Call to Arms

Chapter Fifteen

(One)

Camp Elliott, California

3 March 1942

At the regular morning officer's call, Colonel Carlson reported the arrival of the 240 carbines from the Army Ordnance Depot, and then turned toward McCoy and called his name.

McCoy rose to his feet.

"Sir?"

"For those of you who haven't had a chance to meet him," Carlson said, "this is Lieutenant Ken McCoy. He's fresh from Quantico, but don't prejudge him by that. Before he went through Quantico, he was a noncom with the Fourth Marines in Shanghai."

McCoy was uncomfortable; and then he was made even more so by First Lieutenant Martin J. Burnes, who turned around to beam his approval of the attention McCoy was being paid by Colonel Carlson. But Carlson was not through.

"I sent McCoy, rather than someone from S-Four, to get the carbines from the Army," Carlson said, "because, of all the people around here, I thought he and Gunnery Sergeant

Zimmerman, another old China Marine, would do the best job of bringing back what I sent them to get-despite the roadblocks I was sure the Army would put in their path. I didn't think they'd take either 'no' or 'come back in two weeks' for an answer. If it got down to it, I was sure that they were coming back with the carbines if they had to requisition them at midnight when the Army was asleep."

Carlson waited for the expected chuckles, and then went on: "There's a moral in that, and for those who might miss it, I'll spell it out: The right then for the job, no matter what the Table of Organization and Equipment says they should be doing. What everybody has to keep in mind is the mission. The rule is to do what has to be done in the most efficient way. Without regard to rank, gentlemen. An officer loses no prestige getting his hands dirty doing what has to be done, so long as what he's doing helps the Raider mission."

McCoy sat down.

"I'm not through with you, McCoy," Colonel Carlson said. McCoy stood up again.

"McCoy, if you had to make sure everybody in the battalion got a quick but thorough familiarization course in the carbine-say, firing a hundred rounds-how would you go about it?"

The question momentarily floored McCoy, not because he didn't have a good idea how it should be done, but because lieutenant colonels do not habitually ask second lieutenants for suggestions.

But he explained what he thought should be done.

Carlson considered McCoy's suggestions for a moment, and then asked: "What about an armorer?"

"Gunny Zimmerman, sir, until he can train somebody to take over," McCoy said.

"Okay, Lieutenant, do it." He then addressed the other officers. "McCoy was in the heavy weapons with the Fourth Marines in China. Until somebody better equipped comes along, he's our new-and-special-weapons training officer, and until armorers can be trained, Sergeant Zimmerman will handle that."

McCoy sat down again, now convinced that Carlson was through with him. He was pleased with what had happened. He agreed that Carlson was making it official that the Raiders were to assign the best-qualified man to the job no matter what his billet was, and it was sort of flattering to have his recommendations about how to set up a familiarization program accepted without change.

"What do I have to do, McCoy? To keep you on your feet? Put a grenade on your chair?" Carlson said, amused rather than angry.

"Sorry, sir," McCoy said, jumping to his feet in embarrassment.

"We have another problem that McCoy is going to help us solve. Man's third-oldest weapon, the first two being the rock and the stick, is the knife. From what I've noticed, most of our people think that the primary function of a knife is to open beer cans. But actually, in the hands of somebody who knows what he's doing, a knife is a very efficient tool to kill people. For one thing, it doesn't make any noise when it's used. There are a lot of self-appointed experts in knife fighting around. The problem with them is that by and large they are theoreticians rather than practitioners. Very few of them have ever used a knife to take a life."

McCoy sensed what was coming, and winced.

"In addition to that, people being trained in the lethal use of a knife seem to sense that their instructors don't really know much more about using a knife on another individual than they do; and consequently, they don't pay a lot of attention to what the instructor's saying."

There were more agreeable chuckles, and Carlson waited for them to subside before he went on.

"When McCoy was in Shanghai, they called him 'Killer,'" Carlson said. "And with just cause. One night he was ambushed by four Italian Marines who wanted to rearrange his facial features and turn him into a soprano. They picked on the wrong guy. He had a knife, and before that little discussion was over, two of the Italian Marines were dead, and one other was seriously wounded."

There was silence in the room now, and all faces were turned to McCoy. Marty Burnes's face mirrored his amazement.

"McCoy was trained in knife fighting by a real expert," Carlson went on. "Captain Bruce Fairbairn of the Shanghai Municipal Police. Fairbairn designed a fighting knife-called, for some reason, the Fairbairn. McCoy carries his up his left sleeve strapped hilt down to his wrist so he can get at it in a hurry. Maybe, if you ask him very nicely, he'll show it to you.

