Leon Uris (23 page)

“Terrible problem,” Tobias said. “He had the same terrible problem in Washington and he was only a PFC. Main thing is, can he do the job for you?”

“Tobias, every tinhorn robber baron in America keeps a thirty-room summer shack in Newport. The lawns are festooned with peppermint-striped party tents for their pre-debutante, debutante, and post-debutante girl-childs, all scratching, hounding down some innocent lad for a summer romance.”

“While,” Tobias interrupted, “de black folk in de peppermint tents all have their hands chopped up shucking oysters for de white folk!”

“I don’t want him to waste his life crewing Vanderbilt’s yacht or getting plucked off at some string quartet at the Breakers,” Ben shot back.

“You are really talking about Horace Kerr’s daughter.”

That called for a refill.

“That Kerr compound is crawling with Kerrs who envision themselves as the future of the America’s Cup. Amanda will be around all summer, and then some. Is there a chance we can lose him by bringing him to Newport? Maybe we should send him to sea duty?”

“How the hell should I know!” Storm defended.

“To hell you don’t know, Tobias. You wring out the crying towel for all your boys.”

“How well do you know Amanda Kerr?” Tobias asked.

“Between Washington and Newport, fairly well. She is stunning and she is as smart as they come.”

“And at this moment she is entering the Potomac Mansion House on the arm of Glen Constable, so put down your seabag and stand at ease. Zachary O’Hara and Amanda Kerr cannot have each other. Her old man is about as friendly to the Marine Corps as Attila the Hun. In addition, O’Hara is a Catholic and we are not exactly living in an age of enlightenment.”

“Tobias, she is formidable. She gets everything she has her mind set on.”

“Horace Kerr is even more formidable. Glen Constable represents a deliberate and serious announcement.”

“She’s still a girl,” Ben said.

“Ben, you and I cannot outwit those silky thugs. She may be
innocent down there”—Tobias pointed to Ben’s legs—“but she also knows what Kerr and Constable mean together. Missy Kerr knows what a monopoly is.”

“I wish I knew you to be right,” Ben said.

“My educated guess,” Tobias went on, “is that Glen Constable is a thoroughly smitten slob over Amanda and hungry for the merger with Horace, even if it means Constable ends up as a minority stockholder.”

“Bunch of maggots,” Ben said. “Maybe we’d better send O’Hara to sea duty instead of torturing him. We’ve seen too many tortured boys . . . men . . .”

“You need him?” Tobias asked.

“Very much,” Ben said.

“Otherwise your life’s work may never see daylight?”

“Possible.”

“Then take him to Newport, for chrissake.”

They stared at each other until fireworks erupted outside with close-together
pop-pop-pops,
then whistling explosions. The Constitution Ball was under way.

“You’re going to have to trust O’Hara, Ben.”

“Can I?”

“He’s a Marine, you’ll
have
to trust him. That’s all we’ve got, Ben. That’s all we’ve ever had, trusting each other.”

The decision now made, time to mellow out, like Wart-Hogs. They sipped and reminisced and shored up each other’s courage. Ben pressed the buzzer for his orderly and Private Lamar Jones knocked, tucking in the last of his shirttail.

“Enter!”

“Sir!”

“Is Gunny Kunkle in the barracks?”

Jones hesitated just long enough and peeped an “Er, yes, sir.”

“Get him up here on the double.”

“Yes, sir.”

The old salt arrived three minutes and nineteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-one seconds later.

“Sirs.”

“At ease, it’s Wart-Hog time. You look like a mile of dirt road.”

“I’ve been attending a sick friend.”

Ben poured him a drink, and themselves as well. “To us Wart-Hogs. Gunny, we got news. We’re only getting three commissions out of AMP, for the present.”

“Shit.” Kunkle groaned low.

“Kirkendahl and Maynard, how’s that hit you?”

“Good, Major. Third man?”

“I’m taking somebody up to the War College with me.”

Kunkle looked over to Captain Storm and back to Ben Boone and back to Captain Storm.

“You mean . . .”

“Yeah,” Tobias and Ben said together.

“Is he on that royal guard detail at the Mansion House?”

“No, sir. He got it exchanged for mess duty.”

“Get his ass up here!” Storm bellowed as the full measure of the distilled stuff in him hit the gong.

“Sirs . . . fellow Wart-Hogs, sirs . . . he is fucked-up beyond comprehension. We placed him under the cold shower with a puke bucket,” the Gunny said.

By the time the Gunny got O’Hara put together, the two officers were singing a jolly chorus of “Dixie.” Boone observed Zach. “I’ve seen better-looking specimens in a slaughterhouse, after they’ve been decapitated.”

“Think we ought to execute him,” Storm said, “or maybe we ought to send him to discover the South Pole.”

“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
•

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.

She came in gay and friendly as a balcony of Marine trumpeters heralded. She had hugs and smiles for everyone, particularly those ladies who had come from far away, but somehow she seemed untouchable.

By the time they reached the Kerr table, the statement was indelible. The President’s Own Band played a soft background. Horace did see his daughter flinch a few times when Marine guards passed by, ushering folks to their tables.

The glory of the moment would last to his grave, and no doubt beyond. But that was last night and today is today.

The moment he received the disastrous news, that old raven began to circle overhead. Why did his thoughts have to screech back to Upton now? The raven flew in although the window was closed, and it sat mocking on the mantel, staring at him.

* * *

The raven had first come that terrible moment two decades earlier, the day he realized his son was different. It was a situation Horace could not understand. When faced with such riddles, beyond human comprehension, he turned to the deep Presbyterian beginnings that his own father, Angus, had pounded into him. This personal connection to God was the only damned thing his family ever gave him. He damn well needed a visit with the Lord before Amanda woke up. He beseeched the Lord to bear in mind that he did not abuse this privilege of personal consultation but only used it in dire emergencies.

Horace Kerr had satisfied himself early in life that he was destined to be a great man and great men are challenged to show their strength by facing down disasters of biblical proportions. Horace told the bloody raven to stop staring. God had already tested him with Emily, and God knows that he had done his best. Then Upton!

It was in the days long ago when little boys were dressed in lace-trimmed velvet and wore curls until they were weaned from their mothers, nannies, and other females and required to step up into the man’s world. Fact is, Upton looked too natural in velvet, different from other lads. Playing and sleeping with dolls was supposedly normal, up to a certain point.

Horace watched Upton’s behavior grow more in that direction, day by day, year by year, until he had to say to himself, “God has given me a queer son!”

Did he rage? No! Horace made it his mission to try to put muscle on Upton, from self-defense lessons, to seamanship in a storm, to the finest military academy for boys, to pitching hot rivets in the shipyard. Rough-and-tumble, that’s the way!

From Upton’s sixteenth birthday onward, Horace subtly made highly desirable ladies available to his son and virtually placed a line of upper-rung doxies between Upton’s sheets. The results were indifferent.

The father would watch in despair as Emily tripped over the piano keys, accompanying Upton playing the violin, with his long
hair passionately tossing and long delicate fingers fluttering over the strings and his long thin body swaying with the music.