The Corps I - Semper Fi

Chapter Ten

(One)

Quantico, Virginia

1 September 1941

The US. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml, was known as the Garand, after its inventor, John B. Garand, a civilian employee of the U.S. Army's Springfield Arsenal. The Garand fired the same cartridge as the US. Rifle, Model 1903, the US Rifle, Model 1903A3, and the Browning light machine guns. This cartridge was known as the.30-06.

The 1903- series rifles, known as "Springfields," were five-shot rifles, operated by a bolt. This bolt was a variation of the action designed by the Mauserwerke in Germany in the late 1800s and had been adapted by the United States after the Spanish-American war. The Spanish Army's Mausers were clearly superior to the American rifles. And when Theodore Roosevelt, who had faced the Spanish Mausers on his march up Kettle and San Juan Hills in Cuba, became President, pretty nearly his first order as Commander in Chief was to provide the military services with a Mauser-type weapon. A royalty was paid to the Mauser Company, and the Springfield Arsenal began manufacture of a near-copy of the Mauser Model 1898, differing from it in caliber and some minor details.

The Spanish Mausers had 7-mm bores, and the German 7.92. The Springfield Rifles had 30-caliber (7.62-mm) bores. In 1906, an improved.30 caliber was developed, which became known as the.30-06. The Springfield rifles served in World War I, where they proved reliable, efficient, and extremely accurate.

Development of the Garand began in the early 1930s when General Douglas MacArthur was Army Chief of Staff. It was accepted for service, and production began in 1937.

It had a magazine capacity of eight rounds, as opposed to the Springfield's five. Far more important, it was semiautomatic. Once a spring clip of eight rounds was loaded into the weapon and the bolt permitted to move forward, it would fire the eight rounds as rapidly as the marksman could pull the trigger. When the last shot was fired, the clip was ejected, the bolt remained in its rearward position, and another eight-round clip could be quickly loaded.

The Ordnance Corps of the United States Army (which is charged with providing every sort of weaponry, from pistols to artillery, to the United States Marine Corps) was convinced that it was the best infantry rifle in the world. In the opinion of most Marines, the U.S. Rifle Caliber.30, Ml "Garand" was a Buck Rogers piece of shit with which only the lucky could hit a barn door at ten paces.

Experience had taught the Corps that skilled marksmen were very often the key to victory in a battle. Experience had further taught the Corps that the key to skilled marksmanship- in addition to the basics of trigger squeeze sight picture, and the rest of the technique crap-was joining together a Marine and his rifle so that they became one. A Marine was thus taught that first he cleaned and oiled his piece, then he could think of maybe getting something to eat and a place out of the rain to sleep. The Marine Corps further believed that an officer should not order his men to do anything he could not do himself.

There were two schools of thought concerning the issue of the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml to the students of the Platoon Leader's Course. The official reason was that nothing was too good for the young men who possibly would soon be leading Marines in a war. It therefore followed that the young gentlemen be issued the newest, finest item in the Marine Corps' small weapons inventory. In the opinion of most Marines, however, the reason it was being issued to the young gentlemen of the Platoon Leader's Course was that real rifles were needed for real Marines.

It was therefore not surprising that Item #2 on the Training Schedule for Day #1 of Platoon Leader's Course 23-41 (right after "#1 Welcoming Remarks, Major J.J. Hollenbeck, USMC") was the issuance of rifles-Garand rifles-to the young gentlemen.

Some of the young gentlemen were wearing Marine Corps dungarees (sometimes called "utilities") and work shoes. They had been issued these uniforms during previous summer training periods. It was the prescribed uniform of the day.

But some of the young gentlemen, including Malcolm Pickering, were still in civilian clothing. It was not that they didn't have dungarees, but that they had not considered that day #1 would begin at 0345 hours and that they would be given ninety seconds to get out of bed, dress, and fall in outside the barracks. They presumed that they would have a couple of minutes to take their dungarees from their luggage before they stood the first formation and were marched to breakfast. There were 112 members of Platoon Leader's Course 23-41, and about a dozen of them were in civilian clothing. Most were in shirts and slacks, but there were two, including Malcolm Pickering, who had at the last second grabbed their jackets. Pickering had even managed to grab his necktie.

He was standing in the rear rank tying his necktie when he came to the attention of the Assistant Drill Instructor, a barrel-chested corporal of twenty-nine years with a nearly shaven head and a voice made harsh by frequent vocal exertion. His name was Pleasant, which later became the subject of wry observation by the young gentlemen.

On seeing movement in the rear rank, Corporal Pleasant walked quickly and erectly between the ranks until he was standing before Pickering. He then put his hands on his hips and inclined his head forward, so that the stiff brim of his campaign hat just about touched Pickering's forehead, and so that Pickering could smell Corporal Pleasant's toothpaste when he shouted,

"What the fuck are you doing, asshole?"

"I was tying my tie, sir," Pickering said, coming to attention. He was not entirely a rookie. He had been to two previous summer training encampments and knew that as a trainee, he was expected to come at attention when addressed by an assistant drill instructor, and to call him "sir," although in the real Marine Corps only commissioned officers were entitled to such courtesy.

"Why are you wearing a tie, asshole?" Corporal Pleasant inquired.

Pickering could think of no good answer to that.

"I asked you a question, asshole!" Corporal Pleasant reminded him.

"No excuse, sir," Pickering said, another remembered lesson from previous summers. One did not offer excuses. There was no excuse for not doing what you were supposed to do, or for doing what you were not supposed to do. The proper response in a situation like that was the one he had just given.

Corporal Pleasant was more than a little disappointed. He had hoped to have the opportunity to make an example of this candy-ass would-be officer, not because he disliked him personally, but because it would get the others in the right frame of mind. But there was nothing to do now but return to the front of the formation, which he did.

The young gentlemen were marched from the company to battalion headquarters, where Major J.J. Hollenbeck, USMC, on behalf of the Commanding General, U.S. Marine Schools, welcomed them to Quantico and wished them well during their course of instruction.

They were next marched to the company supply room. There they were issued a U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml; a Sling, leather; and a Kit, Individual, for U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml. This consisted of a chamber brush and a folding screwdriver (all of one piece); a waxed cord and a patch holder that could be used (by dropping it down the bore) if a Rod, Cleaning, for U.S. Rifles, Model 1903 and Ml was not available; and a small plastic vial of a yellow grease, known as Lubricant, solid, for U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml.

The rifles came in individual heavy wrapping paper, which appeared greasy. The reason it was greasy was that the rifles themselves were thickly- coated with Cosmoline to protect them from rust while in storage.

Corporal Pleasant gave the young gentlemen rudimentary instruction in the assembly of the Sling, leather, and its attachment to the U.S. Rifle, caliber.30, Ml, and then informed them that by 0345 the next morning, he expected the rifles to be cleaned, and that each individual would be expected, by 1300 that very day, to be as familiar with the serial number of the weapon as he was with his beloved mother's face.

"Where's the serial number?" one baffled young gentleman asked. "This fucking thing's covered with grease!"

It was the opportunity Corporal Pleasant had been waiting for.

The first thing the baffled young gentleman was required to do, while double-timing in place with the rifle held above his head, was shout "This is not my fucking thing. My fucking thing is between my legs. This is my rifle. I will not forget the difference." When he had recited this litany ten times, he was ordered to run around the arms-room building, with his rifle at port arms, accompanied by two other young gentlemen who had the erroneous idea that his calling his rifle his fucking thing was amusing and had smiled.

The young gentlemen were then double-timed to the mess hall for breakfast.

And it was there that Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering first saw Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy. At first he didn't place him. The face looked familiar, but he thought it was a face from other summer training camps. Then he remembered who he was.

His first reaction was distaste. Breakfast was scrambled eggs and bacon and home-fried potatoes, two pieces of bread and a lump of butter. The only thing that Pickering considered safe to put in his mouth were the home-fried potatoes. The eggs were cold and lumpy, the bacon half-raw, and the bread dried-out. McCoy was wolfing down this garbage as if he hadn't had a decent meal in a week.

Pickering watched, fascinated, as McCoy ate everything on his stainless steel tray, even wiping it clean with a piece of the stale bread.

When he had finished, McCoy picked up his tray and walked toward the mess hall exit. Pickering picked up his near-full tray and followed him.

Corporal Pleasant was there, standing before garbage cans under signs reading "Edible Garbage" and "Non-Edible Garbage."

Corporal Pleasant examined McCoy's tray, and with a curt nod of his head, passed him outside.

When Pick Pickering reached Corporal Pleasant, Corporal Pleasant said, "Over there, asshole," indicating with a nod of his head a group of perhaps a dozen young gentlemen holding their trays, U.S. Rifles, Caliber.30, Ml slung over their shoulders, standing against the concrete-block wall.

Eventually there were nearly thirty young gentlemen who had not found their breakfast appetizing and had left much, in some cases most, of it on their trays.

Corporal Pleasant stood before them.

"Gentlemen," he said. "The Marine Corps loves you. Because the Marine Corps loves you, it has gone to considerable effort and expense to provide you with a healthy, nutritious breakfast. The Marine Corps expects you to eat the healthy, nutritious breakfast it has provided for you."

The young gentlemen looked at him in some confusion for a moment. Then one of them, delicately holding his stainless steel tray in one hand, tried to fork a lump of scrambled egg with the other hand while simultaneously going into contortions trying to keep his U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml from slipping off his shoulder.

Corporal Pleasant immediately stepped in front of him, put his hands on his hips, and inclined his head so that the stiff brim of his campaign cap almost touched the young gentleman's forehead.

"What the fuck are you doing, asshole?" Corporal Pleasant inquired.

"Sir," the young gentleman bellowed, "eating my breakfast, sir!"

"With a fork! Did you hear me say anything, asshole, about eating with a fork?"

"No, sir!"

The young gentleman looked at him in absolute confusion, not quite able to accept what Corporal Pleasant seemed to be suggesting.

Corporal Pleasant nodded his head.

"Eat, asshole!" he said. "Every last fucking crumb!"

The young gentleman raised the tray, and then lowered his face and began to gulp and lick the tray.

Corporal Pleasant looked at the others.

"On my command," he said, "slurp it up. Ready, slurp!"

Nearly thirty young gentlemen raised their stainless steel trays to their faces and slurped.

When Pickering went outside the mess hall, McCoy was waiting where the trainees would be formed in ranks. There was a barely perceptible smile on his face. Pickering went and stood beside him.

"Now I know why you ate everything on your tray," he

said. _

"I've been through this sort of shit before," McCoy said.

"What are you doing here?"

"What does it look like?"

"I thought you were going to get out of the Marine Corps?"

"You were right, there's a freeze on discharges," McCoy said.

"Well, we can buddy around," Pickering said. "That'll be nice."

"It would be a bad idea," McCoy said.

"Why?" Pickering asked, surprised, wondering why McCoy was rejecting him. "Why do you say that?"

"I know about Pleasant," McCoy said. "Or people like him. If there's one thing he hates more than a college boy who wants to be an officer, it's another corporal who wants to be an officer. As soon as he finds out that I'm a Marine, he'll start in on me."

"So we'll be even," Pickering said. "He's already started on me."

"Take my word for it, Pickering," McCoy said. "It would be worse if he knew we were buddies. For both of us."

"I don't understand," Pickering said.

"You don't have to understand," McCoy said. "Just take my word for it. Stay away from me."

"Well, fuck you," Pickering said, his feelings hurt.

McCoy smiled at him.

"That's the spirit," he said. "Pick, honest to God, I know what I'm talking about," McCoy said. "Sooner or later, they'll have to give us some time off. Then we can see if there are any fourteen-year-old virgins in Virginia. But what you have to do until we can get away from that prick, especially if you plan to get through the course, is make yourself invisible."

Pickering still didn't understand. But he realized he was enormously relieved that McCoy was not rejecting his friendship. Then he wondered why he was so relieved.

(Two)

Company ' 'C' Marine Corps School Battalion

Quantico, Virginia

1805 Hours 1 September 1941

Corporal Pleasant placed the platoon "at ease" and then announced that it was now his intention to show them how to disassemble the Cosmoline-covered rifles they had been carrying around all day.

When they had them apart, they would clean them, Corporal Pleasant said. He would return at 2100 hours and inspect the cleaned pieces, and then he would show them how to reassemble their rifles. He knew, he continued, that they all wished to begin Day #2 of their training with spotless rifles. Good Marines prided themselves on having clean pieces.

This was pure chickenshit, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy decided. A little chickenshit was to be expected, and was probably even a good thing: Pleasant had to make it absolutely clear to these college boys that they were under his absolute control. The college boys who had slurped their breakfast from their trays would never again take more chow than they could eat from the mess line. There had been a point to that.

But there was no point to this rifle-cleaning idea except to make everybody miserable. Except, of course, that Pleasant wanted something on every last one of them that would give him an excuse to jump their ass. There was absolutely no way to remove all the Cosmoline from a rifle with rags. Cosmo-line did what it was intended to do, preventing rust by filling every last nook, crevice, and pore in both the action and the stock. You could wipe for fucking ever, and there would still be Cosmoline oozing out someplace.

There were two good ways to clean Cosmoline from a weapon. The best (and most dangerous) was with five gallons of gasoline in the bottom of a garbage can. If you didn't strike a spark and blow your ass up, the gasoline would dissolve the Cosmoline.

The second way was with boiling water. You took a field mess water heater (A gasoline-fired water-heating device inserted into a fifty-five gallon garbage can. Mess kits are sterilized by dipping them into the boiling water) and filled it with rifle actions and let the sonsofbitches boil like lobsters.

Pleasant was offering neither alternative. He was just being a prick, and McCoy decided there was a limit to the chickenshit he would take. He had promised himself he would keep his nose clean, stay out of sight, and do whatever was demanded of him. But that did not go so far as spending the next three hours in a futile attempt to rub a rifle free of Cosmoline.

He was standing one rank behind and three files to the left of Pick Pickering as Corporal Pleasant delivered his lecture on the disassembly of the U.S. Rifle Caliber.30, Ml. He considered for a moment taking Pickering with him, but decided against it. For one thing, cleaning an uncleanable rifle was probably an essential part of training for a college boy. For another, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy was about to go AWOL, which (as Corporal Pleasant had with some relish informed them during one of the lectures during the day) was frowned upon. Anyone caught AWOL (defined as not being in the proper place, at the proper place, at the proper time, in the properly appointed uniform) would instantly have his ass shipped to a rifle company and could forget pinning the gold bars of a second lieutenant on his shoulders.

When they were dismissed and double-timed into the barracks, McCoy went directly to the latrine and washed his hands as well as he could with GI soap. Then he grabbed his Garand with a rag, and went out the back door of the barracks.

As he made his way toward the provost marshal's Impound Yard, he considered that after successfully evading every Jap sentry in Shantung Province, it was entirely possible that he'd be nailed cold by some eager college boy guarding a barracks with an unloaded Garand.

But he wasn't challenged. He hid the Garand in a ditch, and then went into the provost marshal's office. Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker's order was on file, and an MP corporal went and unlocked the compound for him.

McCoy drove to where he had hidden the Garand and reclaimed it. Then he opened the trunk, took out a dungaree shirt with corporal's stripes painted on the sleeves, put it on, and then took his campaign hat from the hat press and set it on his head at the approved jaunty angle.

The MP at the gate, spotting the enlisted man's sticker on the windshield and the stiff-brimmed campaign hat on the driver, waved the LaSalle convertible through, but McCoy slowed and stopped anyway.

The MP walked up to the car.

"Where's the nearest gas station, garage, whatever, with a steam cleaner?" McCoy asked.

The MP thought it over.

"There's a Sunoco station's got one," he said. "Turn left when you hit U.S. 1."

"Much obliged," McCoy said, and let the clutch out as he rolled up the window.

The Sunoco station's steam cleaner wasn't working, but they had something even better, a machine McCoy had never seen before. It was designed to clean dirt- and grease-encrusted parts. A nonexplosive solvent poured out of a flexible spout, like water from a faucet, over a sort of sink. Thirty minutes' work with a bristle brush and there was no Cosmoline left on either the action or the stock of the Garand, period.

An hour after he had gone out of the Main Gate, McCoy drove the LaSalle back through it and stopped.

"Found it," he called to the MP. "Thanks."

"Anytime," the MP said.

There was time before Corporal Pleasant reappeared in the barracks to take a shower. The water was cold. The college boys, McCoy decided, had tried hot water. All it had done was leave a layer of Cosmoline on the shower floor. Everyone was still furiously rubbing rifle parts with rags.

McCoy tied rags around his feet, showered, removed the rags, threw them in the pile, and put on clean dungarees.

Then he disassembled the Garand, laid the parts on his bunk, then crawled under the bunk and lay down to await Corporal Pleasant.

Five minutes later, someone called "attention," and McCoy started to roll out from under the bunk. He was halfway to his feet when Pleasant, storming purposefully down the aisle, spotted him getting up.

As he came to attention, Pleasant leaned the brim of his campaign hat into his face.

"Anyone tell you to get in the sack, asshole?" Corporal Pleasant inquired.

"No, sir!" McCoy said.

"Then what were you doing in the sack, asshole!"

"Sir, I wasn't in the sack, sir!"

Corporal Pleasant, seeing the disassembled Garand on the bunk, was forced to face the fact that there was not room for the asshole to have been in the bunk, too.

He leaned over the bunk and picked up the first part he touched, which happened to be the magazine follower.

"You call this clean, asshole?" he demanded, before he had chance to examine it at all.

"Yes, sir," McCoy said. "I believe that's clean, sir!"

Corporal Pleasant shoved the magazine follower under McCoy's nose, and in the very moment he demanded, "You call that clean, asshole?" he thought: I'll be a sonofabitch, it's clean!

"Yes, sir!" McCoy shouted.

"What's the serial number of your piece, asshole?"

"Sir, 156331, sir!"

Corporal Pleasant stood eyeball to eyeball with Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy for a moment.

"Assemble your piece, and then get your ass outside, asshole!" he ordered. "There is a light on a pole outside the orderly room. Guard it until I relieve you!"

"Yes, sir!" McCoy said.

Ten minutes later, Corporal Pleasant marched up to the light pole outside the orderly room.

McCoy came to port arms.

"Halt! Who goes there?" he demanded.

"Who the fuck do you think?" Corporal Pleasant replied, and then ordered: "Follow me."

He walked to the rear of the building, and opened the door of a 1939 Ford coupe.

"Get in," he said.

McCoy got in the seat beside him. Pleasant reached over the back of the seat and came up with two beer cans.

"Church key's in the ashtray," he said.

"Thank you," McCoy said, and opened his beer.

"You're McCoy, right? 'Killer' McCoy?"

"I'm McCoy."

"There's three Marines in there with the assholes," Pleasant said. "I wasn't sure which was who."

McCoy didn't reply.

"You going to give me trouble, McCoy?" Pleasant asked.

Strange question. Why should he think I might give him trouble? And why the beer? This sonofabitch doesn't have the balls to be a universal prick. He's only going to be a prick to those he's sure won't fight back. And for some reason, he's a little bit afraid of me. He called me "Killer." Does this dumb sonofabitch think I'm going to stick a knife in him?

"No," McCoy said. "Why should I?"

"How did you get that rifle clean?" Pleasant asked.

There was a time for truth, McCoy decided, but this wasn't it.

"Lighter fluid," he said.

"You must have used a quart of it," Pleasant said. "What you really need is gasoline."

"Lighter fluid works better than a rag," McCoy said.

"It also made you stand out from the others," Pleasant said. "That's not smart."

"I wasn't trying to be smart," McCoy said.

Corporal Pleasant looked at him for a long moment, and then nodded his head, accepting that.

"That wasn't the first Cosmolined rifle you ever cleaned, was it?" he asked rhetorically. "I guess I would have done the same thing."

McCoy didn't reply.

"There's two stories going around about you, McCoy," Pleasant said. ' "The first is that you killed a bunch of Chinamen in China. The second is that you have friends in high places who got you into this course. Anything to them?"

"There was some shooting in China," McCoy said. "It was in the line of duty."

"And have you got a rabbi?"

"Have I got a what?"

"Somebody important, taking care of you?"

"Not that I know about," McCoy said. "I applied for this, and I got accepted."

Pleasant snorted, as if he didn't believe him.

"Let me spell things out for you, McCoy," he said. "You stay out of my hair, and I'll stay out of yours. But there's two things you better understand: I don't give a shit about any rabbi. And there's people who think you belong in Portsmouth, not here."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Pleasant," McCoy said.

"The hell you don't," Pleasant said.

He put his beer to his mouth, draining the can, and then squeezed it.

"Finish your beer, McCoy," he said. "And go back to the barracks." He got out of the Ford coupe and walked away.

McCoy finished his beer slowly. He was sorry, but not surprised, that what had happened in China was apparently common knowledge. The Corps was small, and Marines gossiped as bad as women, especially when it was interesting, like a Marine shooting a bunch of Chinese. He figured that some other China Marines had come home and gone to see Gunny Stecker, another old China Marine, and told him what had happened at the ferry. And Gunny Stecker had connected it with him, and that was how Pleasant had heard about it.

But he couldn't figure out who his "rabbi" was supposed to be, or who the people were who thought he belonged in Portsmouth, instead of in the Platoon Leader's Program.

Ten minutes after Corporal Pleasant left him, McCoy got out of the Ford, put the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml in the position of right shoulder arms, and in a military fashion marched back to the barrack, took off his utilities and climbed in the sack.

(Three)

Marine Corps Schools Quantico, Virginia 12 October 1941

The six weeks passed quickly. As McCoy suspected, the training was a repeat of Parris Island boot camp. It was necessary to turn the college boys into Marines, before they could be turned into Marine officers. That meant they had to be taught immediate, unquestioning obedience in such a way that it would become a conditioned reflex.

Thus: If a Platoon Leader Candidate did not immediately and unquestioningly respond to whatever order Corporal Pleasant or another of the Drill Instructors issued, there was immediate punishment.

If, for example, the young gentlemen did not respond to an order to fall out on the company street with the proper speed and enthusiasm, they were required to fall out again and again and again until Corporal Pleasant was satisfied.

And Pleasant was a man of some imagination: He might suggest that the young gentlemen were slow to fall out because they were unduly burdened by their accoutrements. Instead of falling out in helmets, full marching pack and rifles, they could try it again wearing only undershorts, skivvy shirts, leggings, and steel helmets. Plus of course, their rifles.

This required that they remove their leggings and their utilities. The utilities were then folded in the proper manner and placed in the proper place in their footlockers, and the leggings laced back on over bare calves.

If this increased their speed, Corporal Pleasant then experimented. They would next fall out in only raincoats, utility trousers, skivvy shirts, and cartridge belts. This required unlacing the leggings, storing them as prescribed, then detaching the canteen, first aid packet, and web harness from the web cartridge belt, and storing these items in their appointed places.

Next, perhaps, Corporal Pleasant would order that they again try falling out with the proper speed and enthusiasm in full marching gear. This meant of course reattaching the canteen, the first aid packet, and the harness to the cartridge belt; folding the raincoat and placing it in its prescribed location in the footlocker; and then relacing the leggings.

The possible variations were almost limitless, and Corporal Pleasant experimented with as many as he could think of".

Then there was punishment for sin:

The greatest sin of all was dropping the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml. Anyone who did this could expect to double-time around the parade ground with the rifle held at arm's length above his head, while shouting in a loud voice, "My rifle is my best friend, and I am a miserable sonofabitch because I abused it. God have mercy on my miserable soul."

Another sin was laughter, or giggling, or even a detected snicker. These sinners would double-time around the parade ground with their rifles at arm's length above their heads, while shouting at the top of their lungs, "I am a hyena. A hyena is an animal who laughs when there is nothing funny to laugh at. This is the sound a hyena makes. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha."

Another means of instilling discipline was calisthenics and close-order drill. This also served to cause the young gentlemen to shed civilian fat and tone their musculature. There were thirty minutes of calisthenics (later forty-five minutes and then an hour) before breakfast. And there was at least an hour of close-order drill every day.

Individual young gentlemen who came to Corporal Pleas-ant's attention during the duty day (which ran from 0345 until whenever Pleasant decided the day was over) were often required to perform additional calisthenics. Normally, this was in the form of pushups, but sometimes, when one of the young gentlemen displayed what Pleasant thought was ungainly, awkward movement (such as being out of step) it took the form of the "duck walk."

When one did the duck walk, one first squatted, then one placed the U.S. Rifle, Caliber.30, Ml in a horizontal position against the small of the neck, and then one waddled, while shouting, "This is the way a duck walks. Quack! Quack! Quack! I will try very hard to try to walk like a Marine in the future!"

McCoy had been through all this before in boot camp at Parris Island, but that didn't make things any easier. He had been genuinely surprised to learn (his feet became raw and blistered and his muscles ached) how badly out of shape he had become. In fact, the only real advantages he (and the other two Marine noncoms) had over the college boys was that responding to commands had already been drilled into them and was a reflex action. Similarly, they had experience in giving close-order drill, had already learned how to bark out commands from the pits of their stomachs, and, more importantly, had learned the cadence so that it too was automatic.

All three of the Marines in the platoon learned something else: Taking close-order drill from someone who doesn't know what he is doing, someone who doesn't understand the cadence and the timing, could turn the Marine Corps Drum and Bugle Corps at the Marine Barracks in Washington into a mob of blind men stumbling over their own feet.

In addition to the inspections Pleasant called whenever the whim struck him (and sometimes, if he woke early, the whim struck before the official rising hour of 0345), there was a regularly scheduled inspection each Saturday morning. The official inspection was conducted by the gunnery sergeant of the company and the company commander.

In order that he not be embarrassed by slovenly young gentlemen or equipment, Corporal Pleasant conducted both a preinspection and a pre-preinspection of the platoon. The latter was held on Friday evening after the barracks had been scrubbed and polished. It was necessary that the platoon pass the pre-preinspection before they were permitted to retire for the evening. Sometimes the pre-preinspection did not meet Corporal Pleasant's high standards until very late at night.

The preinspection was conducted the next morning, half an hour before first call. It was to determine if the assholes had fucked anything up in the three or four hours while they'd been in the sack after the pre-preinspection. If they had, it could be corrected in the time officially set aside for breakfast.

Scuttlebutt had it that today's inspection was going to be a real bitch. The company commander, who was rough enough, was not on the base. Thus the inspection would be conducted for him by another officer, the battalion mess officer; and the scuttlebutt on him was that he had a corn cob up his ass and was a really a chickenshit sonofabitch.

McCoy was not particularly concerned. He knew that once you had prepared your gear and arranged it, the situation was out of your hands. If an inspecting officer decided to jump your ass, he would. He would find something wrong, even if he had to step on the toes of the boots under your bunk so that he could get you for unshined shoes. If you couldn't control the situation, there was no point in worrying about it.

When Pleasant barked, "Ten-hut on the deck!" McCoy came to attention, his toes at a forty-five-degree angle, the fingers of his left hand against the seam of his trousers, his right hand holding the Garand just below the bayonet lug.

He stared straight ahead and heard the clatter of the rifles as one by one the young gentlemen came from attention to inspection arms. While this was going on, he had speculated-a little unkindly-that with just a little bit of luck, one of the young gentlemen would catch his thumb in the Ml action during the inspection. That produced a condition known as M1 thumb.

If he howled in pain, that just might bring the inspection to a quick end.

But there was no such fortuitous happenstance. The sound of clattering rifles moved closer to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the inspection party approaching.

He shifted the Garand to a diagonal position in front of him, slammed the action open, bobbed his head over the action to insure that it was unloaded, and then looked ahead, waiting for it to be snatched from his hand.

He found himself looking into the face of First Lieutenant John R. Macklin, USMC.

There was no smile on Macklin's face, not even a flicker of recognition.

"This man is unshaven," Lieutenant Macklin said.

The gunny trailing him dutifully wrote this down on his clipboard.

Macklin snatched the Garand from McCoy's hand, looked into the open action, and then raised the butt high in the air, so that he could look into the barrel.

"And this weapon is filthy," Lieutenant Macklin said, before he threw the Garand back at McCoy so hard that it stung his hands and he almost dropped it.

The gunny dutifully wrote "filthy weapon" on his clipboard.

Lieutenant Macklin moved down the aisle to the next man. McCoy closed the action of the Garand and returned it to his side.

The Garand had been clean before McCoy had disassembled it and cleaned it, and he had shaved no more than two hours before.

There didn't seem to be much question any longer who believed that Killer McCoy belonged in the U.S. Naval Prison, Portsmouth, rather than in the Platoon Leader's Course at U.S. Marine Corps Schools, Quantico.

Captain Banning, McCoy concluded, had probably eaten Macklin's ass out for letting the Japs catch him at Yenchi'eng.

McCoy was summoned to the orderly room half an hour later.

The gunny was there, and Pleasant.

"Mr. McCoy," the gunny said, "there is no excuse in the Marine Corps for a filthy weapon."

McCoy brought the Garand from the position of attention- that is to say, with its butt resting on the deck beside his right boot-to the position of port arms. And then he threw it, like a basketball, to the gunny.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the gunny said, furiously. He had been so surprised he had almost failed to catch it.

"Look at it, Gunny," McCoy said.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what to do?" the gunny snapped, but he slammed the action open and looked into it, and then raised the butt so that he could look down the barrel.

"You want to feel my chin, Gunny?" McCoy asked.

"This weapon is filthy, Mr. McCoy," the gunny said, throwing the Garand back to him, "and you need a shave. Because Lieutenant Macklin says so. You get the picture?"

"I got the picture."

"Corporal Pleasant will now escort you to the barracks, where he will supervise your shave. Then he will supervise you while you clean your filthy weapon. When you have shaved, and your rifle is clean, he will bring you back here, and I will check the closeness of your shave, and the cleanliness of your rifle. That means I will have to stay here, instead of going to my quarters. That pisses me off, McCoy. My wife has plans for the weekend, and you have fucked them up."

McCoy knew enough to keep his mouth shut.

"And I'll tell you something else I agree with Lieutenant Macklin about, McCoy. I don't know how in the fuck a China Marine motor transport corporal with a reputation like yours got it in his head he should be an officer. Or how you managed to get yourself in here. Except that you had your nose so far up some officer's ass that your ears didn't show. I don't like brown noses, McCoy, and I especially don't like people with rabbis. You get the picture?"

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"Finally, Mr. McCoy, I would like to make sure you understand that participation in the Platoon Leader's Course is purely voluntary. You may resign at any time, and keep your stripes."

"I'm not about to quit, Gunny," McCoy said.

"If you bust out of here," the gunny said, "for misbehavior, or malingering, something like that, they ship your ass to some rifle company. It's something to think about, McCoy."

"Yes, sir," McCoy said.

"Corporal Pleasant," the gunny said. "I think the deck in the barrack could stand a sanding. Do you think it might help Mr. McCoy to remember to shave and to keep his piece clean if he spent the weekend doing that?"

Pleasant nodded his agreement. He looked a little embarrassed, McCoy thought, but he was going to go along with the gunny. He had no choice.

(Four)

Headquarters, 4th Marines

Shanghai, China

19 October 1941

Only a few people were made privy to all the details, actual and projected, of the removal from China of United States Military and Naval Forces. Among these was Captain Edward Banning, S-2 of the 4th Marines.

The Yangtze River Patrol, its gunboats and personnel, was to sail as soon as possible for the U.S. Naval Base at Cavite, on the tip of a narrow, four-mile-long peninsula sticking into Manila Bay. It was intended that the Yangtze River Patrol reinforce U.S. Naval Forces, Philippines. How much value the old, narrow-draft, lightly armed riverboats would be was open to question. There was even concern that should there be severe weather en route to Manila Bay the gunboats would founder and sink. They were designed to navigate a river, not the high seas in a typhoon.

Likewise, the small, old pigboats of SUBFORCHINA were as soon as possible to sail for Cavite, though they were subject to similar fears as to their seaworthiness, for they were old and small and designed primarily for coastal, rather than deep-sea operations. But unlike the riverboats, if it came to it, the pigboats could submerge for maybe five, six hours at a time, and ride out a storm.

The two battalions making up the 4th Marines were something else. They were Marines, which was to say they were trained and equipped to fight anywhere. But what they would be in fact, if war broke out, was infantry. The official role of the Marines was to make amphibious assaults on hostile shores. Two battalions of Marines without landing craft and without larger forces to reinforce them once a landing was made weren't going to make much of an amphibious assault force.

The advance party of the 4th Marines would sail from Shanghai aboard the U.S.S. Henderson, a Navy transport, on 28 October. The Henderson would then continue on to the United States, to on-load Army reinforcements for the Philippines. The U.S.S. Shaumont, the other U.S. Navy transport that normally served China, would similarly be involved in moving U.S. Army troops from the West Coast of the United States to reinforce the Philippines. The Navy had also chartered space aboard two civilian passenger liners. On 28 November, the President Madison would embark the First Battalion and the President Harrison the Second Battalion. If nothing went wrong, the 4th Marines would arrive in Manila during the first week of December. Then, either the Henderson or the Shaumont would be free to sail to Tientsin and pick up the Peking and Tientsin Marine detachments.

U.S. Navy Forces, Philippines, was sending to Shanghai a Consolidated Catalina, a long-range amphibious reconnaissance aircraft, to pick up senior officers of the Yangtze River Patrol and SUBFORCHINA and carry them to Cavite to prepare for the arrival of their vessels.

At the last moment, the colonel learned of this, and prevailed upon his Naval counterpart to make space available for one of his officers.

The colonel did not anticipate any logistical problems when the regiment arrived in the Philippines. The Cavite Navy Base was enormous-capable of supporting the Far East Fleet. It would be able to house and feed two battalions of Marines without difficulty.

But the colonel did want to know how Douglas MacArthur, former Chief of Staff of the U.S. Army and most recently Marshal of the Philippine Army, intended to employ the 4th Marines. The obvious officer to find that out was his S-2, and Captain Edward Banning was given twenty-two hours' notice to pack his things, make arrangements for the personal property he would necessarily have to leave behind, and be aboard the Catalina when it took off for Manila.

The first thing Captain Ed Banning did when he heard that was get in his Pontiac and drive to the headquarters of the Shanghai Municipal Police Department. He found Sergeant Chatworth there and told him he needed a big favor.

"Like what?" Chatworth asked, suspicious.

"I want to marry a stateless person," Banning said. "To do that, I need a certificate from the Municipal Police stating there is no record of criminal activity."

Chatworth's bushy eyebrows rose.

"Or moral turpitude," Chatworth added.

Banning nodded.

"That isn't all you'll need," he said. "You better figure on two weeks, at least, pulling in all the favors anybody owes you."

Banning looked at his watch.

"I have nineteen hours and thirty minutes," he said.

"What's her name?" Chatworth asked.

When he got back to his apartment, Milla told him she didn't want to marry him: She knew what it would do to his career, and she understood how things were when they'd started, and she didn't want him to marry her out of pity. "I'll be all right," she said finally, obviously not meaning it.

Two hours later, she held his hand tightly during the brief ceremony at the Anglican cathedral, and when she kissed him afterward, her cheeks were wet with tears.

"Sir, I ask permission to discuss a personal matter," Banning, standing at attention, said to the colonel.

"Just as long as you get on that plane, Ed, you have my permission to discuss anything you want with me."

"Sir, I was married this afternoon," Banning said.

"I don't think I want to hear this, Ed," the colonel said.

"Sir, my wife is a stateless person, with a Nansen travel document."

"Jesus Christ, Ed! You know the regulations."

"Yes, sir, I know the regulations."

"I didn't hear a word you said, Captain Banning," the colonel said. "I don't wish to believe that an officer of your rank and experience would deliberately disobey regulations concerning marriage and get married without permission."

"If I asked for permission, sir, it would have been denied."

"Or make a gesture like this, throwing a fine career down the goddamned toilet," the colonel said, angrily. "Jesus Christ!"

Banning didn't reply.

"Do you realize what a spot you've put me on, Ed?" the colonel asked in exasperation.

"I regret any embarrassment this may cause you, sir," Banning said. "I am, of course, prepared to resign my commission."

The colonel stared at him coldly for a long moment.

"It's a good goddamned thing I know you well enough, Captain Banning, to understand that was an offer to pay the price, rather than an attempt to avoid your duty," he said, finally. "Mrs. Banning must be quite a lady."

Again, Banning could think of nothing to reply.

"Sergeant-Major!" the colonel bellowed.

The sergeant-major appeared. The colonel told him to close the door.

"Captain Banning," he said, "was today married to a stateless person. Captain Banning did not have permission to marry."

The sergeant-major looked at Banning in surprise.

"It will therefore be necessary for you, Sergeant-Major, to prepare-suitably back-dated-the application to marry, and whatever other documentation is necessary. That includes, I believe, a letter to the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, Headquarters, USMC, explaining my reasons for not pulling Captain Banning's security clearance once it came to my attention that he is emotionally involved with a foreign national."

"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant-major said.

"My reasons are that I believe the Corps cannot at this time afford to lose Captain Banning's services, despite his actions in this matter, and that I believe the disciplinary action I have taken closes the matter."

"The disciplinary action, sir?" the sergeant-major asked.

"You will prepare a letter of reprimand as follows," the colonel said. "Quote. It has come to my attention that you have married without due attention to the applicable regulations. You will consider yourself reprimanded. Unquote."

"Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant-major said.

"Thank you, sir," Banning said.

"If that's all you have on your mind, Captain Banning," the colonel said, "I'm sure you have a number of things to do before you board the aircraft."

Despite the sergeant-major's claims about his busting his butt to get the Consulate to issue Milla a "non-quota, married to an American citizen'' visa, when Banning turned over the keys to his Pontiac to her, he had a strange feeling that he would never see her again.

They both pretended, though, that everything was now coming up roses: She would promptly get her visa. His (now their) furniture and other belongings (including, ultimately, the Pontiac) would be turned in for shipment to the Philippines. If it proved impossible for Milla to get her visa in time for her to ship to the Philippines with the other dependents, she would travel on the first available transportation once the visa was issued.

What was more likely to happen was that his car and household goods were going to be placed in a godown (warehouse) on the docks and more than likely disappear forever. And that when the dependents sailed, Milla would be left behind with no visa.

And he could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew.

On the Catalina he forced Milla and the future from his mind. There was no sense bleeding to death over something he had no control over.

It occurred to him that nice guys, indeed, do finish last.

Macklin, that despicable sonofabitch, had had three weeks to arrange for the shipment of his car and household goods. They had gone on the ship with him. And he was in the States, not headed for the Philippines.

He was, he realized, of two minds about Macklin. On one hand, it was goddamned unfair that the sonofabitch should be safe in the States. On the other hand, if there was to be war, it was better that the sonofabitch should be someplace else.

There was no question in Banning's mind that the officer corps of the United States Marine Corps was about to start earning its pay, and in that case, a slimy sonofabitch like Macklin would do more harm than good.

And finally, before the roar of the engine put him to sleep, his thoughts turned to Corporal "Killer" McCoy. Poor McCoy, hating every minute of it, was probably greasing trucks and keeping his nose clean in Philadelphia, waiting for him to come home from China and arrange for his transfer. McCoy, the poor sonofabitch, was going to have a long wait.