But in any event, we're going to teach our people how to use a knife for something besides opening beer cans, and I announce herewith the appointment of Lieutenant 'Killer' McCoy as instructor in knife fighting… in addition to his other duties, of course."

Lieutenant Marty Burnes applauded, and after a moment's hesitation, the others joined in.

When it had died down, Carlson said, "Now you can sit down, Killer."

When the officer's call was over, McCoy ran after Colonel Carlson, who was walking with Captain Roosevelt toward battalion headquarters.

"Sir, may I see you a moment?"

"Sure, Killer," Carlson said. "But first, why don't you show Captain Roosevelt your fighting knife?"

"Sir, I'm not carrying a knife," McCoy said.

"If I had the reputation for being a world-class knife fighter, Killer," Carlson said, "I don't think anyone would ever catch me without my knife."

"Sir," McCoy blurted, "I'm not a knife fighter."

"Ab esse ad posse valet elatio, McCoy," Carlson said.

"Sir?"

"That means, in a very rough rendering, that the facts stand for themselves," Carlson said.

"Well, the facts are that I'm not a knife fighter," McCoy said, firmly.

Carlson switched to Cantonese.

"I know that, and you know that," he said. "But it is true that you did have to kill those Italians with a knife, and that they called you 'Killer' in Shanghai. That story will be all over the battalion by noon. And when you start to teach knife fighting, you will have a very attentive audience."

"Sir," McCoy replied in Cantonese, "I don't know how to teach knife fighting. I only saw Captain Fairbairn once, at a regimental review. He doesn't know I exist, and he certainly never taught me anything."

"He did write a very good book on the subject," Carlson said. "I happen to have a copy of it. I'll get it to you in plenty of time for you to read it and adapt it to your purposes before your first class."

McCoy didn't reply.

"Were you listening in officer's call, Killer? When I talked about getting the best man for the job?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"You're it," Carlson said. "You're a clever young man, McCoy. Much more clever than people at first believe. You know what I want you to do, and I expect you to give it your best shot."

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said, in English.

"May I ask what that was all about?" Roosevelt asked.

"Killer was telling me that he doesn't have his knife today," Carlson said, "but that he will carry it with him in the future, and the next time he sees you, he'd be happy to show it to you."

"Fine." Roosevelt beamed.

"Anything else on your mind, Killer?" Colonel Carlson asked.

"No, sir," McCoy said, and then blurted, "Sir, I would really appreciate it if you didn't call me 'Killer.'"

Carlson smiled sympathetically. "I'm afraid that falls under the category of public relations, McCoy. We could hardly call our world-class knife fighting expert anything else, could we? Not and get the same reaction from the Raiders."

McCoy didn't reply.

"If there's nothing else, Killer," Carlson said, "you may return to your duties."

McCoy saluted.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"I'd really like to see your knife, Killer," Captain Roosevelt said.

(Two)

Camp Elliott, California

7 March 1942

Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, Gunnery Sergeant Ernst Zimmerman, and a detail of twelve Marines from Able Company had come to the range in two Chevrolet half-ton pickups and a GMC 6x6 (A two-and-one-half-ton-capacity, canvas-bodied track, called "6x6" (pronounced "six-by-six") because ail of its six wheels could be driven. Six-by-six was something of a misnomer, because the double axles at the rear usually held eight wheels.

) at dawn.

The 6x6 dragged a water trailer, and all the trucks were heavily laden and full. There were stacks of fifty-five-gallon garbage cans; stacks of buckets; bundles of rags; stacks of oblong wooden crates with rope handles; stacks of olive drab oblong ammunition cans; five-gallon water cans; five-gallon gasoline cans; and an assortment of other equipment, including eight gasoline-powered water heaters.

The detail from Able Company had come under a sergeant and a corporal; and Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman-with a confidence that surprised McCoy, who remembered Zimmerman as a mild-mannered motor sergeant in the 4th Marines- quickly and efficiently put them to work.

All but one of the garbage cans were filled with water from the trailer and then placed twenty yards apart in a line.

Zimmerman watched as the sergeant set up one of the water heaters in one of the garbage cans and then fired it off. Satisfied that he could do the same thing with the other heaters (these were normally used to boil water in garbage cans set up at field kitchens to sterilize mess kits), he turned to what else had to be done.

He ordered the cans of ammunition removed from the Chevrolet pickup that had brought McCoy to the range and stacked inside the range house. On each olive drab can was lettered, in yellow: