"And four years in the Corps," Sessions said. "Which I think would give you a hell of an advantage at Quantico.''
"You think I could make it through?" McCoy asked.
"I do," Sessions said. "But the only way to find out for sure is for you to apply, pass the board, and go."
"It's worth a shot, I guess," McCoy said, thinking aloud. "What have I got to lose?"
"Sergeant Davis has your application all typed up," Sessions repeated. "I'll approve it, of course."
"Thank you," McCoy said, simply.
(Four)
After he signed his name to the applications Staff Sergeant Davis had typed up for him, he put the whole business from his mind, convinced that like all other paperwork he'd seen in the Corps, it would take forever and a day to work its way through the system. He had more important things on his mind than the possibility that the application might, some months down the pike, be favorably acted upon... or that some further months down the pike he would be facing a board of officers-which probably wouldn't approve him anyway. After a while, in fact, he'd come to the conclusion that the incident at the ferry had a lot more to do with the whole business than Sessions's brilliant insight that he would make an officer. Sessions was being nice to him. The officers he would face on the board, when and if he got to face it, wouldn't think they owed him a thing.
And besides, he had three much more immediate problems to face, all of them connected. The first was what was going to happen to him now that the "interviews" were over. He didn't want to go to the Motor Transport Platoon, but on the other hand that would be a good place to keep his nose clean until Captain Banning came home from Shanghai. And he didn't really want to go to a heavy weapons platoon as a machine-gunner either. Since he'd be transferring in grade, they would try to bust him on general principles; and that would fuck up going back to work for Captain Banning.
He could also ask Captain Sessions to keep him around the detachment. Sessions would probably do it-as a favor. But that would mean he'd have to work as a clerk and push a typewriter and he was still not anxious to do that. And more important, if he stayed in Philadelphia, he'd have to deal with his two other problems: He had made up his mind to go home and face that and get it the hell over with once and for all. But going home once was not the same thing as having home so close to where he was stationed... Christ, Norristown was only an hour away in the LaSalle.
These were the thoughts that were occupying his mind, not the remote, way-down-the-pike possibility of being called before a board of officers who would make up their minds whether or not he stood a chance of keeping up with a bunch of college boys at Quantico.
On Monday morning, he signed the application papers. On Wednesday morning, Staff Sergeant Davis came to the barracks and told him to put on his best uniform and report to the board at 1330.
"Sit down, Corporal," a major, who was the president of the board, said. The five officers of the board were sitting behind two issue tables pushed together. One was a second lieutenant who was functioning as secretary. Two of them were first lieutenants (Lieutenant Fogarty, the 47th Motor Transport Platoon commander was one of them). Captain Sessions was the fourth. And the last was the major McCoy was seeing for the first time.
McCoy sat down at attention in a straight-backed wooden chair facing the tables.
"We have before us what is apparently a well-turned-out corporal of the regular Marine Corps," the president of the board said, "who, with his shady reputation, his illegal chevrons, and his equally illegal campaign hat, is just about what we expected of a China Marine so highly recommended by Captain Sessions. And others."
"Come on, Major." Captain Sessions chuckled. "The lieutenant's going to write that all down."
"Strike everything after-what did I say?-'well-turned-out corporal of the regular Marine Corps,' Lieutenant," the president ordered.
"Aye, aye, sir," the lieutenant said, and smiled at McCoy.
"Who comes to us not only recommended by Captain Sessions but by another member of this board, Lieutenant Fogarty, whose recommendation is based on his long-time evaluation-it must be three weeks now-as the corporal's platoon leader. The corporal's qualifications having, after due evaluation, been judged to be more than adequate, we now turn to the real question. In your own words, Corporal, would you tell this board why you feel yourself qualified, after proper training, to serve your country and the Marine Corps as a commissioned officer?"
"I'm not sure I do, sir," McCoy said.
"That's the wrong answer, Corporal," the president of the board said. "You want to try again?"
"Tell us why not, McCoy," Captain Sessions said.
This whole fucking thing is unreal. How am I supposed to answer that?
He paraphrased what was in his mind: "I'm not sure I know how to answer that question, sir," he said.
"You've known second lieutenants, McCoy," Sessions said. "Pick out any one of them except this one, and tell us why you doubt your ability to do anything he can do."
"Sir, all I've got is a high school education," McCoy said.
"You speak Chinese, I have been told?" the president asked. "And Japanese? And several European languages?"
"I don't speak Japanese as well as Chinese, sir. And I can hardly read it at all."
"Well, here's a given for you, Corporal. So far as the Marine Corps is concerned, fluency in almost any foreign language is worth more than a bachelor's degree. Anything else?"
"I wouldn't know how to behave as an officer, sir."
"They'll teach you that at Quantico," the president said. "Anything else?"
"Sir, Captain Sessions just sprung this whole idea on me."
