W E B Griffin - Corp 02 - Call to Arms

by Call To Arms(Lit)

  They worked quickly, but without haste. Soon, both of the rifles were on the scrap of canvas, free of Cosmoline. Except for the trigger group, they were stripped down to their smallest part.

  "You think we have to take these down?" McCoy asked, looking doubtfully at the complex arrangement of small parts and springs.

  Zimmerman picked up the second trigger group assembly and studied it carefully. "No," he said, issuing a professional judgment, "I don't think so."

  "I don't suppose you've got a book?" McCoy asked. "So we can figure out how to put it back together?"

  Zimmerman produced a small, paperbound manual, the U.S. Army Technical Manual for the U.S. Carbine, Caliber.30, Ml, from the breast pocket of his dungarees, and displayed it triumphantly.

  "You may turn into a passable gunny yet," McCoy said.

  "Fuck you, McCoy," Zimmerman said, as he thumbed through the book looking for the disassembly instructions. When he found it, he opened the small book wide, breaking its spine so that it would lay flat.

  Then, after carefully oiling each part and consulting the drawings in the book, they put the small rifles back together.

  They worked the actions and dry-fired the weapons to make sure they were operable.

  "What do we do about the gas?" Zimmerman asked.

  "Dump it out, leave the can here until later," McCoy ordered. He took Zimmerman's carbine from him and climbed back into the pickup. Zimmerman tipped the garbage can on its side, watched for a moment as the sandy soil soaked up the gasoline, and then got behind the wheel.

  They were gone no more than fifteen minutes. Steam was now rising from the water-filled garbage cans, and the then they had left were sloshing carbines around in it. It would be a long and dirty job using boiling water, McCoy thought, but there was no other way for these guys to do it. Doing it with gasoline was something only old Marines could handle safely; these kids, and that included their sergeant, would just blow themselves up using gas.

  It did not occur to him that both the sergeant and the corporal, and at least two of the Raiders, were as old as, or older than, he was. He and Zimmerman had done a hitch with the 4th Marines. They were Marines, China Marines, and the others were kids.

  As McCoy walked down the line of steaming garbage cans, Zimmerman went to the 6 x 6, pulled out a large flat cardboard carton, and took from it two large two-hundred-yard bull's-eye targets. Then he looked around and saw a tall, good-looking kid who didn't seem to have much to do.

  He snapped his fingers, and when he had the kid's attention, beckoned to him with his finger.

  "You might as well learn how to do this," Zimmerman said, and demonstrated the technique of making glue from flour and water in a No. 10 can.

  When the glue had been mixed, Zimmerman led the kid to the one-hundred-yard line. There, target frames, constructed of two-by-fours with cotton "target cloth" stretched over them, were placed on the ground. He showed the kid how to brush the flour-and-water paste onto the target cloth, and then how to rub the targets smooth against it. Then they hoisted the target frames erect, put their legs into terra cotta pipes in the ground, and walked back to the firing line.

  Zimmerman saw that a red (firing in progress) pennant had been hoisted on the flagpole, and that McCoy, with the sergeant, the corporal, and several kids watching him, had found the carbine magazines and other missing parts, and was trying to finish the assembly process.

  "Gunny," Lieutenant McCoy said sternly, "do you know how to put the sling on this piece?"

  "Yes, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said, confidently, even though he had absolutely no idea how to do it.

  The carbine sling was a piece of canvas. Unlike the Springfield and Garand rifles, which had sling swivels top and bottom, however, the carbine sling fitted into a sling swivel mounted on the front side of the weapon with a "lift-the-dot" fastener. McCoy had figured out that much for himself.

  He was having a problem fastening the rear end of the sling. Zimmerman took the carbine from McCoy. The right side of the stock of the carbine had, near the butt, a three-inch-long slot cut into it. In the center of the slot, mere was a hole cut all the way through the stock. The left side of the stock had been inlet, the cut obviously designed to accommodate the sling.

  There was a metal tube intended to fit into the slot of the right side of the stock. And the sling was intended to go through the stock from the left side, loop around the metal tube, and then pass through the stock again, holding the sling in place.

  The problem Lieutenant McCoy was having, Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman saw, was that when he looped the sling around the tube, it wouldn't fit it in the hole. And it obviously had to, for otherwise the metal tube would fall off.

  Zimmerman took the metal tube in his hands. _ "This, sir," he announced, "is the sling keeper."

  At that moment, he noticed that one end of the tube was knurled. He unscrewed it. There was a piece of wire, flattened at one end, under the cap.

  "Which, as you can see," Zimmerman said, "also contains the oiler."

  He screwed the cap back in place, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now. And then inspiration struck. He knew how the goddamned thing worked.

  "To insert the sling, sir," he pontificated, "first you insert the sling keeper/oiler-I'm not exactly sure of the nomenclature, sir-into the stock, and then you feed the sling around it."

