W E B Griffin - Corp 01 - Semper Fi

by Semper Fi(Lit)

  It was a lot of trouble to make a lousy phone call, but there were few pay phones available on the base, and these generally had long lines waiting to use them. And they had to get the car from the Impounding Compound rather than take a bus, because the MPs checked passes on buses. McCoy's properly stickered car and campaign hat got them past the MP at the gate without inspection.

  On Thursday morning, as the platoon was preparing to march off to rehearse the graduation and swearing-in ceremony, a blue Ford station wagon drove into the company area. A large black man emerged from it, and addressed Corporal Pleasant.

  "Hey, Mac!" he called out. "Brooks Brothers. I'm looking for Mr. Pickering and Mr. McCoy."

  Even Pleasant seemed amused.

  "The asshole with the guidon," he said, "is Mr. McCoy, and Mr. Pickering is the tall asshole in the rear rank. Wave at the nice man, Mr. Pickering."

  The man from Brooks Brothers cheerfully waved back at Mr. Pickering, and then began to unload bag-wrapped uniforms, cartons of shirts, and oblong hat boxes from his station wagon. He stacked everything on the ground, and then sought out Mr. Pickering and Mr. McCoy to get his receipt signed.

  After the rehearsal, as they were unpacking their uniforms and preparing their enlisted men's uniforms to be turned in, Corporal Pleasant entered the barracks.

  "Attention on deck!" someone bellowed.

  "Stand at ease," Corporal Pleasant said. And then he went to each man and handed him a quarter-inch-thick stack of mimeograph paper. It was their orders.

  There were three different orders, or more precisely, three different paragraphs of the same general order. The first sent about half of Platoon Leader Class 23-41 to Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, "for such duty in the field as may be assigned." The second sent just about the rest of 23-41 to San Diego, California, "for such duty in the field as may be assigned."

  There were only two names on the third paragraph of the General Order. It said that the following officers, having entered upon active duty at Quantico, Virginia for a period of three years, unless further extended by competent authority, were further assigned and would proceed to Headquarters, U.S. Marine Corps, Washington, D.C., "for such administrative duty as may be assigned."

  "What the hell does this mean?" Pickering asked, when Pleasant had left.

  McCoy had a very good idea what it meant so far as he was concerned, but he had no idea what the Corps had planned for Pickering.

  "It means while the rest of these clowns are running around in the boondocks, you and I will be sitting behind desks," he said.

  At 1245 hours,. Friday, 28 November 1941, Platoon Leader Candidate Class 23-41 fell in for the last time. They were wearing the uniforms of second lieutenants, U.S. Marine Corps, but Corporal Pleasant took his customary position and marched them to the parade field.

  The first order of business was to give them the legal right to wear the gold bars on their shoulders. They raised their right hands and swore to defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and to obey the orders of such officers who were appointed over them, and that they would discharge the duties of the office upon which they were about to enter to the best of their ability, so help them God.

  "Detail commander, front and center, harch!" Corporal Pleasant barked.

  McCoy, to his surprise, had been appointed to this role. He marched from his position at the left of the rear rank up to Corporal Pleasant.

  Pleasant saluted.

  "Take the detail, sir," Pleasant said.

  "Take your post, Corporal," McCoy ordered.

  They exchanged salutes again. Pleasant did a right-face and marched off to take a position beside the gunny and the first sergeant, just to the right of the reviewing stand.

  McCoy did an about-face.

  "Right-face!" he ordered, and then, "Fow-ward, harch!"

  He gave them a column right, and then another, and when they got to the proper position relative to the reviewing stand, bellowed, "Eyes, right!" and raised his hand to the brim of his new Brooks Brothers $38.75 Cap, Marine Officers, with the cord loops sewn to its crown.

  At the moment he issued the command, the Quantico Band, which had been silent except for the tick-tick beat of its drummers to give them the proper marching cadence, burst into the Marine Corps Hymn.

  And the moment Second Lieutenant Pickering, USMCR, snapped his head to he right, he saw two familiar faces on the reviewing stand. His father and his mother.

  On the goddamned reviewing stand; not with the other parents and wives and whoever had showed up for the graduation parade. On the goddamned reviewing stand!

  The officers on the reviewing stand returned McCoy's hand salute.

  "Eyes, front!" McCoy ordered when he judged the last file of the formation had passed the reviewing stand. He marched them back to where they had originally been.

  The officers marched off the reviewing stand, in order of rank. When the colonel got to McCoy, McCoy saluted.

  "Put your detail at rest, Lieutenant," the colonel ordered.

  "Puh-rade, rest!"

  They moved their feet the prescribed distance apart, and put their hands and arms rigidly in the small of their backs.

  "Congratulations," the colonel said to McCoy. "Welcome to the officer corps of the U.S. Marine Corps."