"Answer this question. Think it over first-yes or no. No qualifications. Do you want to be an officer or don't you?"
McCoy thought it over. For what seemed to him like a very long time. The president of the board began to tap his fingertips impatiently on the table. Captain Sessions's left eyebrow was arched, a sign of impatience, often followed by an angry outburst.
"Yes, sir," McCoy said.
"You are temporarily dismissed, Corporal," the president said, "while this board discusses your application. There may be other questions for you. Please wait in the corridor."
"Aye, aye, sir," McCoy said. He stood up, did an about-face, and marched out of the room. He had just managed to close the door when he broke wind. It smelled like something had died.
"The board will offer comments in inverse order of rank," the president said. "Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I'm a little concerned about his attitude," the second lieutenant said. "He certainly took his time thinking it over when you asked him straight out if he wanted to become an officer."
"It has been my experience, Lieutenant," the major said, "that what's wrong with most junior officers is that they leap into action without thinking things over carefully."
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said.
"Lieutenant Bruce?"
"So far as I'm concerned," Lieutenant Bruce said, "he's what we're supposed to be looking for. A noncom of proven ability who can handle a wartime commission."
"Lieutenant Fogarty?"
"I'm impressed with him," Fogarty said simply. "He's a little rough around the edges, maybe, but they can clean up his language and teach him which fork to use at Quantico."
"Ed?" the president asked, turning to Captain Sessions.
"I admit of course to a certain personal bias. He saved my life. One finds all sorts of previously unsuspected virtues in people who do that."
There was laughter along the table.
"But even if he hadn't saved my skin, and even if a certain unnamed very senior officer had not made his desires known, I would enthusiastically recommend McCoy for a commission," Sessions added.
"Does he know about the general?"
"I'm sure he doesn't. The general and his aide were in civilian clothing, and they weren't introduced," Sessions said. "Being as objective as I can, I believe the Corps ne
eds officers like McCoy."
"Because he's a linguist, you mean?" the President asked.
"He'd be a linguist anyway," Sessions said. "But that would be a waste of his talents, even though people who speak Chinese and Japanese are damned hard to come by."
"We will now vote in the same order," the president said. "Unless someone wants to call him back and ask him something else?"
He looked up and down the table.
"Lieutenant?" he asked, when he saw that no one had any additional questions.
"I vote yes, sir," the lieutenant said.
One by one, the others said exactly the same thing.
"This board, whose president is not about to put his judgment in conflict with that of the Assistant Chief of Staff for Intelligence, USMC... ," the president said, and waited for the expected chuckles.
After they came, he went on: "Especially after he said- slowly, carefully, and with great emphasis-I think we ought to put bars on that boy's shoulders, if for no other reason than he seems to be the only one in the Marine Corps besides me and Chesty Puller who doesn't think the Japs can be whipped with one hand tied behind us.' "
He waited again for the chuckles, then concluded: "This board has in secret session just unanimously approved the application of Corporal McCoy to attend the Platoon Leader's Course at Quantico. Lieutenant, you are directed to make the decision known to the appointing authority."
"Aye, aye, sir," the lieutenant said.
"Call him back in here, will you?" the president said.
The lieutenant went to the door, opened it, and motioned McCoy back into the room. McCoy marched in and stood to attention beside the straight-backed wooden chair.
"Corporal," the president said, "this board has considered your application carefully, and after review by the appointing authority, that decision will be made known to you through channels. In the meantime, you will continue to perform your regular duties. Do you have any questions?"
"No, sir."
The president rapped his knuckles on the table. "This board stands adjourned until recalled by me."
McCoy, thinking he had been dismissed again, started to do another about-face.
"Hold it, Corporal," the president said. "Sit down a minute."
McCoy sat down, more or less at attention.
"Corporal, unofficially, what that Platoon Leader's Course actually is is Parris Island for officers. What it's really all about is to make Marines-Marine officers-out of civilians. To do that, they're going to lean hard on the trainees. That might be harder for a Marine corporal to take than it would for some kid straight from college. It would be a shame if some Marine corporal who a lot of people think would make a good officer were to say, 'I'm a corporal; I don't have to put up with this crap. They can stick their commission.' Do I make my point?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, while I cannot tell you how this board has acted on your application, or whether or not the appointing authority will concur with its recommendation, I can mention in passing that the next Platoon Leader's Course begins at Quantico One September, and if I were you I wouldn't make any plans for the period following One September. Perhaps between now and One September, your platoon commander could see his way clear to putting you on leave."
"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Fogarty said. "No problem there, sir."
"Well, that's it then," the president said. "Unless anyone else has something?"
"I want to sec the corporal a minute when this is over," Captain Sessions said. "Stick around, please, Killer."
" 'Killer?' " the president asked, wryly. "Is that what you call him? My curiosity is aroused."