  It was only a theory, but it was all he had to go on; so he tried it, and it worked. The metal tube was securely inside the slot in the stock, and the sling was in place.

  "In that manner, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said.

  "Very good, Gunny," Lieutenant McCoy said.

  "It's really very simple, sir," Gunnery Sergeant Zimmerman said.

  "Sergeant," McCoy said, "the gunny and I are going to test-fire these weapons. Pass the word to your men, and make sure they keep well back of the firing line."

  "Aye, aye, sir," the sergeant said. "Sir, are we going to get to fire them?"

  "You'll be the first to fire when the company shows up," McCoy said.

  Zimmerman opened an ammunition can and took from it an olive drab cotton bandolier. It had six pockets, each of which held two ten-round stripper clips separated by a strip of paperboard. He freed one of the small, shiny cartridges and

  looked at the base. It was stamped PC 42.

  He showed it to McCoy.

  "Brand-new, sir," he said, obviously impressed.

  "That's the first brand-new ammo I've ever seen," McCoy said.

  Zimmerman examined a stripper clip and a carbine magazine carefully, and he saw where one end of the stripper clip was obviously designed to fit over the lips of the magazine. He put it in place and shoved down with his thumb. The cartridges slipped into the magazine.

  He looked at McCoy and saw that McCoy had been watching him. McCoy loaded a stripper clip into each of two magazines.

  Then they walked to the firing line. McCoy sat down, and Zimmerman followed his example. He made as much of a sling as he could from the canvas strap, then shifted himself around until he was in what he considered to be a satisfactory shooting position.

  Then he looked over his shoulder and around the range to make sure none of the kids had wandered into a dangerous position. Just to be sure, he counted heads. They were all in sight. He raised his voice.

  "Ready on the right, ready on the left. Ready on the firing line. The flag is up, the flag is waving, the flag is down, commence firing!"

  He lined up the sights on the bull's-eye and let off a round as well as he could. The trigger was stiff, heavy as hell, he thought. Probably because it was brand new. There was very little recoil; and the muzzle blast, while sharp, was less than he expected.

  They fired slowly and carefully. Zimmerman was finished before McCoy took the carbine from his shoulder.

  "Both clips?" Zimmerman asked.

  "Might as well," McCoy said, and exchanged clips and resumed firing.

  When they had finished, and McCoy
had issued the formal commands to clear all weapons and leave the firing line, they handed the carbines to the sergeant and walked to the targets at the one-hundred-yard line.

  There were twenty holes in each target. Zimmerman's were scattered around the bull's-eye, and McCoy's were at the lower left of the target. What counted, however, was not the location of the holes, but the size of the group. Sight adjustment would move the group.

  "Piece of shit," Zimmerman said, disgustedly, reaching up and laying his extended hand with the thumb on one hole and the little finger on another. "That's eight fucking inches, for Christ sake, at a hundred yards."

  "Some of them were fliers," McCoy said. "And some were from a fouled barrel, and the triggers are stiff because they're new."

  "Bullshit, McCoy," Zimmerman said. "It's a piece of shit, and you know it."

  "Get some rounds through them," McCoy insisted. "Let the sears wear in a little and you can cut those groups in half."

  "Down to five inches?" Zimmerman said, sarcastically.

  "Ernie, this thing is not supposed to be a rifle. It's to replace the pistol," McCoy said. "I don't know about you, but I can't put ten rounds from a forty-five into five inches at a hundred yards rapid fire."

  Zimmerman looked at him.

  "I'm not sure I could do it with a Thompson, either," McCoy insisted. "This thing fires fifteen rounds, and with the recoil, you're right back on the target as fast as you call pull the trigger. It's not a piece of shit, Ernie."

  "Well, maybe to replace the pistol," Zimmerman grudgingly agreed.

  "That's what it's for," McCoy said.

  "Here they come," Zimmerman said, jerking his head toward the firing line.

  A column of men, four abreast and fifty deep, was double-timing up the range road. They were in dungarees and wearing field gear, except for rifles and helmets. It was Company B, 2nd Ranger Battalion, which McCoy expected. But he had not expected it to be led by the company commander, or to be accompanied by its officers. He thought the Baker Company gunny would probably bring them out.

  "Issue and familiarization firing of the US Carbine, Caliber.30, Ml, 16 Hours," as the training schedule called it, was really the gunny's business; but the Old Man was at the head of the column, and all the other officers except the executive officer were in the column behind him.

  Zimmerman reached up, worked his fingers under the target, and jerked it free of the target cloth.

  "What did you do that for?"

  "I don't want anybody to see me all over a hundred-yard target that way," Zimmerman said, as he balled the target up in his hands.

  McCoy laughed, and then started trotting to the firing line so he would be there when the column double-timed up.

  Captain Coyte turned the company over to the gunny, and walked toward McCoy.

  McCoy saluted.

  "Good morning, sir," he said. "I didn't expect to see the captain out here."

  "I've never seen a carbine," Captain Coyte said. "Just include me in, Killer. It's your show."

  "Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said.

  "I thought I heard firing," Captain Coyte said.

  "Yes, sir, Gunny Zimmerman and I test-fired two of them."

  "Is that a couple of them on the table?" Coyte asked, nodding toward one of the four rough wooden tables behind the firing line. Without waiting for an answer, he walked toward the table, gesturing to the other officers to join him.

  When he got to the table, he picked up one of the carbines, looked into the open action to confirm that it was not loaded, and then released the operating rod, threw it to his shoulder, drew a bead on the one target remaining, and dry snapped it. He tried, and failed, to get the bolt to remain open, and then looked at McCoy for help.

  "There's a little pin on the rear operating-rod lever, Captain," McCoy explained. "Hold it back, push the pin in."

  Captain Coyte succeeded in keeping the action open.

  "I suppose this is the wrong word to use on a weapon," he said. "But it's kind of cute, isn't it?"

  "If you think of it as a replacement for the pistol, sir," McCoy said, "it's not bad."

  "Accuracy?"

  "We managed to get ten shots into about eight inches at one hundred yards," McCoy said.

  Captain Coyte's eyebrows went up. "There are a couple of reasons that might have happened," he said.

  "I think, from a clear bore, with maybe a hundred or two hundred rounds to smooth it up, we can tighten those groups, sir."

  "If you could cut them in half, that would still give you four inches," Captain Coyte said thoughtfully. "I now understand, I think, your reference to thinking of it as a replacement for the pistol."

  "Captain, why don't you let me put up some targets and let you and the other officers fire?" McCoy asked. "The way I had planned to run this was to have the then clean their pieces-"

  Coyte looked around. "McCoy, it's your range, and your class," he said. "If that could be done without fouling up your schedule..."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, then," Captain Coyte said, "in the interest of efficiency, not because I dare think that rank has its privileges, let's do it, Killer."

  There was a smile in his eyes, and McCoy knew that he was mocking Colonel Carlson's "no special privileges" philosophy. He was surprised that a captain would mock the battalion

  commander, but especially that he would do so for the amusement of the junior second lieutenant in his company.

  It took no more than fifteen minutes for McCoy to paste the holes in his target and then to give Captain Coyte enough quick instruction to understand what he was doing, and for Coyte to fire twenty rounds at the target.

  By the time they were finished, Baker Company's gunny had broken the company down into four groups, and one group was gathered around each of the tables. At the first table, Zimmerman was demonstrating to a group of NCOs the disassembly technique on one of the two carbines they had cleaned with gasoline. The idea was that the NCOs would then go to the other tables and try disassembling the partially cleaned weapons themselves.

  The system McCoy had dreamed up out of his head, and then modified after suggestions from Zimmerman, seemed to be working. The bottleneck was going to be getting the carbines free of Cosmoline, but nothing could be done about that. The safety precautions were in place. There would be inspections by platoon sergeants of weapons before they were shown to the gunnys, and finally Zimmerman would inspect them himself.

  He saw that Zimmerman had also just about selected the armorer for the carbines. One of the kids. He had seen him mixing paste and pasting targets.

  McCoy glanced at the tables and the faces. They were mostly kids, he thought, some of them as young as seventeen. And some he suspected were seventeen using somebody else's birth certificate.

  And then he did a quick double take. There was a familiar face at the next-to-the-last table. At first it seemed incredible, but then there was no question about it at all. One of the Raiders struggling to get a good look at a sergeant taking a carbine to pieces was Tommy. Thomas Michael McCoy. PFC Thomas Michael McCoy, USMC, was Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy's little brother.

  Younger brother, McCoy thought. The sonofabitch is even bigger than I remembered. And meaner looking.

  "You look stunned, McCoy," Captain Coyte said. "Was my marksmanship that bad?" McCoy was startled, and it showed on his face when he looked up at Coyte.

  "McCoy?"

  "Sir, I just spotted my kid brother. The PFC with the broken nose, by Table Three?"

  "I saw the similarity in name when he reported in," he said. "He reported in from Pearl. They must have lost his records, for he has a brand-new service record."

  "They give you a new service record when they throw out a court-martial sentence, too," McCoy said.

  "But we don't know that, do we, McCoy?" Coyte said. "So far as I'm concerned, so far as the Raiders are concerned, he has a clear record."

  Their eyes met for a moment, and then Coyte went on, "If this is going t
o be a problem, McCoy, I can try to have him transferred."

  "No problem, sir," McCoy said. "I can handle the sonofabitch."

  "I'm sure you can, Killer," Captain Coyte said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  (One)

  Annex #2, Staff NCO Club Camp Elliott, California 10 March 1942

  Gunnery Sergeant Ernst Zimmerman, USMC, sat alone on a wooden folding chair at one of the small, four-man tables of the club. He was freshly showered and shaved, and in freshly washed dungarees. His feet were on a folding chair.