Chapter 11
It was early. But not for the army.
Mist clogged the air, heavy as a veil. Not rain exactly. Not full-throated oxygen either. Hope I'm half-amphibian. Darwin said we came from the sea: that was good enough for Major Burke. Military intelligence was facts and information and sources, with careful applications of imagination. Darwin was just about perfect. What a team that would be: Darwin and Burke. A corner of his mouth twitched up for an instant.
On one side of the courtyard was a small British honor guard in vivid colors. They stood still as they could.
The exact same number of American Army soldiers stood at attention on the other side of the courtyard: in mirror-chrome helmets; white braided trim; gaiters; tall polished paratroop boots, tightly tied; beaded with dew.
A little taller, too, Burke thought maybe. Were Americans eating better during the Great Depression?
He was proud of what he saw, both sides. The Yanks didn't report to him. But they looked the part. The rain going down their necks; yet they took it like sunshine.
And fuckin' green as snap peas, he knew. So, gentlemen, please make this handover ceremony fast. Because we need all the time we can get! Because without more training these proud-standing idiots and morons and high school dropouts will die in seconds as soon as they confront anything more challenging than a salute. Burke knew the reports. Real combat wasn't kind or forgiving. They were lucky all they had to deal with was Northern Ireland.
A few civil officials under umbrellas huddled across the courtyard in