"With respect, sir, that is a little private joke between the corporal and myself," Captain Sessions said.
(Five)
Norristown, Pennsylvania
10 August 1941
Norristown was dingier, dirtier, grayer, and greasier than McCoy remembered; and he had a terrible temptation just to say fuck it and turn the LaSalle around and go back to Philly.
In China, McCoy had told himself more than once that he would never go back home, because as far as he was concerned there was nothing left for him there. That had been all right in Shanghai, but it hadn't been all right once the Corps had sent him to Philly. He knew he was at least going to have to make an effort to go see his sister Anne-Marie, who was probably a regular nun by now, and his brother Tommy, who was now eighteen and probably almost a man, and maybe even the old man.
McCoy told himself that at least he was not going back to Norristown the way he left... on the Interurban Rapid Transit car to Philly with nothing in his pocket but the trolley
transfer the Marine recruiter had given him to get from the Twelfth Street Station in Philly to the Navy Yard.
He was coming home in a LaSalle convertible automobile; he was wearing a candy-ass college boy seersucker suit like Pick Pickering wore; and he had a couple of hundred bucks in his pockets and a hell of a lot more than that in the Philadelphia Savings Fund Society bank.
At the convent, a pale-faced nun behind a grille told him that she was sorry she couldn't help him but she had never heard of anyone named Anne-Marie McCoy. A moment later, the door over the grill was once more shut and locked. After that he went to the rectory at Saint Rose of Lima's.
A young priest opened the door. He was a dark-eyed, dark-haired guy, who looked like he could be either some kind of a Mexican or maybe a Hungarian. He was only wearing a T-shirt; but the black slacks and shoes gave him away. Besides, McCoy could have told you this one was a priest even if he was naked in a steambath. He had that look. Still, McCoy was a little let down that the guy wasn't wearing a white collar and a black front.
"Can I help you?" the young priest asked.
"Is Father Zoghby in?" McCoy asked.
Standing in exactly this spot, he recalled, he had asked that same question at least a couple of hundred times before: When he was an altar boy. Later when he was in some kind of trouble in school and the sisters or the brothers sent him to see "the Father." And later still on the night when the old man went apeshit and came after him with crazy eyes, swinging the bottom of the lamp. McCoy came here that night because he hadn't known where else to go or what else to do.
"I'm sorry," the young priest said. "Father Zoghby's no longer at Saint Rose's."
"Where is he?" McCoy asked.
"He's in Saint Francis's, I'm sorry to say," the young priest said, and repeated, "Can I help you?"
Saint Francis's was a hospital near Philadelphia. It was where they sent you if you were going to die, or if you went crazy.
"I'm looking for Anne-Marie McCoy," he said. "She used to be in this parish, and then I heard she was at the Sisters of the Holy Ghost as a novice. But when I asked at the convent, they told me she wasn't there. And they wouldn't tell me where she went."
"What's your interest in her?"
"She's my sister," McCoy said. "I've been away."
"I see," the priest said.
There was recognition now in his eyes. McCoy thought the young priest had probably heard all about the grief and pain the incorrigible son had inflicted on good ol' Pat McCoy before they ran the incorrigible off to the Marines. Nobody but his family would believe it, but when good ol' Pat wasn't glad-handing people at the used-car lot or the KC or the 12th Street Bar & Grill, good ol' Pat McCoy was pouring John Jamieson's into his brain. Only his wife and kids knew it, but good ol' glad-hand Pat was a mean, vicious drunk who got his kicks slapping his wife and his kids around. Sometimes he beat them because there was some kind of reason like not showing the proper respect, or for bad grades or a note from one of the Sisters or the Brothers, or for leaving polish showing when you'd waxed one of the cars on the lot. More often he beat them for no reason at all.
Kenneth J. McCoy would never forget the time when good ol' Pat had dragged him in front of the judge: "God knows, Your Honor," Pat McCoy told the judge, the Honorable Francis Mulvaney, a fellow knight at the KC, "I have tri
ed to do my best for my family. God knows that. I sent them to parochial school when it was a genuine sacrifice to come up with the tuition. I made them take Mass regular. I tried to set an example."
He paused then to blow his nose and wipe his eyes.
"And now this," his father went on. "Maybe God is punishing me for something I done in my youth. I don't know, Your Honor."
"I'll hear your side of this," His Honor said to the incorrigible.
Who replied that good ol' Pat had slapped his eldest-just turned seventeen-son one time too many. And his eldest son (otherwise known to this court as the accused, Kenneth J. McCoy) had seen red and given him a shove back. And good ol' Pat, the loving father who had sent the accused to parochial school even when that had been a genuine financial sacrifice, had been so drunk that he fell down and tore his cheek when he knocked over the coffee table.
W E B Griffin - Corp 01 - Semper Fi Page 20
