Leon Uris by O'Hara's Choice

are going to happen in this world in our times and we start right here to create a doctrine.”
    “How?” the Gunny asked pointedly.
    “Yeah, Ben, how can we make naval gunfire work? How do we get boats in through breakers on a rocky bottom?”
    “How do we carry enough water?” Gunny asked.
    “How do we get the wounded off?” Storm fired.
    “How do we shoot a bull in the ass with a banjo with our piece-of-shit rifles?”
    Ben took the commandant’s letter from his pocket and a pencil. On the back of the page he wrote the nonword AMP .
    “I give up,” Storm said.
    “Advanced Military Program. We quietly start our own school. Someday it might be an academy.”
    “AMP,” the Gunny said, “Asshole Marines in Paradise.”
    “Fool’s paradise,” the captain amended.
    “Paradise,” the Gunny said. “Isn’t that where we’re supposed to be guarding heaven’s gates?”
    “Streets,” Tobias corrected, “streets.”
    Ben had their heads going. He knew it. He blasted on: “How many chop suey officers did you graduate and get commissioned for the emperor?”
    “Maybe a hundred in the eight years.”
    “Backbone of his fucking army, isn’t it, Toby?” They listened. “We get rid of our dead wood. After an intense AMP course, we got fifteen, eighteen new officers and as many top NCOs. We teach them artillery at Meade and ship design at Annapolis and take them to Sandy Hook to learn about torpedoes and send them to me in Newport to learn naval battles. And you, Kunkle, you run them in ankle-deep sand and teach them how to piss squarely by the manual, how to saw off a man’s mangled leg in combat, and how to shoot their fucking rifles straight. For the first time in Corps history, we will train Marine officers to do Marine work.”
    “AMP?” Captain Storm said.
    “AMP,” the Gunny echoed.
    “It’s not an academy, not even a training course. It’s just a program. We’re gaining friends in the Congress and some top officers in both branches are starting to hear us. Make this first program work and we’re in. So, take your time and think it over. Gunny, I need your answer now.”
    “How long will the program last?” he asked.
    “Two intense years that would take five years anywhere else.”
    “My hitch is up in two years, Major. I’ll give you my all,” Kunkle promised.
    Ben patted the Gunny on the back and looked to Storm. “I know you’re going to have to talk this over with Matilda.”
    “Hell, we pretty much figured this out. I’m pressing seventy and we’ve got grandchildren we’d like to get to know. We’ll be in Washington?”
    “Aye.”
    “Well, the intrigue in Washington won’t be as bad as in the Nandong palace, and we’ve got enough Mandarin crap to furnish the White House. I can give it two years, but, Ben, are we really going to be able to change our status?”
    “We’ve got to bust our ass trying. We’re down to the last nickel.”
    “Have you made a roster of this first group?” the Gunny asked.
    “Somewhat, but of course I’m open to any ideas.”
    “We’re all still here courtesy of Paddy O’Hara. I’d like to see his son, Zachary, assigned to AMP,” the Gunny said.
    “He might see that as a handout,” Storm said. “Of course I never really got to know the kid between my duty in China and the Aleutians.”
    “I’ve thought about the Wart-Hog perpetuation society,” the major answered. “He’s a fine prospect, but he’s just twenty, with only two years in the Corps.”
    “Not exactly,” the Gunny interrupted. “Zachary O’Hara was born into the Corps. He’s as sharp as any enlisted man we have. Besides, Paddy saved my ass twice on the battlefield, and that gives me two votes.”
    “I know how close you and the sergeant major were, Gunny—more than brothers—but do we want to saddle the boy with more than he can handle?”
    Storm added, “He does have his old man’s shadow hovering over him.”
    Ben said, “If the first AMP is successful,