The Corps I - Semper Fi

by W. E. B Griffin

  "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.

  Chapter Twelve

  (One)

  The Foster Park Hotel

  Central Park South

  New York City, New York

  2320 Hours 19 November 1941

  Pick Pickering was at the wheel of the LaSalle when it pulled up in front of the marquee of the Foster Park Hotel. They had gassed up just past Baltimore and changed places

  there.

  McCoy had gone to sleep thinking about Ellen Feller, about her probably being somewhere in Baltimore, and about what had happened between them in China-memories that reminded him of the very long time since he'd had his ashes

  hauled.

  The doorman stepped off the curb, walked out to the driver's side, opened the door, and said, "Welcome to the Foster Park Hotel, sir," before he realized that the driver was some kind of a soldier, a Marine, and an enlisted man, not even an officer.

  "May I help you, sir?"

  Pickering got out of the car.

&n
bsp; "Take care of the car, please," he said. "We'll need it sometime Sunday afternoon."

  "You'll be checking in, sir?"

  The question seemed to amuse the Marine.

  "I hope so," he said. "The luggage is in the trunk."

  He turned back to the car.

  "Off your ass and on your feet, McCoy," he said. "We're here."

  McCoy sat up, startled, looked around, and as almost a reflex action, opened his door and got out.

  "Where are we?" he asked, groggily.

  "My grandfather calls it Sodom-on-Hudson," Pickering said, and took McCoy's arm and propelled him toward the revolving door.

  The desk clerk was busy with someone else as Pickering and McCoy approached registration. Pickering pulled the Register in front of him, took the pen, and filled out one of the cards.

  When the desk clerk turned his attention toward Pickering, he thrust the Registration card at him.

  "We'd like a small suite," he said.

  "I'm not sure that we'll be able to accommodate you, sir," the clerk said.

  The clerk didn't know what the OC insignia on the collar points of the uniforms meant, but he knew a Marine private when he saw one, and Marine privates couldn't afford the prices of the Foster Park Hotel.

  "House is full, is it?" the Marine asked.

  "What I mean to suggest, sir," the desk clerk said, as tactfully as he could, "is that our prices are, well, a little stiff."

  "That's all right," the Marine said. "I won't be paying for it anyway. Something with a view of the park, if one is available."

  The desk clerk looked down at the card in his hand.

  He didn't recognize the name, but in the block "Special billing Instructions" the Marine had written: "Andrew Foster, S/F, Attn: Mrs. Delahanty."

  "Just one moment, please, sir, I'll check," the desk clerk said.

  He disappeared behind the rack of mail-and-key slots and handed the card to the night resident manager, who was having a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry at his desk. He handed him the registration card. The night resident manager glanced at it casually, and then jumped to his feet.

  He approached the Marines standing at the desk with his hand extended.