  He shook his hand and simultaneously handed him a rolled-up tube of paper, which contained his diploma and his commission. Then, leaving McCoy at parade rest, the colonel, trailed by his entourage, went down the ranks and repeated the process, exactly, for each man.

  Finally, the entourage returned to the reviewing stand.

  "Lieutenant," the colonel called. "You may dismiss these gentlemen."

  McCoy saluted, did an about-face, and barked, "Atten-hut. Dis-missed."

  23-41 just stood there for a moment, as if unwilling to believe that it was actually over and that they were now in law and fact commissioned officers and gentlemen of the United States Marine Corps.

  And then one of them yelped, probably, McCoy thought, that flat-faced asshole from Texas A&M who was always making strange noises. That broke the trance, and they started shaking hands and pounding each other on the back.

  Captain Jack NMI Stecker walked off the reviewing stand, and then across the field to McCoy. As he approached McCoy, Pickering started for the reviewing stand. McCoy wondered where the hell he was going, but with Stecker advancing on him, there was no chance to ask.

  He saluted Stecker, who offered his hand.

  "Despite what some people think of China Marines, Lieutenant," Stecker said, "every once in a while some of them make pretty good officers. I think you will."

  "Thank you, sir," McCoy said.

  "I thought you might need a ride to the Impounding Compound," Stecker said.

  "I got the car last night, sir," he said.

  "Then in that case, McCoy, just 'good luck.' "

  He offered his hand, they exchanged salutes, and Stecker walked away.

  McCoy saw that most of 23-41 had formed a line by the reviewing stand. Corporal Pleasant was saluting each one of them. They then handed him a dollar. It was a tradition.

  Fuck him, McCoy decided. Pleasant had been entirely too willing to kick him when he was down. And he wasn't even that good a corporal.

  I'm not going to give the sonofabitch a dollar to have him salute me. He'll head right for the NCO Club with it and sit around making everybody laugh with stories about the incompetent assholes the Corps had just made officers.

  And then he saw that Pick Pickering was not in the line. He was standing with a couple, the man well dressed, the woman in a full-length fur coat. Obviously, Pick's folks had come to see their son graduate. McCoy started to walk back to the company area.

  Pickering ran after him and caught up with him.

  "I want you to meet my mother and dad," Pick said.

  "Wouldn't I be in the way?"

  "Don't be an asshole, asshole," Pick said, and grabbed McCoy'
s arm and propelled him in the direction of the reviewing stand.

  "I didn't see you giving Pleasant his dollar," Pickering said.

  "I didn't," McCoy said. "Just because we're now wearing bars doesn't make him any less of a vicious asshole."

  "My, you do hold a grudge, don't you, Lieutenant?" Pickering said.

  "You bet your ass, I do," McCoy said.

  Fleming Pickering smiled and put his hand out as they walked up.

  "I knew who you were, of course," he said.

  "Sir?" McCoy asked, confused.

  "One Marine corporal can always spot another, even in a sea of clowns," Fleming Pickering said, pleased with himself.

  "Flem!" Mrs. Pickering protested. She smiled at McCoy and gave him her hand. "You'll have to excuse my husband, his being a Marine corporal was the one big thrill of his life. I'm pleased to finally meet you, Ken... I can call you 'Ken,' mayn't I?... Malcolm's written so much about you."

  "Yes, ma'am," McCoy said.

  "I would like nothing better," Fleming Pickering said, "than to sit over a long lunch and have you tell me how you shepherded the lieutenant here around the boondocks, but we have a plane to catch."

  "I'd forgotten about that," Pick said.

  "This time tomorrow, we will be high above the blue Pacific," Fleming Pickering said. "Bound for sunny Hawaii. I was originally going by myself, but then some scoundrel told my wife about the girls in the grass skirts."

  "I wasn't worried about the hula-hula girls," Pick's mother replied. "What concerned me was the way you behave on a ship. If they serve eight meals a day-and Pacific-Orient does-and I wasn't along, you'd eat all eight of them, and they'd have to take you off the ship in a wheelbarrow."

  "You're coming back by ship?" Pick asked. "I thought you were flying both ways."

  "No," Pick's father said. "I put off the meeting in San Francisco until the twentieth. That way, we can board ship in Honolulu on the tenth and still make it back in plenty of time.''

  Pick nodded his understanding.

  McCoy finally figured out what they were talking about. He had been a little impressed that Pick's parents would come all the way to Virginia just to see him get sworn in. But, so far as they were concerned, that was like a trip to the corner drugstore for cigarettes. They were about to fly to Hawaii. The only thing that had surprised Pick about that was they weren't going to fly both ways.

  Pick and his family were people from a different world.

  A world like Ernestine Sage's. A world where I don't belong, even with a gold bar on my collar.

  (Three)

  Washington, D.C.

  1600 Hours, 28 November 1941

  Before Pickering's parents had showed up, it had been understood between McCoy and Pickering that immediately after they were sworn in, they would drive to Washington. The LaSalle was already loaded with their luggage.

