Leon Uris by O'Hara's Choice Page B

Sadly, his visits to New York were damned near unbearable; what he saw in his son was the reason for his wife’s death.
    The Corps tottered on letting him go but always found an excuse not to, until Brigid almost died in a flu epidemic.
    The commandant called him in.
    “Your sister can no longer care for Zachary. Her employers are willing to give her quarters at their home, but not with a child. We cannot have you on an extended beer bust boosting morale if your son is in an orphanage. Either you establish a home for Zachary or I will regretfully have to terminate your service.”
    It was language clearly understood. Paddy had enough seniority, extra pay for being an expert rifleman and for winning the Congressional Medal, and for travel per diem, that he was able to establish a cottage not far from the barracks, where there were always wives of NCOs about for nanny work.
    What was good about the arrangement was that Zachary, who had made use of his first five years in Hell’s Kitchen with his aunt, picked up the pattern of the Corps and wove himself into his father’s life flawlessly.
    There was generally room for Zachary to tag along on his father’s rounds, and he never got into trouble, and learned to make do on his own. These became a place where father and son came together on occasion. Paddy, ever a reader, always had a book or two in his kit and Zach learned them all . . . and then some.
    Zach was a little Marine from the beginning, a small drummer boy at first, complete with uniform, who knew the drill, accepted the rigid order of life, smelled out his da’s moods.
    He also knew the joys of barrack life, the hard language, the knit of the only family he ever had.
    At times, when appropriate, Zach was able to join the hikes, insand and mud, fire live ammunition, sleep in a pup tent, and was super-cut in matters of spit, polish, and Corps preciseness.
    And God Almighty, when he did some honorary drumming and bugling for a pass in review or colors, it was pure nirvana.
    They buddied in a sort of way. Zach was no stranger to the slop chute, though his drinks were soda, or a dance off base, and the boy played good baseball and rode decently.
    Although they were in close physical proximity at times, their hearts never really seemed to get together. They were like a pair of planets on flashy elliptical orbits that came within touching at times—but then always streaked off in opposite directions.
    There were those sudden moments, time and again, when Paddy would be stunned by a flash of Maureen’s face in the boy.
    Zach was burned from it and led to plunge into a lonely place where he wondered if his da hated him. The pair of them would go into long silent periods that only an Irish father and son could endure. Apart . . . together . . . apart together, never quite touching.
    Came that revered day for Paddy O’Hara’s mustering-out parade. There were seven senators, double that number of congressmen, the commanders of the army and navy, and the vice-president of the United States in attendance.
    Paddy was financed to open a fine Irish pub in Hell’s Kitchen and became a ward heeler for Tammany Hall. He still cut a fine figure behind the long bar as well as in the back bar, where a glass case held his Medal of Honor, his sword, and other sacred memorabilia.
    Paddy’s loneliness for the Corps was partly filled by Irish adoration. His saloon was a notable meeting place for the growing Irish political and municipal establishment. It was Zach, as much as Paddy, who hungered for the tidy life and staunch friendships of the Corps, and the boy counted each birthday as one year closer to enlistment.
    Zach developed a life of being very useful in the bar, seeing that his da was well fed, got some decent sleep, and dressed like adandy. They had a right decent flat above the saloon, but often was the night Paddy entertained a lady and needed the space.
    Zach carved out a place for himself in the storeroom adjoining the