Semper Fi

Chapter Eleven

(One)

Known Distance Range #2

U.S. Marine Corps Schools

Quantico, Virginia

19 November 1941

Because he'd participated, back in '38, in the troop test of the Garand rifle at Fort Benning, Captain Jack NMI Stecker, USMCR, Assistant S-3 of the School Battalion, U.S. Marine Corps Schools, Quantico, did not share the generally held opinion that the Garand was a piece of shit. The Corps had sent to the Army's infantry school a platoon of Marines, under Master Gunnery Sergeant Jack NMI Stecker, to find out for themselves what this new rifle was all about.

He hadn't liked it at first. It was bulky and heavy, and didn't have the lean lines of the Springfield. And he had found it difficult to accept that as soon as the slam of the butt into the socket of the shoulder was over, the fired cartridge was ejected, another cartridge was chambered, the action was cocked, and the Garand was prepared to fire again.

As a young Marine, Stecker had spent long hours endlessly working his Springfield until the action was as smooth as butter. And he had learned to fire and work the bolt so fast and so smoothly that the Springfield seemed like a machine gun with a slow rate of fire.

He and the other Marines involved in the troop test had been proud of that skill. Most of them. So that the test would not be conducted by forty expert marksmen, the Corps had detailed a dozen kids fresh from Parris Island to the platoon. They weren't experts. It took years to really become an expert with a Springfield.

Stecker went to the infantry school at Benning prepared to dislike the Garand.

But that changed. For one thing, even if this came close to heresy, there was no question that the sights on the Garand were better than the sights on the Springfield. On the other hand, the trigger pull started out really godawful, must have been ten pounds when they gave him the new Garand. But he was able to fix that with a little careful stoning of the sear. And the action was stiff as hell too, but that wore itself in after a couple of hundred rounds. And it actually got pretty slick once he learned, by trial and error, just how much of the yellow lubricant to use, and where.

And then the Doggie armorer loaned him his own Garand. What the hell, even if he was a Doggie, they had things in common. The Doggie armorer was a master sergeant, the same rank as Stecker, and he'd done a hitch with the 15th "Can Do" U.S. Infantry in Tientsin, 1935-38. And they knew about rifles. Stecker and the Doggie armorer had more in common with each other than Stecker had with the kids fresh from Parris Island involved in the troop test.

So first they had a couple of beers together at the NCO Club, and then the Doggie invited him to his quarters for supper, and the next morning, the Doggie armorer handed him a Garand and told him he'd "done a little work on it." What he'd done was a really good job on the trigger, and the action was really smooth, and he'd taken chisels to the stock and cut away all the wood, so the barrel was free floating, and (he wasn't sure if Stecker would like this) he'd replaced the rear sight with one he'd rigged up with an aperture about half as big as issue.

The first time Stecker fired the Doggie's Garand-at two hundred yards-when they marked the target and hauled it up again, there was only one spotter (Bullet holes in rifle targets are marked with circular cardboard disks, white if the hole is in the black of the bull’s-eye, and black for holes elsewhere on the target. A peg in the center of the disk is inserted in the bullet hole. A bullet strike is thus visible from the firing line) on it, a white one, but only one.

"Have them re-mark that goddamned target!" Stecker demanded, angry and embarrassed. He had fired two loose rounds and an eight-round clip at that target, and apparently hit it only once.

The Doggie corporal on the field phone to the pits ordered the target re-marked, and it disappeared into the pits. It came back up a minute later with just the one white spotter, and Stecker felt humiliation sweep through him. "Two and a quarter," the Doggie corporal sang out. "What the hell does that mean?" Stecker asked. There was no such terminology in the Corps.

"That means, Sarge," the corporal said tolerantly, "that you put them all into just over two inches. Not bad!"

Stecker was so pleased (and to tell the truth of it, so relieved) that he'd put ten rounds into an area smaller than a spotter-which was damned near minute of angle (One inch at 100 yards. Two inches at 200 yards, etc)-that he didn't even jump the Doggie corporal's ass for calling him "Sarge."

That would have been good shooting even with Stecker's own personal Springfield, which he privately believed was as accurate as any Springfield in the Corps.

That was when he began to change his evaluation of the Garand. Obviously, when properly tuned, the ugly sonofabitch would shoot. Which was the important thing. And being absolutely fair and objective about it, which is what he was supposed to be as the NCOIC of the Marine Troop Test, you could get back on target after the recoil faster than you could with a Springfield. Like it or not, the gas-operated mechanism of the Garand ejected a round and chambered another faster than even a master gunnery sergeant of the Marine Corps could work the bolt of a Springfield.

And there was more to think about. Not only were the Marine marksmen doing well with the Garand - the sergeants and corporals who knew something about shooting - but the kids from Parris Island, too. They didn't, he realized, have a hell of a lot to unlearn. They just took the Garand and learned how to use it.

He didn't easily give in to admitting that the Garand was actually a fine weapon, though. For instance, he surprised hell out of a squad of the kids by ordering them not to detail strip their pieces when the day's firing was over.

"Just run a couple of patches, first bore cleaner, then oil down the bore. Don't brush the bore. I want to see how much it will take to jam it."

It was three days of firing before the first Garand jammed.

That night, he ordered the squad to detail strip and clean their Garands but not to reassemble them. When all the parts were clean, he ordered the kids to put them all together in a pile on the deck of the barrack.

The kids thought he was really nuts then, and even more so when he stepped up to the pile and stirred the parts around with his toe. One of the claimed merits of the Garand was interchangeability of parts. This was a good way to find out.

"Now put them together," he ordered. He stood watching as the kids assembled rifles.

"I don't want anybody exchanging parts after I'm gone," he said. "I'm trying something."

There was only one malfunction of the squad's Garands the next day, a stovepipe (When the action fails to eject a fired cartridge case properly and jams it in place with the open end erect, it is known as a "stovepipe") he suspected was a freak. He proved this by firing three clips through the rifle as quickly as he could and without further failure to eject.

Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker returned from Fort Benning one of the few people in the Corps who believed the Garand was the best infantry rifle to come down the pike in a long time. He was worried then not about whether the Garand would be good for the Corps, but when-or even whether- the Corps would get it. The Army would take care of itself first, of course. The Corps would probably wind up with the Army's worn-out Springfields rather than new Garands.

Captain Jack NMI Stecker, USMCR, was therefore pleased when the first Garands were issued to the Corps. There were not enough of them to go around, of course, but the door was open. For the moment, unfortunately, there were only enough of them to equip a few detached units, and for instructional purposes.

Captain Stecker read with interest the reports of scores fired with the new rifle by the students of the battalion; and he was not happy with the results from either the commissioned officers at their annual qualification at Quantico or of the kids in the Platoon Leader's Course. He decided first to see what was wrong with the training of the Platoon Leader candidates and fix that, and then he'd see that the same fix was applied to the abbreviated training course given the officers before they fired their annual qualification.

At 0805, which was late enough for the firing on the known distance range to be well under way, he got up from his desk and walked out of his office.

"Come with me, son," he said to the S-3's jeep driver, a small, very neat PFC trying to make himself inconspicuous on a chair in the outer office.

As he invariably did when he went for a ride in the jeep with a PFC at the wheel, he thought about how much he'd liked it better when he'd been a master gunnery sergeant with the pickup and didn't have to sit like a statue on an uncomfortable pad in the jeep.

In the center of the line of Known Distance Rifle Range #2 (where the Platoon Leader Candidates were firing for record), there was a small clutter of buildings surrounding the range master's tower. Next to the buildings, several vehicles were parked with their front wheels against yellow-painted logs half-buried in the sand. There were two jeeps (one assigned to range NCO and the other to the range officer), two pickups, and a three-quarter-ton Dodge weapons carrier, which had brought the ammo from the dump. Two ambulances (new ones, built on the Dodge three-quarter-ton weapons carrier chassis) were backed up against the logs.

Stecker told the driver to park the jeep beside the weapons carrier. When he stopped, Stecker removed his campaign hat and took from the crown a small glass bottle, which once contained Bayer Aspirin. He took from it four globs of what looked like wax at the end of short pieces of string and handed two of them to the PFC.

"Here," he said to the driver. "Stick these in your ears." "What is it, sir?" the PFC asked doubtfully. "Genuine Haiti Marine earplugs," Stecker said. "Do what | I tell you."

"Aye, aye, sir," the PFC said, and after he watched Stecker carefully push with his index finger one of the wax globs into each ear, he somewhat uneasily put the plugs into his own ears.

Unless someone looked very carefully at his ears (which was highly unlikely) the earplugs would go unnoticed.

The night before, when Stecker checked the jar where he kept his earplugs, he found only one pair left, so he decided he had to make some more.

So Captain Stecker spent an hour at his kitchen sink making six pairs of the earplugs. He knew that he would be spending several hours on the known distance range, and he had long ago learned that ear damage from the muzzle blast of rifle fire was permanent and cumulative. There were a lot of deaf gunnery sergeants in the Marine Corps as proof of

that.

From the time he had been a PFC, Stecker had understood that the Boy Scouts were right. "Be Prepared" said it all. He didn't really need any more earplugs than the pair he had in the Bayer Aspirin bottle, not for tomorrow. But the day after tomorrow was something else. He had no spares, and therefore it was time to make some.

The Haiti Marine earplugs were a good deal more complicated than they looked: He first carefully cut the erasers from a dozen pencils. Then with an awl heated red on the stove, he burned a hole through the center of the eraser. He then knotted a length of strong thread through the holes of a small button, just a bit larger than the diameter of the eraser. The loose end of the thread was then fed through the hole in the

eraser.

One at a time, the dozen erasers were carefully placed in holes bored through a piece of wood. Then, in a small pot reserved for this specific purpose, he melted paraffin and beef tallow and carefully poured it into the holes in the wood. When it had time to cool, he pushed each earplug out with a pencil. While the beef tallow/paraffin mixture would remain flexible enough to seal his ear canal, it would neither run from the heat of his body, nor harden to the point where removal would be difficult.

It was a trick Captain Stecker had learned when he was a corporal in Haiti in 1922. A staff sergeant named Jim Finch had taken a shine to him, shown him how to make the plugs, and warned him that if he was going to spend any time around ranges, he had goddamned well better get in the habit of using them.

Stecker put the Bayer Aspirin bottle back in the crown of his stiff-brimmed campaign hat, and then with a quick, smooth movement to keep the bottle from falling out flipped it onto his head.

Aside from his field shoes, the campaign hat was about the only part of his enlisted man's uniforms that he had been able to use as an officer. He had to change the insignia on the campaign hat, but it hadn't been necessary to put it up for sale in the thrift shop along with just about everything else.

When he was ten feet away, the range officer spotted him and saluted, raising his arm crisply until the fingers touched the stiff brim of his campaign hat.

"Good morning, sir," he barked.

"Good morning," Stecker said.

"Is there something special, sir?" the range officer asked.

"Just checking," Stecker said. "But how are the young gentlemen doing?"

"Not bad, sir," the range officer said. "I think we have two who are going to shoot High Expert."

"And the low end?"

"I think they're all going to qualify, sir," the range officer said.

"You think, Lieutenant?" Stecker asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he had just seen Maggie's Drawers (A red flag waved before a target to show a complete miss).

"Yes, sir," the range officer said.

"Think won't cut it, Lieutenant," Stecker said. "If one of the young gentlemen fails to qualify first time out, that means his instructors haven't been doing their job."

"Aye, aye, sir," the range officer said.

"I'm going to have a look around," Stecker said. "I won't need any company, and I don't want the pit officer to know I'm here."

"Aye, aye, sir," the range officer repeated.

Stecker walked erectly to the end of the firing line. There were twenty firing points, each occupied by two platoon leader candidates, one firing and one serving as coach. For each two firing points, there was a training NCO, so-called even though most of them were PFCs and not noncommissioned officers. A half dozen NCOs, all three stripe buck sergeants, moved up and down the line keeping an eye on the training NCOs and the firers.

The firing was near the end of the prescribed course. The young gentlemen were about to fire slow fire prone at bull's-eye targets five hundred yards down range. The course of fire would be twenty shots, with sixty seconds allotted for each one. The targets would be pulled and marked after each string of ten shots.

What they were doing now was firing "sighters." They had changed range and were permitted trial shots to see how they had done changing their sights.

The target before which Maggie's Drawers had flown was down in the pits. As Stecker watched, it came up. There was a black marker high on the right side of the target outside the scoring rings.

This young gentleman, Stecker thought wryly, had probably never held a gun in his hands before he became associated with the Marine Corps. Some people learned easily, and some didn't.

"Bullshit!" the firer said when he saw the marker, more in anger than embarrassment.

"Watch your mouth, Mister!" the training NCO snapped. The firer turned his head in annoyance. And then he recognized Stecker as an officer and looked down the range again. He didn't recognize me. Except as an officer. But I recognize him. That's the China Marine with the LaSalle convertible. That's surprising. A Marine noncom ought to be at least able to get them inside the scoring rings.

He watched as McCoy single-loaded another round. At least he knows enough not to mess with the sights, Stecker thought. That was probably a flier.

He watched as McCoy slapped the stock of the Garand into the socket of his arm and wiggled his feet to get in the correct position. And he thought he could detect the expelling of half a breath just before the Garand went off again.

The target dropped from sight. When it appeared again, there was another black marker, this time low and left-in other words on the opposite side of the target from the last spotter disk.

"Oh, bullshit!" McCoy said, furious.

His coach, another young gentleman, jabbed him with his elbow to remind him that he was being watched by an officer.

Stecker gave in to the impulse. He reached out and kicked the sole of the coach's boot. When the coach looked up at him in surprise, he gestured for him to get up.

Stecker lay down beside McCoy.

When McCoy looked at him, there was recognition in his eyes.

"All sorts of people get to be officers these days," Stecker said softly. "What seems to be your trouble?"

"Beats the shit out of me," McCoy said, still so angry- and perhaps surprised to see Stecker-that it was a moment before he appended, "Sir."

Stecker reached up and tried to wiggle the rear sight. Sometimes they came loose. But not there. And neither was the front sight when he tried it.

"Try it again," Stecker ordered, turning and holding his hand out for another loose round.

When McCoy reached for it, Stecker saw his hands. They were unhealthy white, and covered with open blisters.

"What did you do to your hands?"

"I've sanded a couple of decks (Sanding decks (cleaning them with sand and a brick) went back to the days of wooden-decked sailing ships. Now it was used as a punishment) lately, Captain," McCoy said.

Stecker wondered what McCoy had done to deserve punishment. The boy probably had an automatic mouth.

Stecker watched carefully as McCoy fired another round. There was nothing in his firing technique that he could fault. And while they were waiting for the target to be marked, he saw that McCoy had wads of chewed-up paper in his ears. It wasn't as good as Haiti earplugs, but it was a hell of a lot better than nothing. And it reminded Stecker that this boy had been around a rifle range enough to know what he was doing. There was no explanation for his shooting all over the target, much less missing it completely, except that there was something really wrong with the rifle.

When the target appeared, the marker was black, just outside the bull's-eye.

"That's a little better," Stecker said.

"I should have split the peg with that one," McCoy said, furiously.

By that he meant that he was confident of his shot, knew where it had gone.

That's either bravado, or he means it. And there's only one way to find out.

"Get out of your sling," Stecker ordered. "And hand me the rifle."

As McCoy pulled the leather sling off his arm, Stecker turned to the training NCO and signaled that he wanted a clip of ammunition. When McCoy handed him the Garand, Stecker put the strap on his own arm and squirmed into the correct position.

"Call my shot," he said to McCoy. "I'm going to take out your two-hundred-yard target number."

McCoy looked at him in surprise. So there would be no confusion about which was the correct target, there were markers at each distance with four-inch-high numbers painted on short, flat pieces of wood. They were not designed as targets.

Stecker himself wondered why he was going to fire at the target number, then realized that he thought somebody might be fucking around with McCoy's target in the pits. If that was the case, which now seemed likely, he would have the ass of the pit officer.

You just don't fuck around in the pits. The Marine Corps does not think rifle marksmanship is an area for practical jokes.

Stecker lined up his sights and squeezed one off.

"You took a chip out of the upper-right corner, Captain," McCoy reported.

Maggie's Drawers flew in front of McCoy's target.

Stecker fired again.

"You blew it away, Captain," McCoy reported. Stecker snapped the safety in front of the trigger guard on, then slipped out of the sling.

"The piece is loaded," he said. "Be careful. Have a shot at the target marker. Number eighteen."

"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

The target number disappeared with McCoy's first shot.

"Nineteen," Stecker ordered.

McCoy fired again. Half of the target number disappeared when the bullet split it.

"Do you think you can hit what's left?" Stecker asked.

He saw Maggie's Drawers being waved furiously in front of the target.

McCoy fired again, and the narrow half remaining of the target number disappeared.