  He had been sure that would change because of his parents. But that hadn't happened. Pick shook hands with his father, allowed himself to be kissed by his mother, and then the Pickerings left. Taking trips halfway around the world was obviously routine stuff for them.

  Pick and McCoy, as originally planned, then simply backed from the parade field to where McCoy had parked the LaSalle by the barracks, got in, and drove off.

  There were no farewell handshakes with the others in 23-41. Because he had been on Pleasant's and the gunny's shit list, the others had most of the time avoided McCoy as if he were a leper. And they had avoided Pickering, too, because he was McCoy's buddy. And there had been whispers at the end about the two of them getting "administrative duty" in Washington rather than "in the field" at LeJeune and San Diego.

  Pickering thought about this as they got in the LaSalle: If somewhere down the pike, Class 23-41 sent him an invitation to its twentieth reunion, he would send his regrets.

  This time, they were stopped by the MP at the gate. First the MP waved them through, then he saw the bars and saluted, and finally he stepped into the road in front of them with his hand up.

  He saluted as McCoy rolled down the window.

  "Excuse me, sir, is this your car?"

  "Yes, it is," McCoy said.

  "It's got an enlisted decal, sir."

  "That's because, until about twenty minutes ago, I was enlisted," McCoy said.

  The MP smiled broadly. "I thought that was you," he said, admiringly. "You been sneaking in and out of here all the time you was in the Platoon Leader Course, haven't you?"

  "How could you even suspect such a thing?" McCoy asked.

  The MP came to attention and saluted.

  "You may pass out, sir," he said. "Thank you, sir."

  A minute later, after they had left the base, McCoy said, "I guess I better stop someplace and scrape that sticker off."

  "And then what?"

  "What do you mean, then what?"

  "What are we going to do when we get to Washington?"

  "I thought you'd be taking some leave," McCoy said.

  "No," Pickering said. "I'd rather report in. I want to find out what's planned for me. How, exactly, do we do that?"

  "Today is a day of duty," McCoy explained, patiently. "We get a day's travel time to Washington. That carries us up through midnight tomorrow. So long as we report in by midnight on Sunday, that makes Sunday a day of duty. So about eleven o'clock Sunday night, we'll find out where it is."

  "You're not going home?" Pickering asked, and when McCoy shook his head, went on, "Or to New York?" "No," McCoy said, stiffly.

  "I thought maybe you'd come to your senses about going to New York," Pickering said.

  "You miss the point," McCoy said. "I have come to my senses. And that's the end of that particular subject."

  "Okay, so we'll go to the Lafayette," Pickering said. "It's a little stuffy, but it has a very nice French restaurant." "Another hotel you own?"

  "Grandpa owns it, actually," Pickering said. "It's right across from the White House. Do you suppose you can find the White House without a map, Lieutenant?"

  "No, I've never been in Washington before, and I don't have a map, and I'm not going to sponge again off you or your 'Grandpa,' " McCoy said.

  "Very well," Pickering said. "I will stay in the Lafayette, and you can stay in whatever flea-bag with hot-and-cold running cockroaches strikes your fancy, just so long as I know where to find you when it is time for us to go to the Marine Barracks and sign in. I hate to tell you this, Lieutenant, you being an officer and a gentleman and all, but you have a great talent for being a horse's ass." McCoy laughed.

  "You're sure you want to sign in early?" he asked. "It may be a long time until they offer you any leave again."

  "I need to know what this 'administrative' duty is all about," Pickering said. "I don't like the sound of it."

  "What's the difference?" McCoy asked. "Whatever it is, they're not offering you a choice."

  "Indulge me," Pickering said. "Take me along with you,

  so that you can explain things to me. And for Christ's sake,

  stop being an ass about being comped in one of our hotels."

  "Being what?"

  " 'Comped,' " Pickering explained. " 'Complimentary accommodations.' It's part of the business. If you work for Foster Hotels, you're entitled to stay in Foster Hotels when you're away from home."

  "I don't work for Foster Hotels," McCoy argued.

  "That's all right, you're with me," Pickering said. "And I am the apple of Grandpa's eye. Will you stop being an ass?"

  "It makes me uncomfortable," McCoy said.

  "So do you, when you pick your nose," Pickering said. "But if you agree to stay in Grandpa's hotel, you can pick your nose all you want, and I won't say a thing."

  The doorman at the Lafayette knew Pickering by sight. He rushed around and opened the door with all the pomp shown a respected guest. But what he said, was, "Jesus, Pick, are you for real? Or is there a costume party?"

  "You are speaking, sir, to an officer and a gentleman of the U.S. Marine Co
rps," Pickering said. "You will not have to prostrate yourself; kneeling will suffice." He turned to McCoy. "Ken, say hello to Jerry Toltz, another old pal of mine. We bellhopped here all through one hot, long, miserable summer.''

  "How long are you going to be here?" the doorman asked.