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Authors: O'Hara's Choice
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another put-down at the hands of Secretary Culpeper and Commodore Harkleroad, quickly granted the request.
My Dear Major Boone,
By all means continue your leave. Master Gunnery Sergeant Kunkle is likewise authorized to remain.
You have argued your case splendidly for the formation of an Advanced Military Program. Our recent setback regarding sea duty aboard the new Vermont-class cruisers now makes adaptation of AMP our highest priority.
It seems fitting that this mission fall to the last remaining Wart-Hogs. One could surmise that Master Sergeant O’Hara saved your three asses over a quarter of a century ago for just this purpose.
I pray for your success.
Thomas Ballard
Lieutenant Colonel Commandant, USMC
• 9 •
IN THE GARDEN
1888—Baltimore—the Following Saturday
The grand, elegant mansion of Inverness crowned Butcher’s Hill. Grand, elegant carriages swept into the grand circle like ornate figures on a music-box carousel and deposited the finest gowns in Maryland at the door.
On this, her first post-debutante event, Amanda stood serenely in a stunning foyer leading directly into the great hall.
Horace Kerr puffed out like a proud blowfish, all toothy in a fixed smile. His wife, Daisy Kerr, carried her middle years grandly.
Amanda was taller and slimmer than the other young ladies, who tended to be plumpish and moonfaced from too much Maryland cooking and a lack of physical activity.
Most debutantes, and those mothers still able to do so, revealed the allowable amount of cleavage and a bosom held in place stiffly by the whalebone in their undergarments.
Not so Amanda Blanton Kerr, whose gown draped like Greciangauze. Her breasts, fully but thinly covered, moved delicately with her handshakes and embraces.
God, Horace Kerr thought, she is a knockout!
Good Lord, Daisy thought, what brinkmanship!
The great hall was a wild and bright galaxy of tinkling crystal in the chandeliers above and tinkling crystal at the champagne bar. Amanda nodded to the orchestra leader to start and seemed annoyed for an instant as a thousand yards of brocaded flounce floated up and down to the beat of a waltz.
Private Zachary O’Hara might well have been a Habsburg prince as he approached the reception line with plumed spiked white helmet tucked under his left arm.
“Ah, so we meet again, Private . . . ,” Horace said.
“O’Hara, sir.”
Then Horace caught his wife’s rather dazed expression. Holy Christ, what is this?
“My mother, Daisy Blanton Kerr,” Amanda said.
“Mrs. Kerr, thank you for having me.”
“For a moment I didn’t think you would get here,” Amanda said.
“I, uh, waited till everyone else went in.”
“How thoughtful,” Daisy said.
As Amanda linked arms with Zachary and they entered the great hall, all eyes were on them.
“What a handsome young man,” Daisy said.
Horace Kerr growled.
“Miss Amanda,” Zachary said, “could I check my sword? I don’t think I could manage a polka wearing it.”
A polka they did, a wild polka, and the circle grew around them and broke into cheers. It was the most giddy moment of her life, with a partner so perfect, so graceful, so manly. They caught their breath to applause as Amanda took a place near a sagging buffet filled with foods Zachary had never before seen. A line of couples drifted to them for an introduction.
Several plump young maidens allowed as how they had openings on their dance cards, to the discomfort of their escorts.
Thank God he’s not a captain, Horace thought as he chomped and chomped from a bottomless bowl of caviar.
After the first blast of Inverness, Private O’Hara gained quick control of himself. He was polite and at ease and so softly charming to the she-wolf pack.
Amanda, who had supposed he would be all thumbs, was having the tables turned on her in her own territory.
Amanda sorted out a few dances with Zach for her closest friends while their escorts sniffed. She more than made up for their discomfort by
My Dear Major Boone,
By all means continue your leave. Master Gunnery Sergeant Kunkle is likewise authorized to remain.
You have argued your case splendidly for the formation of an Advanced Military Program. Our recent setback regarding sea duty aboard the new Vermont-class cruisers now makes adaptation of AMP our highest priority.
It seems fitting that this mission fall to the last remaining Wart-Hogs. One could surmise that Master Sergeant O’Hara saved your three asses over a quarter of a century ago for just this purpose.
I pray for your success.
Thomas Ballard
Lieutenant Colonel Commandant, USMC
• 9 •
IN THE GARDEN
1888—Baltimore—the Following Saturday
The grand, elegant mansion of Inverness crowned Butcher’s Hill. Grand, elegant carriages swept into the grand circle like ornate figures on a music-box carousel and deposited the finest gowns in Maryland at the door.
On this, her first post-debutante event, Amanda stood serenely in a stunning foyer leading directly into the great hall.
Horace Kerr puffed out like a proud blowfish, all toothy in a fixed smile. His wife, Daisy Kerr, carried her middle years grandly.
Amanda was taller and slimmer than the other young ladies, who tended to be plumpish and moonfaced from too much Maryland cooking and a lack of physical activity.
Most debutantes, and those mothers still able to do so, revealed the allowable amount of cleavage and a bosom held in place stiffly by the whalebone in their undergarments.
Not so Amanda Blanton Kerr, whose gown draped like Greciangauze. Her breasts, fully but thinly covered, moved delicately with her handshakes and embraces.
God, Horace Kerr thought, she is a knockout!
Good Lord, Daisy thought, what brinkmanship!
The great hall was a wild and bright galaxy of tinkling crystal in the chandeliers above and tinkling crystal at the champagne bar. Amanda nodded to the orchestra leader to start and seemed annoyed for an instant as a thousand yards of brocaded flounce floated up and down to the beat of a waltz.
Private Zachary O’Hara might well have been a Habsburg prince as he approached the reception line with plumed spiked white helmet tucked under his left arm.
“Ah, so we meet again, Private . . . ,” Horace said.
“O’Hara, sir.”
Then Horace caught his wife’s rather dazed expression. Holy Christ, what is this?
“My mother, Daisy Blanton Kerr,” Amanda said.
“Mrs. Kerr, thank you for having me.”
“For a moment I didn’t think you would get here,” Amanda said.
“I, uh, waited till everyone else went in.”
“How thoughtful,” Daisy said.
As Amanda linked arms with Zachary and they entered the great hall, all eyes were on them.
“What a handsome young man,” Daisy said.
Horace Kerr growled.
“Miss Amanda,” Zachary said, “could I check my sword? I don’t think I could manage a polka wearing it.”
A polka they did, a wild polka, and the circle grew around them and broke into cheers. It was the most giddy moment of her life, with a partner so perfect, so graceful, so manly. They caught their breath to applause as Amanda took a place near a sagging buffet filled with foods Zachary had never before seen. A line of couples drifted to them for an introduction.
Several plump young maidens allowed as how they had openings on their dance cards, to the discomfort of their escorts.
Thank God he’s not a captain, Horace thought as he chomped and chomped from a bottomless bowl of caviar.
After the first blast of Inverness, Private O’Hara gained quick control of himself. He was polite and at ease and so softly charming to the she-wolf pack.
Amanda, who had supposed he would be all thumbs, was having the tables turned on her in her own territory.
Amanda sorted out a few dances with Zach for her closest friends while their escorts sniffed. She more than made up for their discomfort by
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