"At targets of opportunity, fire at will," Stecker ordered, softly.

McCoy fired the remaining two rounds in the eight-round en bloc clip at other target numbers. He did not miss.

"Insure that your weapon is empty, and leave the firing line, bringing your weapon with you," Stecker said calmly, reciting the prescribed litany.

By the time they were both on their feet, the range officer and the range NCO were standing beside the training NCO. Having witnessed not only a captain blowing away the target numbers, but apparently encouraging a trainee to do likewise, they were more than a little uneasy.

"This young man has a faulty weapon," Captain Stecker announced. "I think he should be given the opportunity to refire for record."

"Aye, aye, sir," the range officer said.

The range sergeant took the Garand from McCoy and started to examine it.

"Don't you think I know a faulty weapon when I see one, Gunny?" Captain Stecker asked.

"Yes, sir, no offense, sir."

"I realize that tomorrow is the first day of Thanksgiving liberty," Captain Stecker said, "but as we want to give this young man every opportunity to make a decent score, I think we should have the pit officer back, too. Who is he?"

Stecker had decided that the pit officer, whoever he might be, would never forget that Marines don't fuck around the pits after he had spent the first day of Thanksgiving liberty personally hauling, marking, and pasting targets for a Platoon Leader Candidate. That made more sense than in writing him an official letter of reprimand, or even turning him in to the battalion commander.

"Lieutenant Macklin, sir," the range officer said.

"I don't think I know him," Stecker said.

"He's the mess officer, Sir. He volunteered to help out in the pits," the range officer said.

And then Stecker saw understanding and then bitterness in McCoy's eyes.

"Do you know Lieutenant Macklin, McCoy?" Stecker asked.

"Yes, sir, I know him."

Stecker made a come-on motion of his hands.

"We were in the Fourth Marines together, sir," McCoy said.

"I see," Stecker said. I'll find out what the hell that is all about. "I think you can get on with the firing, Lieutenant." Stecker said.

"Aye, aye, sir," the lieutenant said. And then when Stecker was obviously going to walk away, he called attention and saluted.

Stecker went back to his jeep and was driven off.

Since there was no point in his firing anymore with a faulty weapon, Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy and Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering were put to work policing brass from the firing line until that relay had finished. Then Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy served as coach for Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering while he fired for record. Platoon Leader Candidate Pickering qualified as "Expert."

(Two)

After leaving McCoy, Captain Stecker went to Battalion Headquarters, where he examined the personal record jacket of First Lieutenant John R. Macklin, USMC. The personnel sergeant was a little uneasy about that-personal records were supposed to be personal-but he wouldn't have dreamed of telling Master Gunnery Sergeant Stecker to mind his own business, and Gunny Stecker was now wearing the silver railroad tracks of a captain.

Then Captain Stecker got back in the jeep and had himself carried to the Platoon Leader Course orderly room.

Word had already gotten back that Captain Stecker had been out on the range, and that he had ordered the re-firing for record of one of the candidates. And that the pit officer be in the pits when he did so. The sergeant-major had been sort of a pal before Stecker took a commission, and he knew there was more to it than he had been told.

He came to his feet and stood at attention when Stecker walked in.

"Good morning, sir," he said.

"As you were," Stecker said.

"How may I help the captain, sir?" the sergeant-major said.

"You wouldn't happen to have a cup of coffee, Sergeant-Major?"

"Yes, sir," the sergeant-major said.

"And if you have a minute, Sergeant-Major, I'd like a word with you in private."

"We can use the commanding officer's office, sir," the sergeant-major said. "He went out to check on the range, sir."

A corporal followed the two of them into the commanding officer's office with two china mugs of coffee, and then left, closing the door behind him.

"Tell me about a kid named McCoy, Charley," Stecker said.

"That's the one was a China Marine?" Stecker nodded. "What do you want to know, Jack?"

"How come he's been sanding decks?"

"I don't know," the sergeant-major said. "He fucked up, I guess."

"What do you know about Lieutenant Macklin?"

"Not much, Jack," the sergeant-major said, after thinking it over. "The cooks hate his ass. But that always happens when there's a new broom. And he's an eager sonofabitch. The scuttlebutt is he's got a lousy efficiency report and is trying to make up for it."

"So he volunteered to be pit officer?"

