Prince of Peace by James Carroll Page B

the back of the church I would know their bright faces. The fathers would be red from the flush of weather, age and drink, and the sons would be red from embarrassment, unnecessarily since no one whose opinion they valued would see them in their obeisance.
    Except me, of course.
    I was famous among my old friends for having lapsed. In my rare summer forays into Inwood taverns I had, in the drunken company of mates who now worked as apprentices to their fathers in the Irish trades and on the waterfront, sworn with Jefferson upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man. "Including if needs be," I loudly added, "the tyranny of God Himself."
    Now what would they make of me, timidly hanging back in my dark corner among the purple draperies of the confessional booths? "Monsignor Riordan." The very name frightened me and I moved away from his confessional again, as if an arm was going to reach out from behind the curtain and grab me. It was the pastor's whisper I'd imagined, not God's; "Oh, really, Mr. Durkin? Eternal hostility?"
    A stirring in the sanctuary rescued me.
    I focused on the sacristy door. The bell tingled and the pair of acolytes entered. The congregation coughed once and rose. The silent procession of the Holy Name Society began and I held my breath, straining every faculty of perception, not for the monsignor or my father's cronies or my old school chums but one. It was he I wanted, he I was afraid to see.
    Two hours later, after the Mass during which I'd wanted only to chat with my solemn neighbors, and the breakfast banquet during which I'd ignored their openings, I was nearly out of patience because I'd yet to make contact of any kind with him. In the shrilly lit cavernous parish hall below the church he was being introduced by Monsignor Riordan. We had eaten our scrambled eggs and toast and now were smoking and sipping coffee, carefully not clinking the cup and saucer. The pastor's legendary ability to unsettle his parishioners was related in part to the rude disproportion of size between his head, which was huge and topped off by a bush of gray hair, and his body, which was slope-shouldered, waistless and too small. Physically he was graceless and disjointed, but he was a cultivated man and an accomplished orator of the Bishop Sheen school. When he spoke, even in conversation, he commanded absolute attention. "And Father O'Shea told me that even at the last moment, Sergeant Maguire could still have saved himself. That helicopter was right above his head. All he had to do was reach up and seize it. They were calling for him to do that. But did he? We know he didn't and we know what he suffered as a result. But why? Why didn't he latch on to that helicopter and hold on to it for dear life, and let it bring him safely home? Well, I'll tell you why. Because he wouldn't leave his brother to the mercy of those atheistic Communists, that's why. Father O'Shea said Sergeant Maguire was holding his mortally wounded comrade the way our Blessed Lady held her dear Son down from the cross. 'A Battlefield Pietà,' he called it. Sergeant Maguire preferred the final comfort of his compatriot to the solace of his own safety. Father O'Shea told me that there were tears in his eyes as that helicopter pulled away—and Father O'Shea, I'll tell you, men, is one tough Irishman—yet there were tears in his eyes as he watched the Reds closing in on Sergeant Maguire and his wounded
amicus.
And Father O'Shea said running through his mind over and over was that great line from Scripture, 'Greater love than this hath no man...'
    "And do you know what I said to Father O'Shea, men? I said, 'You're damn right. Because he's his father's son and a Good Shepherd boy, and that's how we grow them here.' You know our motto:
Deus et Patria.
We teach our boys to give their all to God and Country, because God and Country have given all to us. Men, I want you all to stand up and welcome home Sergeant