, taking them both to the ground.

“We got them!” Ben shouted, taking off his campaign hat and slapping it on Zach, back and forth. “We got them! We got them!”

On their feet, they stomped out a Cherokee war dance, howling like wolves. Zach leaped up, grabbed a branch of the tree, and did a backflip off it.

“We got them!”

They hollered and beat on each other until they fell into each other.

Ben related his titanic struggle in meeting after meeting. One by one, he convinced the navy into his camp, even Chester Harkleroad.

“It was tough-titty treading all the way. They couldn’t envision the landing boat, they couldn’t envision turning over command at the water’s edge. They were shitty. As the days wore on, they began to realize what we were driving at. Never used the word
Japan
once, but the line of logic was so pure no one didn’t get what we were driving at.”