"And he takes Saturday inspections for the officers. That kind of stuff."

"I want a look at McCoy's records," Stecker said.

"Anything in particular?"

"Just say I'm nosy," Stecker said.

The sergeant-major went into the outer office and returned with a handful of manila files.

"He's more of a fuck-up than I thought," the sergeant-major said. "Jesus, he's been on report at every fucking inspection. He's given lip to the DIs. Even Macklin wrote him up twice for failure to salute. He'll be scrubbing decks again over the Thanksgiving liberty. He's right on the edge of getting his ass shipped out of here. He's going before the elimination board (A board of officers charged with determining whether or not a platoon leader candidate has proved himself unfit or unworthy of being commissioned) on Friday."

Stecker grunted.

He took McCoy's records from the sergeant-major and read them carefully.

"Very odd," he said. "His last efficiency report says his 'personal deportment and military bearing serves as an example to the command.' I wonder what turned him into a fuck-up here?"

The sergeant-major raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

"It says here that he's an Expert with the Springfield and the.45, and the light and water-cooled Brownings. I was on the range before…"

"So I heard," the sergeant-major said.

"He could barely get a round on the target, much less in the black," Stecker said. "I found out he had a faulty weapon. He could hit target numbers with it. It was just that he was all over the target when he fired at a bull's-eye."

"Jesus, was he fucking around on the rifle range, too?" the sergeant-major asked.

"He wasn't fucking around on the rifle range, Charley," Stecker said.

"And Macklin was the pit officer, right?" the sergeant-major said, finally putting things together.

"Was he?" Stecker asked, innocently.

"Jesus Christ!" the sergeant-major said.

"I'm sure you know as well as I do, sergeant-major," Stecker said, "that no Marine officer is capable of using his office and authority to settle personal grudges."

"Yes, sir," the sergeant-major said.

"And under the circumstances, Sergeant-Major, I can see no reason for Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy to refire for record. It would be an unnecessary expenditure of time and ammunition. If he had a properly functioning rifle, I'm sure that he would-since he has been drawing Expert marksman's pay since boot camp-qualify with the Garand." "Got you," the sergeant-major said. "Further, it would interfere with his Thanksgiving liberty. Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy is shortly going to be commissioned…"

"He'll have to get past the elimination board," the sergeant-major said. "With this record, he has to go before it."

"What record do you mean,' Sergeant-Major?" Captain Stecker said, as calmly and deliberately he tore from the manila folder all the official records of misbehavior and unsatisfactory performance Platoon Leader Candidate McCoy had acquired since beginning the course. He shredded them and dropped them into the wastebasket.

"What do I tell the old man, Jack?" the sergeant-major asked.

"Three things, Charley," Stecker said. "First, that if there is some reason McCoy can't have Thanksgiving liberty, I want to hear about it. Second, that the colonel has taken two evening meals in the mess and found them unsatisfactory. And third, that I politely and unofficially suggest that maybe the chow would be better if the mess officer stayed where he belongs, in the kitchen."

The sergeant-major nodded.

"I'm sorry about this, Jack," he said. "I feel like a damned fool."

Stecker did not let him off the hook.

"When I was the gunny, Charley," he said, "the colonel expected me to know what was going on in the ranks. I found the best way to do that was get off my ass and have a look at things."

And then he walked out of the office.

(Three)

Inasmuch as ceremonies are an integral part of the life and duties of young officers, and because the Marine Corps Schools believed that "doing is the best means of learning," ceremonies of one kind or another were frequently on the training program of the Platoon Leader's Course.

One such ceremony was scheduled for 1700 hours, 19 November 1941. It was a formal retreat. The platoon leader candidates would be returned from the Known Distance Firing Range in plenty of time to clean their rifles, shave and wash, and change into greens. The training schedule allocated all of thirty-five minutes for this purpose.

Waiting for Corporal Pleasant to blow his whistle, McCoy was pretty well down in the dumps. At first, he had been almost thrilled that Macklin had been caught sticking it to him. He'd thought that luck was finally falling his way. It hadn't taken long for the old-gunny-now-a-captain to figure out that somebody was fucking him in the pits, or even that the sonofabitch sticking it in him was Lieutenant Macklin.

But the good feeling soon dissipated. For one thing, officers took care of one another, and the captain, if he said anything at all to Macklin, wasn't going to jump his ass. Stecker believed that Macklin was either sloppy in the pits, or that he thought what he was doing was funny. Stecker had no reason to think that Macklin was personally doing his best to get him booted out of the Platoon Leader's Course.

All the whole incident had meant was that he was going to get a chance to fire for record again. That was all. And Macklin was being taught not to "fool around" when he was pit officer by having to spend Thanksgiving morning on the range. It was possible that he would pull the same shit all over again. Why not? There would be nobody there to watch him.

When he came off the rifle range, the sand and the bricks would be waiting for him, and he would spend Thanksgiving afternoon on his knees scrubbing the decks. For "disrespectful attitude."

And on Friday morning, he would go before the elimination board. Pleasant had told him about that. He could get out of it, Pleasant said, and probably get the whole Thanksgiving weekend as liberty, if he would just face the fact that they weren't going to make him an officer and resign.

He had told Pleasant to go fuck himself. Which is why he would be sanding the deck.

McCoy didn't believe he was ever going to get a gold bar to put on his shoulder. Not really. Not inside. But he was going to take the one chance he saw: Sometimes the elimination board wouldn't bust people out, but would instead "drop them back," which meant that you went through part of the course again with a class that started later. That happened when somebody bilged academics. He had never heard of somebody being dropped back for "attitude" or "unsuitability," which is what they called it when they sent you before the elimination board for fucking up.

But that's what he was going to ask for. He had come this far, and he wasn't just going to belly up for the bastards. He probably wouldn't get it, and next Monday he would probably be on his way as Pvt McCoy to Camp LeJeune, or maybe Diego, as a machine-gunner.

And it was a real pain in the ass to get all shined up for a retreat parade knowing that they were going to read your name off on two lists, one for "extra training" which is what they called the deck sanding, and the other to go before the elimination board. And when they had done that, knowing that while everybody else was off getting beered up at the slop chute, he would be on his fucking hands and knees sanding the deck.

"If I helped you with the deck," Pick Pickering said, as if he was reading his mind, "maybe we could get done quicker."

"Pleasant would get you your own deck," McCoy said. "But thanks, Pick."

"Let's give it a shot," Pickering said.

"When they hold formation," McCoy said, "they're going to read off names of people going before the elimination board. Mine is on it."

"You don't believe that," Pickering said, loyally.

"I know," McCoy said. "It's not scuttlebutt."

"That's not right," Pickering said. "Christ, it's goddamned unfair.''

"It's an unfair world," McCoy said. "This is the Marine Corps."

"There ought to be some way to register a complaint," Pickering said.

McCoy laughed at him, but then, touched by Pickering's loyalty, punched him affectionately on the arm.

Pickering was a good guy. Dumb, but a good guy. Even after McCoy had told him that he was on everybody's shit list, and that if he kept hanging around, some of the shit they were throwing was bound to splatter on him, he'd hung around anyway. Pickering was going to be a good officer.

"Turn around, asshole," McCoy said. "Let me check you out."

There was nothing wrong with Pickering's uniform or equipment. But a pin on one of McCoy's collar point "oxes" (Platoon Leader Candidates wore brass insignia, the letters OC (hence "Ox"), standing for Officer Candidate, on shirt collar points and fore-and-aft hats in lieu of insignia of rank) had come off, and the ox was hanging loose. Pickering fixed it.

What the fuck difference does it make? McCoy thought bitterly. This is the last time I'll wear it anyway. I'll go before the elimination board in dungarees.

Corporal Pleasant blew his whistle and all the freshly bathed and shaved young gentlemen rushed out onto the company street, where they formed ranks. Corporal Pleasant then issued the appropriate order causing the young gentlemen to open ranks so that he could more conveniently inspect their shaves, the press of their green uniforms, and the cleanliness of their Garand rifles.

They would be inspected again, a few minutes later, by the company commander and gunnery sergeant, but Corporal Pleasant wanted to make sure they were all shipshape before that happened.

To McCoy's surprise, Pleasant not only found nothing wrong with his appearance, shave, or shine, he didn't even inspect his rifle when he stepped in front of him. He probably figures he doesn't have to bother anymore. The company commander and the gunnery sergeant made their appearance at the end of the company street, and one by one, the drill instructors of the four platoons of platoon leader candidates called their troops to order.

McCoy's company commander, a lieutenant, spoke to him as he inspected his rifle.

"I understand you had some trouble with this today, McCoy?" "Yes, sir."

"And I also understand the stoppage has been cleared?"

What the fuck is he talking about? Stoppage?

"Yes, sir."

The company commander moved on. The sergeant-major looked right into McCoy's face, but said nothing, and there was no particular expression on his face.

When the four platoons had been inspected, the officers took their positions, and the gunny read the orders of the day.

The next day was Thanksgiving (Until December 1941, Thanksgiving was celebrated on the third Thursday of November), the Gunny announced, as if no one had figured that out for himself. Liberty for all hands, with the exception of those individuals requiring extra training, would commence when the formation was dismissed. The next duty day, Friday, would be given over to the purchase of uniforms. Those individuals who were to appear before the elimination board would not, repeat, not, order any officer-type uniforms until the decisions of the elimination board were announced. Liberty would begin on Friday, until 0330 hours the following Monday, as soon as the platoon leader candidates had arranged for the purchase of officer-type uniforms. There would be no, repeat, no, liberty for anyone called before the elimination board.

The gunny then read the list of those who required extra training, and then the list of those to face the elimination board.

And then he did an about-face and saluted the company commander, who returned the salute, ordered him to dismiss the formation, and walked off.

The gunny barked, "Dis-miss!"

Pick Pickering punched McCoy's arm.

"See? I told you you weren't gonna get boarded!"

And neither, McCoy thought, did I hear my name called for extra training. And they didn't say anything about refiring for record, either.

What the fuck is going on?

He thought it was entirely likely that the gunny had "forgotten" to read his name, so that when he failed to show up to sand the deck, or to refire for record, or for the elimination board itself, they could add AWOL to everything else.

He saw Pleasant going behind the building to get into his Ford. He ran after him. Pleasant rolled down the window. "Something I can do for you, Mr. McCoy?" "What the fuck is going on, Pleasant? Why wasn't my name called for extra training and for the elimination board?" "Because you're not on extra training, Mr. McCoy, and because you're not going before the elimination board. You are on liberty, Mr. McCoy.

"You going to tell me what's going on?" "Very well, Mr. McCoy. It's very simple. In ten days they are going to pin a gold bar on your shoulder. Between now and then, the gunny and I will do whatever we can to make things as painless as possible for you."

"I thought you wanted to bust me out of here." "Oh, we do," Pleasant said. "Nothing would give us greater pleasure. But then, we know better than to fuck with a rabbi."

"What rabbi?"

"Is there anything else, Mr. McCoy?" Pleasant said. "If not, with your permission, sir, I would like to start my Thanksgiving liberty."

"Fuck you, Pleasant," McCoy said. Pleasant rolled up the window and drove off. Pick Pickering was waiting for McCoy in the barracks. "Well?"

"I'm on liberty like everybody else," McCoy said. "And no elimination board."

"Great!" Pickering said, and punched his arm. "Let's go find a cab and get the hell out of here." "Out of here, where?"

"In compliance with orders from the United States Marine Corps, I am going to buy some officer-type uniforms."

"What the hell are you talking about? We're not supposed to buy uniforms until Friday." "Right," Pickering said. "Well?"

"I'm learning," Pickering said. "You will recall that they didn't say anything about where we were to buy the uniforms. Just that we buy them on Friday." "So?"

"On Friday, I am going to buy uniforms. In Brooks Brothers in New York."

"What's Brooks Brothers?"

"It's a place where they sell clothing, including uniforms."

"Jesus!" McCoy said.

"And when we're not buying our uniforms, we can be lifting some skirts," Pickering said. "The only problem is finding a cab to get us off this fucking base to someplace we can catch a train to New York."

"We don't need a cab," McCoy said. "I've got a car."

"You have a car? Here?" Pickering asked, surprised.

McCoy nodded.

"Mr. McCoy," Pickering said. "The first time I laid eyes on you, I said, 'Now, there is a man of many talents, the sort of chap it would be wise to cultivate in the furtherance of my military career.' "

McCoy smiled.

"And will this car of yours make it to New York? Without what I have recently learned to call 'mechanical breakdown'?"

"It's a LaSalle," McCoy said.

"In that case, if you pay for the gas," Pickering said, "I will take care of the room. Fair?"

"Fair," McCoy agreed.